THE ANDES OF SOUTHERN
PERU

GEOGRAPHICAL RECONNAISSANCE ALONG THE
SEVENTY-THIRD MERIDIAN
BY
ISAIAH BOWMAN
Director of the American Geographical Society

PUBLISHED FOR
THE AMERICAN GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY
OF NEW YORK
BY
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1916
Copyright, 1918
BY
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
THE QUINN & BODEN CO. PRESS
RAHWAY, N.J.

TO
C. G. B.

PREFACE

THE geographic work of the Yale Peruvian Expedition of 1911 was essentially a reconnaissance of the Peruvian Andes along the 73rd meridian. The route led from the tropical plains of the lower Urubamba southward over lofty snow-covered passes to the desert coast at Camaná. The strong climatic and topographic contrasts and the varied human life which the region contains are of geographic interest chiefly because they present so many and such clear cases of environmental control within short distances. Though we speak of “isolated” mountain communities in the Andes, it is only in a relative sense. The extreme isolation felt in some of the world’s great deserts is here unknown. It is therefore all the more remarkable when we come upon differences of customs and character in Peru to find them strongly developed in spite of the small distances that separate unlike groups of people.

My division of the Expedition undertook to make a contour map of the two-hundred-mile stretch of mountain country between Abancay and the Pacific coast, and a great deal of detailed geographic and physiographic work had to be sacrificed to insure the completion of the survey. Camp sites, forage, water, and, above all, strong beasts for the topographer’s difficult and excessively lofty stations brought daily problems that were always serious and sometimes critical. I was so deeply interested in the progress of the topographic map that whenever it came to a choice of plans the map and not the geography was first considered. The effect upon my work was to distribute it with little regard to the demands of the problems, but I cannot regret this in view of the great value of the maps. Mr. Kai Hendriksen did splendid work in putting through two hundred miles of plane-tabling in two months under conditions of extreme difficulty. Many of his triangulation stations ranged in elevation from 14,000 to nearly 18,000 feet, and the cold and storms—especially the hailstorms of mid-afternoon—were at times most severe.

It is also a pleasure to say that Mr. Paul Baxter Lanius, my assistant on the lower Urubamba journey, rendered an invaluable service in securing continuous weather records at Yavero and elsewhere, and in getting food and men to the river party at a critical time. Dr. W. G. Erving, surgeon of the Expedition, accompanied me on a canoe journey through the lower gorge of the Urubamba between Rosalina and the mouth of the Timpia, and again by pack train from Santa Ana to Cotahuasi. For a time he assisted the topographer. It is due to his prompt surgical assistance to various members of the party that the field work was uninterrupted. He was especially useful when two of our river Indians from Pongo de Mainique were accidentally shot. I have since been informed by their patrón that they were at work within a few months.

It is difficult to express the gratitude I feel toward Professor Hiram Bingham, Director of the Expedition, first for the executive care he displayed in the organization of the expedition’s plans, which left the various members largely care-free, and second, for generously supplying the time of various assistants in the preparation of results. I have enjoyed so many facilities for the completion of the work that at least a year’s time has been saved thereby. Professor Bingham’s enthusiasm for pioneer field work was in the highest degree stimulating to every member of the party. Furthermore, it led to a determination to complete at all hazards the original plans.

Finally, I wish gratefully to acknowledge the expert assistance of Miss Gladys M. Wrigley, of the editorial staff of the American Geographical Society, who prepared the climatic tables, many of the miscellaneous data related thereto, and all of the curves in Chapter X. Miss Wrigley also assisted in the revision of Chapters IX and X and in the correction of the proof. Her eager and in the highest degree faithful assistance in these tasks bespeaks a true scientific spirit.

Isaiah Bowman.

SPECIAL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS FOR ILLUSTRATIONS

[Fig. 28]. Photograph by H. L. Tucker, Engineer, Yale Peruvian Expedition of 1911.

[Fig. 43]. Photograph by H. L. Tucker.

[Fig. 44]. Photograph by Professor Hiram Bingham.

Figs. [136], [139], [140]. Data for hachured sketch maps, chiefly from topographic sheets by A. H. Bumstead, Topographer to Professor Bingham’s Peruvian Expeditions of 1912 and 1914.

CONTENTS

PART I
HUMAN GEOGRAPHY

CHAPTER I
THE REGIONS OF PERU

LET four Peruvians begin this book by telling what manner of country they live in. Their ideas are provincial and they have a fondness for exaggerated description: but, for all that, they will reveal much that is true because they will at least reveal themselves. Their opinions reflect both the spirit of the toiler on the land and the outlook of the merchant in the town in relation to geography and national problems. Their names do not matter; let them stand for the four human regions of Peru, for they are in many respects typical men.

The Forest Dweller

One of them I met at a rubber station on the lower Urubamba River.[1] He helped secure my canoe, escorted me hospitably to his hut, set food and drink before me, and talked of the tropical forest, the rubber business, the Indians, the rivers, and the trails. In his opinion Peru was a land of great forest resources. Moreover, the fertile plains along the river margins might become the sites of rich plantations. The rivers had many fish and his garden needed only a little cultivation to produce an abundance of food. Fruit trees grew on every hand. He had recently married the daughter of an Indian chief.

Formerly he had been a missionary at a rubber station on the Madre de Dios, where the life was hard and narrow, and he doubted if there were any real converts. Himself the son of an Englishman and a Chilean woman, he found, so he said, that a missionary’s life in the rubber forest was intolerable for more than a few years. Yet he had no fault to find with the religious system of which he had once formed a part; in fact he had still a certain curious mixed loyalty to it. Before I left he gave me a photograph of himself and said with little pride and more sadness that perhaps I would remember him as a man that had done some good in the world along with much that might have been better.

We shall understand our interpreter better if we know who his associates were. He lived with a Frenchman who had spent several years in Africa as a soldier in the “Foreign Legion.” If you do not know what that means, you have yet all the pleasure of an interesting discovery. The Frenchman had reached the station the year before quite destitute and clad only in a shirt and a pair of trousers. A day’s journey north lived a young half-breed—son of a drunken father and a Machiganga woman, who cheated me so badly when I engaged Indian paddlers that I should almost have preferred that he had robbed me. Yet in a sense he had my life in his hands and I submitted. A German and a native Peruvian ran a rubber station on a tributary two days’ journey from the first. It will be observed that the company was mixed. They were all Peruvians, but of a sort not found in such relative abundance elsewhere. The defeated and the outcast, as well as the pioneer, go down eventually to the hot forested lands where men are forgotten.

While he saw gold in every square mile of his forested region, my clerical friend saw misery also. The brutal treatment of the Indians by the whites of the Madre de Dios country he could speak of only as a man reviving a painful memory. The Indians at the station loved him devotedly. There was only justice and kindness in all his dealings. Because he had large interests to look after, he knew all the members of the tribe, and his word was law in no hackneyed sense. A kindlier man never lived in the rubber forest. His influence as a high-souled man of business was vastly greater than as a missionary in this frontier society. He could daily illustrate by practical example what he had formerly been able only to preach.

Fig. 1—Tropical vegetation, clearing on the river bank and rubber station at Pongo de Mainique. The pronounced scarp on the northeastern border of the Andes is seen in the right background.

Fig. 2—Pushing a heavy dugout against the current in the rapids below Pongo de Mainique. The indian boy and his father in the canoe had been accidentally shot.

Fig. 3—From the sugar cane, Urubanba Valley, at Colpani. On the northeastern border of the Cordillera Vilcapampa looking upstream. In the extreme background and thirteen sixteens of an inch from the top of the picture is the sharp peak of Salcantay. Only the lower end of the more open portion of the Canyon of Torontoy is here shown. There is a field of sugar cane in the foreground and the valley trail is shown on the opposite side of the river.

He thought the life of the Peruvian cities debasing. The coastal valleys were small and dry and the men who lived there were crowded and poor (sic). The plateau was inhabited by Indians little better than brutes. Surely I could not think that the fine forest Indian was lower than the so-called civilized Indian of the plateau. There was plenty of room in the forest; and there was wealth if you knew how to get at it. Above all you were far from the annoying officials of the government, and therefore could do much as you pleased so long as you paid your duties on rubber and did not wantonly kill too many Indians.

For all his kindly tolerance of men and conditions he yet found fault with the government. “They” neglected to build roads, to encourage colonization, and to lower taxes on the forest products, which were always won at great risk. Nature had done her part well—it was only government that hindered. Moreover, the forested region was the land of the future. If Peru was to be a great nation her people would have to live largely upon the eastern plains. Though others spoke of “going in” and “coming out” of the rubber country as one might speak of entering and leaving a dungeon, he always spoke of it as home. Though he now lived in the wilderness he hoped to see the day when plantations covered the plains. A greater Peru and the forest were inseparable ideas to him.

The Eastern Valley Planter

My second friend lived in one of the beautiful mountain valleys of the eastern Andes. We walked through his clean cacao orchards and cane fields. Like the man in the forest, he believed in the thorough inefficiency of the government; otherwise why were there no railways for the cheaper transportation of the valley products, no dams for the generation of power and the storage of irrigation water, not even roads for mule carts? Had the government been stable and efficient there would now be a dense population in the eastern valleys. Revolutions were the curse of these remote sections of the country. The ne’er-do-wells became generals. The loafer you dismissed today might demand ten thousand dollars tomorrow or threaten to destroy your plantation. The government troops might come to help you, but they were always too late.

For this one paid most burdensome taxes. Lima profited thereby, not the valley planters. The coast people were the favored of Peru anyhow. They had railroads, good steamer service, public improvements at government expense, and comparatively light taxes. If the government were impartial the eastern valleys also would have railways and a dense population. Who could tell? Perhaps the capital city might be here. Certainly it was better to have Lima here than on the coast where the Chileans might at any time take it again. The blessings of the valleys were both rich and manifold. Here was neither a cold plateau nor the hot plains, but fertile valleys with a vernal climate.

We talked of much else, but our conversation had always the pioneer flavor. And though an old man he saw always the future Peru growing wonderfully rich and powerful as men came to recognize and use the resources of the eastern valleys. This too was the optimism of the pioneer. Once started on that subject he grew eloquent. He was provincial but he was also intensely patriotic. He never missed an opportunity to impress upon his guests that a great state would arise when people and rulers at last recognized the wealth of eastern Peru.

The Highland Shepherd

The people who live in the lofty highlands and mountains of Peru have several months of real winter weather despite their tropical latitude. In the midst of a snowstorm in the Maritime Cordillera I met a solitary traveler bound for Cotahuasi on the floor of a deep canyon a day’s journey toward the east. It was noon and we halted our pack trains in the lee of a huge rock shelter to escape the bitter wind that blew down from the snow-clad peaks of Solimana. Men who follow the same trails are fraternal. In a moment we had food from our saddle-bags spread on the snow under the corner of a poncho and had exchanged the best in each other’s collection as naturally as friends exchange greetings. By the time I had told him whence and why in response to his inevitable questions we had finished the food and had gathered a heap of tola bushes for a fire. The arriero (muleteer) brought water from a spring in the hollow below us. Though the snow thickened, the wind fell. We were comfortable, even at 16,000 feet, and called the place “The Salamanca Club.” Then I questioned him, and this is what he said:

“I live in the deep valley of Cotahuasi, but my lands lie chiefly up here on the plateau. My family has held title to this puna ever since the Wars of Liberation, except for a few years after one of our early revolutions. I travel about a great deal looking after my flocks. Only Indians live up here. Away off yonder beyond that dark gorge is a group of their huts, and on the bright days of summer you may see their sheep, llamas, and alpacas up here, for on the floors of the watered valleys that girdle these volcanoes there are more tender grasses than grow on this despoblado. I give them corn and barley from my irrigated fields in the valley; they give me wool and meat. The alpaca wool is most valuable. It is hard to get, for the alpaca requires short grasses and plenty of water, and you see there is only coarse tufted ichu grass about us, and there are no streams. It is all right for llamas, but alpacas require better forage.

“No one can imagine the poverty and ignorance of these mountain shepherds. They are filthier than beasts. I have to watch them constantly or they would sell parts of the flocks, which do not belong to them, or try to exchange the valuable alpaca wool for coca leaves in distant towns. They are frequently drunk.”

“But where do they get the drink?” I asked. “And what do you pay them?”

“Oh, the drink is chiefly imported alcohol, and also chicha made from corn. They insist on having it, and do better when I bring them a little now and then. They get much more from the dealers in the towns. As for pay, I do not pay them anything in money except when they bring meat to the valley. Then I give them a few reales apiece for the sheep and a little more for the llamas. The flocks all belong to me really, but of course the poor Indian must have a little money. Besides, I let him have a part of the yearly increase. It is not much, but he has always lived this way and I suppose that he is contented after a fashion.”

Then he became eager to tell what wealth the mountains contained in soil and climate if only the right grasses were introduced by the government.

“Here, before us, are vast punas almost without habitations. If the officials would bring in hardy Siberian grasses these lava-covered plateaus might be carpeted with pasture. There would be villages here and there. The native Indians easily stand the altitude. This whole Cordillera might have ten times as many people. Why does the government bother about concessions in the rubber forests and roads to the eastern valleys when there are these vast tracts only requiring new seeds to develop into rich pastures? The government could thus greatly increase its revenues because there is a heavy tax on exported wool.”

Thus he talked about the bleak Cordillera until we forgot the pounding of our hearts and our frequent gasps for breath on account of the altitude. His rosy picture of a well-populated highland seemed to bring us down nearer sea level where normal folks lived. To the Indians the altitude is nothing. It has an effect, but it is slight; at any rate they manage to reproduce their kind at elevations that would kill a white mother. If alcohol were abolished and better grasses introduced, these lofty pastures might indeed support a much larger population. The sheep pastures of the world are rapidly disappearing before the march of the farmer. Here, well above the limit of cultivation, is a permanent range, one of the great as well as permanent assets of Peru.

The Coastal Planter

The man from the deep Majes Valley in the coastal desert rode out with me through cotton fields as rich and clean as those of a Texas plantation. He was tall, straight-limbed, and clear-eyed—one of the energetic younger generation, yet with the blood of a proud old family. We forded the river and rode on through vineyards and fig orchards loaded with fruit. His manner became deeply earnest as he pictured the future of Peru, when her people would take advantage of scientific methods and use labor-saving machinery. He said that the methods now in use were medieval, and he pointed to a score of concrete illustrations. Also, here was water running to waste, yet the desert was on either hand. There should be dams and canals. Every drop of water was needed. The population of the valley could be easily doubled.

Fig. 4—Large ground moss--so-called yareta--used for fuel. It occurs in the zone of Alpine vegetation and is best developed in regions where the snowline is highest. The photograph represents a typical occurrence between Cotahuasi and Salamanca, elevation 16,000 feet (4,880 m.). The snowline is here at 17,500 feet (5,333 m.). In the foreground is the most widely distributed tola bush, also used for fuel.

Fig. 5.—Expedition’s camp near Lamgrama, 15,500 feet (4,720 m.), after a snowstorm The location is midway in the pasture zone.

Fig. 6—Irrigated Chili Valley on the outskirts of Arequipa. The lower slopes of El Misti are in the left background. The Alto de los Huesos or Plateau of Bones lies on the farther side of the valley.

Fig. 7—Crossing the highest pass (Chuquito) in the Cordillera Vilcapampa, 14,500 feet (4,420 m.). Grazing is here carried on up to the snowline.

Capital was lacking but there was also lacking energy among the people. Slipshod methods brought them a bare living and they were too easily contented. Their standards of life should be elevated. Education was still for the few, and it should be universal. A new spirit of progress was slowly developing—a more general interest in public affairs, a desire to advance with the more progressive nations of South America,—and when it had reached its culmination there would be no happier land than coastal Peru, already the seat of the densest populations and the most highly cultivated fields.

These four men have portrayed the four great regions of Peru—the lowland plains, the eastern mountain valleys, the lofty plateaus, and the valley oases of the coast. This is not all of Peru. The mountain basins have their own peculiar qualities and the valley heads of the coastal zone are unlike the lower valleys and the plateau on either hand. Yet the chief characteristics of the country are set forth with reasonable fidelity in these individual accounts. Moreover the spirit of the Peruvians is better shown thereby than their material resources. If this is not Peru, it is what the Peruvians think is Peru, and to a high degree a man’s country is what he thinks it is—at least it is little more to him.

CHAPTER II
THE RAPIDS AND CANYONS OF THE URUBAMBA

AMONG the scientifically unexplored regions of Peru there is no other so alluring to the geographer as the vast forested realm on the eastern border of the Andes. Thus it happened that within two weeks of our arrival at Cuzco we followed the northern trail to the great canyon of the Urubamba ([Fig. 8]), the gateway to the eastern valleys and the lowland plains of the Amazon. It is here that the adventurous river, reënforced by hundreds of mountain-born tributaries, finally cuts its defiant way through the last of its great topographic barriers. More than seventy rapids interrupt its course; one of them, at the mouth of the Sirialo, is at least a half-mile in length, and long before one reaches its head he hears its roaring from beyond the forest-clad mountain spurs.

The great bend of the Urubamba in which the line of rapids occurs is one of the most curious hydrographic features in Peru. The river suddenly changes its general northward course and striking south of west flows nearly fifty miles toward the axis of the mountains, where, turning almost in a complete circle, it makes a final assault upon the eastern mountain ranges. Fifty miles farther on it breaks through the long sharp-crested chain of the Front Range of the Andes in a splendid gorge more than a half-mile deep, the famous Pongo de Mainique ([Fig. 9]).

Our chief object in descending the line of rapids was to study the canyon of the Urubamba below Rosalina and to make a topographic sketch map of it. We also wished to know what secrets might be gathered in this hitherto unexplored stretch of country, what people dwelt along its banks, and if the vague tales of deserted towns and fugitive tribes had any basis in fact.

Fig. 8—Sketch map showing the route of the Yale-Peruvian Expedition of 1911 down the Urubamba Valley, together with the area of the main map and the changes in the delineation of the bend of the Urubamba resulting from the surveys of the Expedition. Based on the “Mapa que comprende las ultimas exploraciones y estudios verificados desde 1900 hasta 1906,” 1:1,000,000, Bol. Soc. Geogr. Lima, Vol. 25, No. 3, 1909. For details of the trail from Rosalina to Pongo de Mainique see “Plano de las Secciones y Afluentes del Rio Urubamba: 1902-1904,” scale 1:150,000 by Luis M. Robledo in Bol. Soc. Geogr. Lima, Vol. 25, No. 4, 1909. Only the lower slopes of the long mountain spurs can be seen from the river; hence only in a few places could observations be made on the topography of distant ranges. Paced distances of a half mile at irregular intervals were used for the estimation of longer distances. Directions were taken by compass corrected for magnetic deviation as determined on the seventy-third meridian (See [Appendix A]). The position of Rosalina on Robledo’s map was taken as a base.

We could gather almost no information as to the nature of the river except from the report of Major Kerbey, an American, who, in 1897, descended the last twenty miles of the one hundred we proposed to navigate. He pronounced the journey more hazardous than Major Powell’s famous descent of the Grand Canyon in 1867—an obvious exaggeration. He lost his canoe in a treacherous rapid, was deserted by his Indian guides, and only after a painful march through an all but impassable jungle was he finally able to escape on an abandoned raft. Less than a dozen have ventured down since Major Kerbey’s day. A Peruvian mining engineer descended the river a few years ago, and four Italian traders a year later floated down in rafts and canoes, losing almost all of their cargo. For nearly two months they were marooned upon a sand-bar waiting for the river to subside. At last they succeeded in reaching Mulanquiato, an Indian settlement and plantation owned by Pereira, near the entrance to the last canyon. Their attempted passage of the worst stretch of rapids resulted in the loss of all their rubber cargo, the work of a year. Among the half dozen others who have made the journey—Indians and slave traders from down-river rubber posts—there is no record of a single descent without the loss of at least one canoe.

To reach the head of canoe navigation we made a two weeks’ muleback journey north of Cuzco through the steep-walled granite Canyon of Torontoy, and to the sugar and cacao plantations of the middle Urubamba, or Santa Ana Valley, where we outfitted. At Echarati, thirty miles farther on, where the heat becomes more intense and the first patches of real tropical forest begin, we were obliged to exchange our beasts for ten fresh animals accustomed to forest work and its privations. Three days later we pitched our tent on the river bank at Rosalina, the last outpost of the valley settlements. As we dropped down the steep mountain slope before striking the river flood plain, we passed two half-naked Machiganga Indians perched on the limbs of a tree beside the trail, our first sight of members of a tribe whose territory we had now entered. Later in the day they crossed the river in a dugout, landed on the sand-bar above us, and gathered brush for the nightly fire, around which they lie wrapped in a single shirt woven from the fiber of the wild cotton.

Fig. 11—A temporary shelter-hut on a sand-bar near the great bend of the Urubamba (see map, [Fig. 8]). The Machiganga Indians use these cane shelters during the fishing season, when the river is low.

Fig. 12—Thirty-foot canoe in a rapid above Pongo de Mainique.

Rosalina is hardly more than a name on the map and a camp site on the river bank. Some distance back from the left bank of the river is a sugar plantation, whose owner lives in the cooler mountains, a day’s journey away; on the right bank is a small clearing planted to sugar cane and yuca, and on the edge of it is a reed hut sheltering three inhabitants, the total population of Rosalina. The owner asked our destination, and to our reply that we should start in a few days for Pongo de Mainique he offered two serious objections. No one thought of arranging so difficult a journey in less than a month, for canoe and Indians were difficult to find, and the river trip was dangerous. Clearly, to start without the loss of precious time would require unusual exertion. We immediately despatched an Indian messenger to the owner of the small hacienda across the river while one of our peons carried a second note to a priest of great influence among the forest Indians, Padre Mendoza, then at his other home in the distant mountains.

The answer of Señor Morales was his appearance in person to offer the hospitality of his home and to assist us in securing canoe and oarsmen. To our note the Padre, from his hill-top, sent a polite answer and the offer of his large canoe if we would but guarantee its return. His temporary illness prevented a visit to which we had looked forward with great interest.

The morning after our arrival I started out on foot in company with our arriero in search of the Machigangas, who fish and hunt along the river bank during the dry season and retire to their hill camps when the heavy rains begin. We soon left the well-beaten trail and, following a faint woodland path, came to the river bank about a half day’s journey below Rosalina. There we found a canoe hidden in an overhanging arch of vines, and crossing the river met an Indian family who gave us further directions. Their vague signs were but dimly understood and we soon found ourselves in the midst of a carrizo (reed) swamp filled with tall bamboo and cane and crossed by a network of interlacing streams. We followed a faint path only to find ourselves climbing the adjacent mountain slopes away from our destination. Once again in the swamp we had literally to cut our way through the thick cane, wade the numberless brooks, and follow wild animal trails until, late in the day, famished and thirsty, we came upon a little clearing on a sand-bar, the hut of La Sama, who knew the Machigangas and their villages.

After our long day’s work we had fish and yuca, and water to which had been added a little raw cane sugar. Late at night La Sama returned from a trip to the Indian villages down river. He brought with him a half-dozen Machiganga Indians, boys and men, and around the camp fire that night gave us a dramatic account of his former trip down river. At one point he leaped to his feet, and with an imaginary pole shifted the canoe in a swift rapid, turned it aside from imminent wreck, and shouting at the top of his voice over the roar of the water finally succeeded in evading what he had made seem certain death in a whirlpool. We kept a fire going all night long for we slept upon the ground without a covering, and, strange as it may appear, the cold seemed intense, though the minimum thermometer registered 59° F. The next morning the whole party of ten sunned themselves for nearly an hour until the flies and heat once more drove them to shelter.

Returning to camp next day by a different route was an experience of great interest, because of the light it threw on hidden trails known only to the Indian and his friends. Slave raiders in former years devastated the native villages and forced the Indian to conceal his special trails of refuge. At one point we traversed a cliff seventy-five feet above the river, walking on a narrow ledge no wider than a man’s foot. At another point the dim trail apparently disappeared, but when we had climbed hand over hand up the face of the cliff, by hanging vines and tree roots, we came upon it again. Crossing the river in the canoe we had used the day before, we shortened the return by wading the swift Chirumbia waist-deep, and by crawling along a cliff face for nearly an eighth of a mile. At the steepest point the river had so under-cut the face that there was no trail at all, and we swung fully fifteen feet from one ledge to another, on a hanging vine high above the river.

After two days’ delay we left Rosalina late in the afternoon of August 7. My party included several Machiganga Indians, La Sama, and Dr. W. G. Erving, surgeon of the expedition. Mr. P. B. Lanius, Moscoso (the arriero), and two peons were to take the pack train as far as possible toward the rubber station at Pongo de Mainique where preparations were to be made for our arrival. At the first rapid we learned the method of our Indian boatmen. It was to run the heavy boat head on into shallow water at one side of a rapid and in this way “brake” it down stream. Heavily loaded with six men, 200 pounds of baggage, a dog, and supplies of yuca and sugar cane our twenty-five foot dugout canoe was as rigid as a steamer, and we dropped safely down rapid after rapid until long after dark, and by the light of a glorious tropical moon we beached our craft in front of La Sama’s hut at the edge of the cane swamp.

Here for five days we endured a most exasperating delay. La Sama had promised Indian boatmen and now said none had yet been secured. Each day Indians were about to arrive, but by nightfall the promise was broken only to be repeated the following morning. To save our food supply—we had taken but six days’ provisions—we ate yuca soup and fish and some parched corn, adding to this only a little from our limited stores. At last we could wait no longer, even if the map had to be sacrificed to the work of navigating the canoe. Our determination to leave stirred La Sama to final action. He secured an assistant named Wilson and embarked with us, planning to get Indians farther down river or make the journey himself.

On August 12, at 4.30 P.M., we entered upon the second stage of the journey. As we shot down the first long rapid and rounded a wooded bend the view down river opened up and gave us our first clear notion of the region we had set out to explore. From mountain summits in the clouds long trailing spurs descend to the river bank. In general the slopes are smooth-contoured and forest-clad from summit to base; only in a few places do high cliffs diversify the scenery. The river vista everywhere includes a rapid and small patches of playa or flood plain on the inside of the river curves. Although a true canyon hems in the river at two celebrated passes farther down, the upper part of the river flows in a somewhat open valley of moderate relief, with here and there a sentinel-like peak next the river.

A light shower fell at sunset, a typical late-afternoon downpour so characteristic of the tropics. We landed at a small encampment of Machigangas, built a fire against the scarred trunk of a big palm, and made up our beds in the open, covering them with our rubber ponchos. Our Indian neighbors gave us yuca and corn, but their neighborliness went no further, for when our boatmen attempted to sleep under their roofs they drove them out and fastened as securely as possible the shaky door of their hut.

All our efforts to obtain Indians, both here and elsewhere, proved fruitless. One excuse after another was overcome; they plainly coveted the trinkets, knives, machetes, muskets, and ammunition that we offered them; and they appeared to be friendly enough. Only after repeated assurances of our friendship could we learn the real reason for their refusal. Some of them were escaped rubber pickers that had been captured by white raiders several years before, and for them a return to the rubber country meant enslavement, heavy floggings, and separation from their numerous wives. The hardships they had endured, their final escape, the cruelty of the rubber men, and the difficult passage of the rapids below were a set of circumstances that nothing in our list of gifts could overcome. My first request a week before had so sharpened their memory that one of them related the story of his wrongs, a recital intensely dramatic to the whole circle of his listeners, including myself. Though I did not understand the details of his story, his tones and gesticulations were so effective that they held me as well as his kinsmen of the woods spellbound for over an hour.

It is appalling to what extent this great region has been depopulated by the slave raiders and those arch enemies of the savage, smallpox and malaria. At Rosalina, over sixty Indians died of malaria in one year; and only twenty years ago seventy of them, the entire population of the Pongo, were swept away by smallpox. For a week we passed former camps near small abandoned clearings, once the home of little groups of Machigangas. Even the summer shelter huts on the sand-bars, where the Indians formerly gathered from their hill homes to fish, are now almost entirely abandoned. Though our men carefully reconnoitered each one for fear of ambush, the precaution was needless. Below the Coribeni the Urubamba is a great silent valley. It is fitted by Nature to support numerous villages, but its vast solitudes are unbroken except at night, when a few families that live in the hills slip down to the river to gather yuca and cane.

By noon of the second day’s journey we reached the head of the great rapid at the mouth of the Sirialo. We had already run the long Coribeni rapid, visited the Indian huts at the junction of the big Coribeni tributary, exchanged our canoe for a larger and steadier one, and were now to run one of the ugliest rapids of the upper river. The rapid is formed by the gravel masses that the Sirialo brings down from the distant Cordillera Vilcapampa. They trail along for at least a half-mile, split the river into two main currents and nearly choke the mouth of the tributary. For almost a mile above this great barrier the main river is ponded and almost as quiet as a lake.

We let our craft down this rapid by ropes, and in the last difficult passage were so roughly handled by our almost unmanageable canoe as to suffer from several bad accidents. All of the party were injured in one way or another, while I suffered a fracture sprain of the left foot that made painful work of the rest of the river trip.

At two points below Rosalina the Urubamba is shut in by steep mountain slopes and vertical cliffs. Canoe navigation below the Sirialo and Coribeni rapids is no more hazardous than on the rapids of our northern rivers, except at the two “pongos” or narrow passages. The first occurs at the sharpest point of the abrupt curve shown on the map; the second is the celebrated Pongo de Mainique. In these narrow passages in time of high water there is no landing for long stretches. The bow paddler stands well forward and tries for depth and current; the stern paddler keeps the canoe steady in its course. When paddlers are in agreement even a heavy canoe can be directed into the most favorable channels. Our canoemen were always in disagreement, however, and as often as not we shot down rapids at a speed of twenty miles an hour, broadside on, with an occasional bump on projecting rocks or boulders whose warning ordinary boatmen would not let go unheeded.

The scenery at the great bend is unusually beautiful. The tropical forest crowds the river bank, great cliffs rise sheer from the water’s edge, their faces overhung with a trailing drapery of vines, and in the longer river vistas one may sometimes see the distant heights of the Cordillera Vilcapampa. We shot the long succession of rapids in the first canyon without mishap, and at night pitched our tent on the edge of the river near the mouth of the Manugali.

From the sharp peak opposite our camp we saw for the first time the phenomenon of cloud-banners. A light breeze was blowing from the western mountains and its vapor was condensed into clouds that floated down the wind and dissolved, while they were constantly forming afresh at the summit. In the night a thunderstorm arose and swept with a roar through the vast forest above us. The solid canopy of the tropical forest fairly resounded with the impact of the heavy raindrops. The next morning all the brooks from the farther side of the river were in flood and the river discolored. When we broke camp the last mist wraiths of the storm were still trailing through the tree-tops and wrapped about the peak opposite our camp, only parting now and then to give us delightful glimpses of a forest-clad summit riding high above the clouds.

The alternation of deeps and shallows at this point in the river and the well-developed canyon meanders are among the most celebrated of their kind in the world. Though shut in by high cliffs and bordered by mountains the river exhibits a succession of curves so regular that one might almost imagine the country a plain from the pattern of the meanders. The succession of smooth curves for a long distance across existing mountains points to a time when a lowland plain with moderate slopes drained by strongly meandering rivers was developed here. Uplift afforded a chance for renewed down-cutting on the part of all the streams, and the incision of the meanders. The present meanders are, of course, not the identical ones that were formed on the lowland plain; they are rather their descendants. Though they still retain their strongly curved quality, and in places have almost cut through the narrow spurs between meander loops, they are not smooth like the meanders of the Mississippi. Here and there are sharp irregular turns that mar the symmetry of the larger curves. The alternating bands of hard and soft rock have had a large part in making the course more irregular. The meanders have responded to the rock structure. Though regular in their broader features they are irregular and deformed in detail.

Deeps and shallows are known in every vigorous river, but it is seldom that they are so prominently developed as in these great canyons. At one point in the upper canyon the river has been broadened into a lake two or three times the average width of the channel and with a scarcely perceptible current; above and below the “laguna,” as the boatmen call it, are big rapids with beds so shallow that rocks project in many places. In the Pongo de Mainique the river is at one place only fifty feet wide, yet so deep that there is little current. It is on the banks of the quiet stretches that the red forest deer grazes under leafy arcades. Here, too, are the boa-constrictor trails several feet wide and bare like a roadway. At night the great serpents come trailing down to the river’s edge, where the red deer and the wildcat, or so-called “tiger,” are their easy prey.

It is in such quiet stretches that one also finds the vast colonies of water skippers. They dance continuously in the sun with an incessant motion from right to left and back again. Occasionally one dances about in circles, then suddenly darts through the entire mass, though without striking his equally erratic neighbors. An up-and-down motion still further complicates the effect. It is positively bewildering to look intently at the whirling multitude and try to follow their complicated motions. Every slight breath of wind brings a shock to the organization of the dance. For though they dance only in the sun, their favorite places are the sunny spots in the shade near the bank, as beneath an overhanging tree. When the wind shakes the foliage the mottled pattern of shade and sunlight is confused, the dance slows down, and the dancers become bewildered. In a storm they seek shelter in the jungle. The hot, quiet, sunlit days bring out literally millions of these tiny creatures.

One of the longest deeps in the whole Urubamba lies just above the Pongo at Mulanquiato. We drifted down with a gentle current just after sunset. Shrill whistles, like those of a steam launch, sounded from either bank, the strange piercing notes of the lowland cicada, cicada tibicen. Long decorated canoes, better than any we had yet seen, were drawn up in the quiet coves. Soon we came upon the first settlement. The owner, Señor Pereira, has gathered about him a group of Machigangas, and by marrying into the tribe has attained a position of great influence among the Indians. Upon our arrival a gun was fired to announce to his people that strangers had come, upon which the Machigangas strolled along in twos and threes from their huts, helped us ashore with the baggage, and prepared the evening meal. Here we sat down with five Italians, who had ventured into the rubber fields with golden ideas as to profits. After having lost the larger part of their merchandise, chiefly cinchona, in the rapids the year before, they had established themselves here with the idea of picking rubber. Without capital, they followed the ways of the itinerant rubber picker and had gathered “caucho,” the poorer of the two kinds of rubber. No capital is required; the picker simply cuts down the likeliest trees, gathers the coagulated sap, and floats it down-stream to market. After a year of this life they had grown restless and were venturing on other schemes for the great down-river rubber country.

Fig. 15—Topography and vegetation from the Tocate pass, 7,100 feet (2,164 m.), between Rosalina and Pongo de Mainique. See [Fig. 53a.] This is in the zone of maximum rainfall. The cumulo-nimbus clouds are typical and change to nimbus in the early afternoon.

Fig. 16—The Expedition’s thirty-foot canoe at the mouth of the Timpia below Pongo de Mainique.

A few weeks later, on returning through the forest, we met their carriers with a few small bundles, the only part of their cargo they had saved from the river. Without a canoe or the means to buy one they had built rafts, which were quickly torn to pieces in the rapids. We, too, should have said “pobres Italianos” if their venture had not been plainly foolish. The rubber territory is difficult enough for men with capital; for men without capital it is impossible. Such men either become affiliated with organized companies or get out of the region when they can. A few, made desperate by risks and losses, cheat and steal their way to rubber. Two years before our trip an Italian had murdered two Frenchmen just below the Pongo and stolen their rubber cargo, whereupon he was shot by Machigangas under the leadership of Domingo, the chief who was with us on a journey from Pongo de Mainique to the mouth of the Timpia. Afterward they brought his skull to the top of a pass along the forest trail and set it up on a cliff at the very edge of Machiganga-land as a warning to others of his kind.

At Mulanquiato we secured five Machigangas and a boy interpreter, and on August 17 made the last and most difficult portion of our journey. We found these Indians much more skilful than our earlier boatmen. Well-trained, alert, powerful, and with excellent team-play, they swept the canoe into this or that thread of the current, and took one after another of the rapids with the greatest confidence. No sooner had we passed the Sintulini rapids, fully a mile long, than we reached the mouth of the Pomareni. This swift tributary comes in almost at right angles to the main river and gives rise to a confusing mass of standing waves and conflicting currents rendered still more difficult by the whirlpool just below the junction. So swift is the circling current of the maëlstrom that the water is hollowed out like a great bowl, a really formidable point and one of our most dangerous passages; a little too far to the right and we should be thrown over against the cliff-face; a little too far to the left and we should be caught in the whirlpool. Once in the swift current the canoe became as helpless as a chip. It was turned this way and that, each turn heading it apparently straight for destruction. But the Indians had judged their position well, and though we seemed each moment in a worse predicament, we at last skimmed the edge of the whirlpool and brought our canoe to shore just beyond its rim.

A little farther on we came to the narrow gateway of the Pongo, where the entire volume of the river flows between cliffs at one point no more than fifty feet apart. Here are concentrated the worst rapids of the lower Urubamba. For nearly fifteen miles the river is an unbroken succession of rapids, and once within its walls the Pongo offers small chance of escape. At some points we were fortunate enough to secure a foothold along the edge of the river and to let our canoe down by ropes. At others we were obliged to take chances with the current, though the great depth of water in most of the Pongo rapids makes them really less formidable in some respects than the shallow rapids up stream. The chief danger here lies in the rotary motion of the water at the sharpest bends. The effect at some places is extraordinary. A floating object is carried across stream like a feather and driven at express-train speed against a solid cliff. In trying to avoid one of these cross-currents our canoe became turned midstream, we were thrown this way and that, and at last shot through three standing waves that half filled the canoe.

Below the worst rapids the Pongo exhibits a swift succession of natural wonders. Fern-clad cliffs border it, a bush resembling the juniper reaches its dainty finger-like stems far out over the river, and the banks are heavily clad with mosses. The great woods, silent, impenetrable, mantle the high slopes and stretch up to the limits of vision. Cascades tumble from the cliff summits or go rippling down the long inclines of the slate beds set almost on edge. Finally appear the white pinnacles of limestone that hem in the narrow lower entrance or outlet of the Pongo. Beyond this passage one suddenly comes out upon the edge of a rolling forest-clad region, the rubber territory, the country of the great woods. Here the Andean realm ends and Amazonia begins.

From the summits of the white cliffs 4,000 feet above the river we were in a few days to have one of the most extensive views in South America. The break between the Andean Cordillera and the hill-dotted plains of the lower Urubamba valley is almost as sharp as a shoreline. The rolling plains are covered with leagues upon leagues of dense, shadowy, fever-haunted jungle. The great river winds through in a series of splendid meanders, and with so broad a channel as to make it visible almost to the horizon. Down river from our lookout one can reach ocean steamers at Iquitos with less than two weeks of travel. It is three weeks to the Pacific via Cuzco and more than a month if one takes the route across the high bleak lava-covered country which we were soon to cross on our way to the coast at Camaná.

CHAPTER III
THE RUBBER FORESTS

THE white limestone cliffs at Pongo de Mainique are a boundary between two great geographic provinces ([Fig. 17]). Down valley are the vast river plains, drained by broad meandering rivers; up valley are the rugged spurs of the eastern Andes and their encanyoned streams ([Fig. 18]). There are outliers of the Andes still farther toward the northeast where hangs the inevitable haze of the tropical horizon, but the country beyond them differs in no important respect from that immediately below the Pongo.

Fig. 17—Regional diagram of the Eastern Andes (here the Cordillera Vilcapampa) and the adjacent tropical plains. For an explanation of the method of construction and the symbolism of the diagram see [p. 51].

The foot-path to the summit of the cliffs is too narrow and steep for even the most agile mules. It is simply impassable for animals without hands. In places the packs are lowered by ropes over steep ledges and men must scramble down from one projecting root or swinging vine to another. In the breathless jungle it is a wearing task to pack in all supplies for the station below the Pongo and to carry out the season’s rubber. Recently however the ancient track has been replaced by a road that was cut with great labor, and by much blasting, across the mountain barrier, and at last mule transport has taken the place of the Indian.

In the dry season it is a fair and delightful country—that on the border of the mountains. In the wet season the traveler is either actually marooned or he must slosh through rivers of mud and water that deluge the trails and break the hearts of his beasts ([Fig. 14]). Here and there a large shallow-rooted tree has come crashing down across the trail and with its four feet of circumference and ten feet of plank buttress it is as difficult to move as a house. A new trail must be cut around it. A little farther on, where the valley wall steepens and one may look down a thousand feet of slope to the bed of a mountain torrent, a patch of trail has become soaked with water and the mules pick their way, trembling, across it. Two days from Yavero one of our mules went over the trail, and though she was finally recovered she died of her injuries the following night. After a month’s work in the forest a mule must run free for two months to recover. The packers count on losing one beast out of five for every journey into the forest. It is not solely a matter of work, though this is terrific; it is quite largely a matter of forage. In spite of its profusion of life ([Fig. 13]) and its really vast wealth of species, the tropical forest is all but barren of grass. Sugar cane is a fair substitute, but there are only a few cultivated spots. The more tender leaves of the trees, the young shoots of cane in the carrizo swamps, and the grass-like foliage of the low bamboo are the chief substitutes for pasture. But they lead to various disorders, besides requiring considerable labor on the part of the dejected peons who must gather them after a day’s heavy work with the packs.

Overcoming these enormous difficulties is expensive and some one must pay the bill. As is usual in a pioneer region, the native laborer pays a large part of it in unrequited toil; the rest is paid by the rubber consumer. For this is one of the cases where a direct road connects the civilized consumer and the barbarous producer. What a story it could tell if a ball of smoke-cured rubber on a New York dock were endowed with speech—of the wet jungle path, of enslaved peons, of vile abuses by immoral agents, of all the toil and sickness that make the tropical lowland a reproach!

Fig. 19—Moss-draped trees in the rain forest near Abra Tocate between Rosalina and Pongo de Mainique.

Fig. 20—Yavero, a rubber station on the Yavero (Paucartambo) River, a tributary of the Urubamba. Elevation 1,600 feet (490 m.).

In the United States the specter of slavery haunted the national conscience almost from the beginning of national life, and the ghost was laid only at the cost of one of the bloodiest wars in history. In other countries, as in sugar-producing Brazil, the freeing of the slaves meant not a war but the verge of financial ruin besides a fundamental change in the social order and problems as complex and wearisome as any that war can bring. Everywhere abolition was secured at frightful cost.

Fig. 21—Clearing in the tropical forest between Rosalina and Pabellon. This represents the border region where the forest-dwelling Machiganga Indians and the mountain Indians meet. The clearings are occupied by Machigangas whose chief crops are yuca and corn; in the extreme upper left-hand corner are grassy slopes occupied by Quechua herdsmen and farmers who grow potatoes and corn.

The spirit that upheld the new founders of the western republics in driving out slavery was admirable, but as much cannot be said of their work of reconstruction. We like to pass over those dark days in our own history. In South America there has lingered from the old slave-holding days down to the present, a labor system more insidious than slavery, yet no less revolting in its details, and infinitely more difficult to stamp out. It is called peonage; it should be called slavery. In Bolivia, Peru, and Brazil it flourishes now as it ever did in the fruitful soil of the interior provinces where law and order are bywords and where the scarcity of workmen will long impel men to enslave labor when they cannot employ it. Peonage is slavery, though as in all slave systems there are many forms under which the system is worked out. We commonly think that the typical slave is one who is made to work hard, given but little food, and at the slightest provocation is tied to a post and brutally whipped. This is indeed the fate of many slaves or “peons” so-called, in the Amazon forests; but it is no more the rule than it was in the South before the war, for a peon is a valuable piece of property and if a slave raider travel five hundred miles through forest and jungle-swamp to capture an Indian you may depend upon it that he will not beat him to death merely for the fun of it.

That unjust and frightfully cruel floggings are inflicted at times and in some places is of course a result of the lack of official restraint that drunken owners far from the arm of the law sometimes enjoy. When a man obtains a rubber concession from the government he buys a kingdom. Many of the rubber territories are so remote from the cities that officials can with great difficulty be secured to stay at the customs ports. High salaries must be paid, heavy taxes collected, and grafting of the most flagrant kind winked at. Often the concessionaire himself is chief magistrate of his kingdom by law. Under such a system, remote from all civilizing influences, the rubber producer himself oftentimes a lawless border character or a downright criminal, no system of government would be adequate, least of all one like peonage that permits or ignores flagrant wrongs because it is so expensive to enforce justice.

The peonage system continues by reason of that extraordinary difficulty in the development of the tropical lowland of South America—the lack of a labor supply. The population of Amazonia now numbers less than one person to the square mile. The people are distributed in small groups of a dozen to twenty each in scattered villages along the river banks or in concealed clearings reached by trails known only to the Indians. Nearly all of them still live in the same primitive state in which they lived at the time of the Discovery. In the Urubamba region a single cotton shirt is worn by the married men and women, while the girls and boys in many cases go entirely naked except for a loincloth or a necklace of nuts or monkeys’ teeth ([Fig. 23]). A cane hut with a thatch to keep out the heavy rains is their shelter and their food is the yuca, sugar cane, Indian corn, bananas of many kinds, and fish. A patch of yuca once planted will need but the most trifling attention for years. The small spider monkey is their greatest delicacy and to procure it they will often abandon every other project and return at their own sweet and belated will.

Fig. 22—Trading with Machiganga Indians in a reed swamp at Santao Anato, Urubamba Valley, before Rosalina. Just outside the picture on the right is a platform on which corn is stored for protection against rodents and mildew. On the left is the corner of a grass-thatched cane hut.

In the midst of this natural life of the forest-dwelling Indian appears the rubber man, who, to gather rubber, must have rubber “pickers.” If he lives on the edge of the great Andean Cordillera, laborers may be secured from some of the lower valleys, but they must be paid well for even a temporary stay in the hot and unhealthful lowlands. Farther out in the great forest country the plateau Indians will not go and only the scattered tribes remain from which to recruit laborers. For the nature-life of the Indian what has the rubber gatherer to offer? Money? The Indian uses it for ornament only. When I once tried with money to pay an Indian for a week’s services he refused it. In exchange for his severe labor he wanted nothing more than a fish-hook and a ring, the two costing not more than a penny apiece! When his love for ornament has once been gratified the Indian ceases to work. His food and shelter and clothing are of the most primitive kind, but they are the best in the world for him because they are the only kind he has known. So where money and finery fail the lash comes in. The rubber man says that the Indian is lazy and must be made to work; that there is a great deal of work to be done and the Indian is the only laborer who can be found; that if rubber and chocolate are produced the Indian must be made to produce them; and that if he will not produce them for pay he must be enslaved.

Fig. 23—Ornaments and fabrics of the Machiganga Indians at Yavero. The nuts are made up into strings, pendants, and heavy necklaces. To the left of the center is one that contains feathers and four drumsticks of a bird about the size of a small wild turkey—probably the so-called turkey inhabiting the eastern mountain valleys and the adjacent border of the plains, and hunted as an important source of food. The cord in the upper right-hand corner is used most commonly for heel supports in climbing trees. The openwork sack is convenient for carrying game, fish, and fruit; the finely woven sacks are used for carrying red ochre for ornamenting or daubing faces and arms. They are also used for carrying corn, trinkets, and game.

It is a law of the rubber country that when an Indian falls into debt to a white man he must work for the latter until the debt is discharged. If he runs away before the debt is canceled or if he refuses to work or does too little work he may be flogged. Under special conditions such laws are wise. In the hands of the rubber men they are the basis of slavery. For, once the rubber interests begin to suffer, the promoters look around for a chance to capture free Indians. An expedition is fitted out that spends weeks exploring this river or that in getting on the track of unattached Indians. When a settlement is found the men are enslaved and taken long distances from home finally to reach a rubber property. There they are given a corner of a hut to sleep in, a few cheap clothes, a rubber-picking outfit, and a name. In return for these articles the unwilling Indian is charged any fanciful price that comes into the mind of his “owner,” and he must thereupon work at a per diem wage also fixed by the owner. Since his obligations increase with time, the Indian may die over two thousand dollars in debt!

Peonage has left frightful scars upon the country. In some places the Indians are fugitives, cultivating little farms in secreted places but visiting them only at night or after carefully reconnoitering the spot. They change their camps frequently and make their way from place to place by secret trails, now spending a night or two under the shelter of a few palm leaves on a sandbar, again concealing themselves in almost impenetrable jungle. If the hunter sometimes discovers a beaten track he follows it only to find it ending on a cliff face or on the edge of a lagoon where concealment is perfect. There are tribes that shoot the white man at sight and regard him as their bitterest enemy. Experience has led them to believe that only a dead white is a good white, reversing our saying about the North American Indian; and that even when he comes among them on peaceful errands he is likely to leave behind him a trail of syphilis and other venereal diseases scarcely less deadly than his bullets.

However, the peonage system is not hideous everywhere and in all its aspects. There are white owners who realize that in the long run the friendship of the Indians is an asset far greater than unwilling service and deadly hatred. Some of them have indeed intermarried with the Indians and live among them in a state but little above savagery. In the Mamoré country are a few owners of original princely concessions who have grown enormously wealthy and yet who continue to live a primitive life among their scores of illegitimate descendants. The Indians look upon them as benefactors, as indeed many of them are, defending the Indians from ill treatment by other whites, giving them clothing and ornaments, and exacting from them only a moderate amount of labor. In some cases indeed the whites have gained more than simple gratitude for their humane treatment of the Indians, some of whom serve their masters with real devotion.

When the “rubber barons” wish to discourage investigation of their system they invite the traveler to leave and he is given a canoe and oarsmen with which to make his way out of the district. Refusal to accept an offer of canoes and men is a declaration of war. An agent of one of the London companies accepted such a challenge and was promptly told that he would not leave the territory alive. The threat would have held true in the case of a less skilful man. Though Indians slept in the canoes to prevent their seizure, he slipped past the guards in the night, swam to the opposite shore, and there secured a canoe within which he made a difficult journey down river to the nearest post where food and an outfit could be secured.

A few companies operating on or near the border of the Cordillera have adopted a normal labor system, dependent chiefly upon people from the plateau and upon the thoroughly willing assistance of well-paid forest Indians. The Compañia Gomera de Mainique at Puerto Mainique just below the Pongo is one of these and its development of the region without violation of native rights is in the highest degree praiseworthy. In fact the whole conduct of this company is interesting to a geographer, as it reflects at every point the physical nature of the country.

The government is eager to secure foreign capital, but in eastern Peru can offer practically nothing more than virgin wealth, that is, land and the natural resources of the land. There are no roads, virtually no trails, no telegraph lines, and in most cases no labor. Since the old Spanish grants ran at right angles to the river so as to give the owners a cross-section of varied resources, the up-river plantations do not extend down into the rubber country. Hence the more heavily forested lower valleys and plains are the property of the state. A man can buy a piece of land down there, but from any tract within ordinary means only a primitive living can be obtained. The pioneers therefore are the rubber men who produce a precious substance that can stand the enormous tax on production and transportation. They do not want the land—only the exclusive right to tap the rubber trees upon it. Thus there has arisen the concession plan whereby a large tract is obtained under conditions of money payment or of improvements that will attract settlers or of a tax on the export.

The “caucho” or poorer rubber of the Urubamba Valley begins at 3,000 feet (915 m.) and the “hevea” or better class is a lower-valley and plains product. The rubber trees thereabouts produce 60 grams (2 ozs.) of dry rubber each week for eight months. After yielding rubber for this length of time a tree is allowed to rest four or five years. “Caucho” is produced from trees that are cut down and ringed with machetes, but it is from fifty to sixty cents cheaper owing to the impurities that get into it. The wood, not the nut, of the Palma carmona is used for smoking or “curing” the rubber. The government had long been urged to build a road into the region in place of the miserable track—absolutely impassable in the wet season—that heretofore constituted the sole means of exit. About ten years ago Señor Robledo at last built a government trail from Rosalina to Yavero about 100 miles long. While it is a wretched trail it is better than the old one, for it is more direct and it is better drained. In the wet season parts of it are turned into rivers and lakes, but it is probably the best that could be done with the small grant of twenty thousand dollars.

With at least an improvement in the trail it became possible for a rubber company to induce cargadores or packers to transport merchandise and rubber and to have a fair chance of success. Whereupon a rubber company was organized which obtained a concession of 28,000 hectares (69,188 acres) of land on condition that the company finish a road one and one-half meters wide to the Pongo, connecting with the road which the government had extended to Yavero. The land given in payment was not continuous but was selected in lots by the company in such a way as to secure the best rubber trees over an area several times the size of the concession. The road was finished by William Tell after four years’ work at a cost of about seventy-five thousand dollars. The last part of it was blasted out of slate and limestone and in 1912 the first pack train entered Puerto Mainique.

The first rubber was taken out in November, 1910, and productive possibilities proved by the collection of 9,000 kilos (19,841 pounds) in eight months.

If a main road were the chief problem of the rubber company the business would soon be on a paying basis, but for every mile of road there must be cut several miles of narrow trail ([Fig. 14]), as the rubber trees grow scattered about—a clump of a half dozen here and five hundred feet farther on another clump and only scattered individuals between. Furthermore, about twenty-five years ago rubber men from the Ucayali came up here in launches and canoes and cut down large numbers of trees within reach of the water courses and by ringing the trunks every few feet with machetes “bled” them rapidly and thus covered a large territory in a short time, and made huge sums of money when the price of rubber was high. Only a few of the small trees that were left are now mature. These, the mature trees that were overlooked, and the virgin stands farther from the rivers are the present sources of rubber.

In addition to the trails small cabins must be built to shelter the hired laborers from the plateau, many of whom bring along their women folk to cook for them. The combined expense to a company of these necessary improvements before production can begin is exceedingly heavy. There is only one alternative for the prospective exploiter: to become a vagrant rubber gatherer. With tents, guns, machetes, cloth, baubles for trading, tinned food for emergencies, and with pockets full of English gold parties have started out to seek fortunes in the rubber forests. If the friendship of a party of Indians can be secured by adequate gifts large amounts of rubber can be gathered in a short time, for the Indians know where the rubber trees grow. On the other hand, many fortunes have been lost in the rubber country. Some of the tribes have been badly treated by other adventurers and attack the newcomers from ambush or gather rubber for a while only to overturn the canoe in a rapid and let the river relieve them of selfish friends.

The Compañia Gomera de Mainique started out by securing the good-will of the forest Indians, the Machigangas. They come and go in friendly visits to the port at Yavero. If one of them is sick he can secure free medicine from the agent. If he wishes goods on credit he has only to ask for them, for the agent knows that the Indian’s sense of fairness will bring him back to work for the company. Without previous notice a group of Indians appears:

“We owe,” they announce.

“Good,” says the agent, “build me a house.”

They select the trees. Before they cut them down they address them solemnly. The trees must not hold their destruction against the Indians and they must not try to resist the sharp machetes. Then the Indians set to work. They fell a tree, bind it with light ropes woven from the wild cotton, and haul it to its place. That is all for the day. They play in the sun, do a little hunting, or look over the agent’s house, touching everything, talking little, exclaiming much. They dip their wet fingers in the sugar bowl and taste, turn salt out upon their hands, hold colored solutions from the medicine chest up to the light, and pull out and push in the corks of the bottles. At the end of a month or two the house is done. Then they gather their women and babies together and say:

“Now we go,” without asking if the work corresponds with the cost of the articles they had bought. Their judgment is good however. Their work is almost always more valuable than the articles. Then they shake hands all around.

“We will come again,” they say, and in a moment have disappeared in the jungle that overhangs the trail.

With such labor the Compañia Gomera de Mainique can do something, but it is not much. The regular seasonal tasks of road-building and rubber-picking must be done by imported labor. This is secured chiefly at Abancay, where live groups of plateau Indians that have become accustomed to the warm climate of the Abancay basin. They are employed for eight or ten months at an average rate of fifty cents gold per day, and receive in addition only the simplest articles of food.

At the end of the season the gang leaders are paid a gratificación, or bonus, the size of which depends upon the amount of rubber collected, and this in turn depends upon the size of the gang and the degree of willingness to work. In the books of the company I saw a record of gratificaciónes running as high as $600 in gold for a season’s work.

Some of the laborers become sick and are cared for by the agent until they recover or can be sent back to their homes. Most of them have fever before they return.

The rubber costs the company two soles ($1.00) produced at Yavero. The two weeks’ transportation to Cuzco costs three and a half soles ($1.75) per twenty-five pounds. The exported rubber, known to the trade as Mollendo rubber, in contrast to the finer “Pará” rubber from the lower Amazon, is shipped to Hamburg. The cost for transportation from port to port is $24.00 per English ton (1,016 kilos). There is a Peruvian tax of 8 per cent of the net value in Europe, and a territorial tax of two soles ($1.00) per hundred pounds. All supplies except the few vegetables grown on the spot cost tremendously. Even dynamite, hoes, clothing, rice—to mention only a few necessities—must pay the heavy cost of transportation after imposts, railroad and ocean freight, storage and agents’ percentages are added. The effect of a disturbed market is extreme. When, in 1911, the price of rubber fell to $1.50 a kilo at Hamburg the company ceased exporting. When it dropped still lower in 1912 production also stopped, and it is still doubtful, in view of the growing competition of the East-Indian plantations with their cheap labor, whether operations will ever be resumed. Within three years no less than a dozen large companies in eastern Peru and Bolivia have ceased operations. In one concession on the Madre de Dios the withdrawal of the agents and laborers from the posts turned at last into flight, as the forest Indians, on learning the company’s policy, rapidly ascended the river in force, committing numerous depredations. The great war has also added to the difficulties of production.

Facts like these are vital in the consideration of the future of the Amazon basin and especially its habitability. It was the dream of Humboldt that great cities should arise in the midst of the tropical forests of the Amazon and that the whole lowland plain of that river basin should become the home of happy millions. Humboldt’s vision may have been correct, though a hundred years have brought us but little nearer its realization. Now, as in the past four centuries, man finds his hands too feeble to control the great elemental forces which have shaped history. The most he can hope for in the next hundred years at least is the ability to dodge Nature a little more successfully, and here and there by studies in tropical hygiene and medicine, by the substitution of water-power for human energy, to carry a few of the outposts and prepare the way for a final assault in the war against the hard conditions of climate and relief. We hear of the Madeira-Mamoré railroad, 200 miles long, in the heart of a tropical forest and of the commercial revolution it will bring. Do we realize that the forest which overhangs the rails is as big as the whole plain between the Rockies and the Appalachians, and that the proposed line would extend only as far as from St. Louis to Kansas City, or from Galveston to New Orleans?

Even if twenty whites were eager to go where now there is but one reluctant pioneer, we should still have but a halting development on account of the scarcity of labor. When, three hundred years ago, the Isthmus of Panama stood in his way, Gomara wrote to his king: “There are mountains, but there are also hands,” as if men could be conjured up from the tropical jungle. From that day to this the scarcity of labor has been the chief difficulty in the lowland regions of tropical South America. Even when medicine shall have been advanced to the point where residence in the tropics can be made safe, the Amazon basin will lack an adequate supply of workmen. Where Humboldt saw thriving cities, the population is still less than one to the square mile in an area as large as fifteen of our Mississippi Valley states. We hear much about a rich soil and little about intolerable insects; the climate favors a good growth of vegetation, but a man can starve in a tropical forest as easily as in a desert; certain tributaries of the Negro are bordered by rich rubber forests, yet not a single Indian hut may be found along their banks. Will men of the white race dig up the rank vegetation, sleep in grass hammocks, live in the hot and humid air, or will they stay in the cooler regions of the north and south? Will they rear children in the temperate zones, or bury them in the tropics?

What Gorgas did for Panama was done for intelligent people. Can it be duplicated in the case of ignorant and stupid laborers? Shall the white man with wits fight it out with Nature in a tropical forest, or fight it out with his equals under better skies?

The tropics must be won by strong hands of the lowlier classes who are ignorant or careless of hygiene, and not by the khaki-clad robust young men like those who work at Panama. Tropical medicine can do something for these folk, but it cannot do much. And we cannot surround every laborer’s cottage with expensive screens, oiled ditches, and well-kept lawns. There is a practical optimism and a sentimental optimism. The one is based on facts; the other on assumptions. It is pleasant to think that the tropical forest may be conquered. It is nonsense to say that we are now conquering it in any comprehensive and permanent way. That sort of conquest is still a dream, as when Humboldt wrote over a hundred years ago.

CHAPTER IV
THE FOREST INDIANS

THE people of a tropical forest live under conditions not unlike those of the desert. The Sahara contains 2,000,000 persons within its borders, a density of one-half to the square mile. This is almost precisely the density of population of a tract of equivalent size in the lowland forests of South America. Like the oases groups in the desert of aridity are the scattered groups along the river margins of the forest. The desert trails run from spring to spring or along a valley floor where there is seepage or an intermittent stream; the rivers are the highways of the forest, the flowing roads, and away from them one is lost in as true a sense as one may be lost in the desert.

A man may easily starve in the tropical forest. Before starting on even a short journey of two or three days a forest Indian stocks his canoe with sugar cane and yuca and a little parched corn. He knows the settlements as well as his desert brother knows the springs. The Pahute Indian of Utah lives in the irrigated valleys and makes annual excursions across the desert to the distant mountains to gather the seeds of the nut pine. The Machiganga lives in the hills above the Urubamba and annually comes down through the forest to the river to fish during the dry season.

The Machigangas are one of the important tribes of the Amazon basin. Though they are dispersed to some extent upon the plains their chief groups are scattered through the heads of a large number of valleys near the eastern border of the Andes. Chief among the valleys they occupy are the Pilcopata, Tono, Piñi-piñi, Yavero, Yuyato, Shirineiri, Ticumpinea, Timpia, and Camisea ([Fig. 203]). In their distribution, in their relations with each other, in their manner of life, and to some extent in their personal traits, they display characteristics strikingly like those seen in desert peoples. Though the forest that surrounds them suggests plenty and the rivers the possibility of free movement with easy intercourse, the struggle of life, as in the desert, is against useless things. Travel in the desert is a conflict with heat and aridity; but travel in the tropic forest is a struggle against space, heat, and a superabundant and all but useless vegetation.

The Machigangas are one of the subtribes of the Campas Indians, one of the most numerous groups in the Amazon Valley. It is estimated that there are in all about 14,000 to 16,000 of them. Each subtribe numbers from one to four thousand, and the territory they occupy extends from the limits of the last plantations—for example, Rosalina in the Urubamba Valley—downstream beyond the edge of the plains. Among them three subtribes are still hostile to the whites: the Cashibos, the Chonta Campas, and the Campas Bravos.

In certain cases the Cashibos are said to be anthropophagous, in the belief that they will assume the strength and intellect of those they eat. This group is also continuously at war with its neighbors, goes naked, uses stone hatchets, as in ages past, because of its isolation and unfriendliness, and defends the entrances to the tribal huts with dart and traps. The Cashibos are diminishing in numbers and are now scattered through the valley of the Gran Pajonal, the left bank of the Pachitea, and the Pampa del Sacramento.[2]

The friendliest tribes live in the higher valley heads, where they have constant communication with the whites. The use of the bow and arrow has not, however, been discontinued among them, in spite of the wide introduction of the old-fashioned muzzle-loading shotgun, which they prize much more highly than the latest rifle or breech-loading shotgun because of its simplicity and cheapness. Accidents are frequent among them owing to the careless use of fire-arms. On our last day’s journey on the Urubamba above the mouth of the Timpia one of our Indian boys dropped his canoe pole on the hammer of a loaded shotgun, and not only shot his own fingers to pieces, but gravely wounded his father ([Fig. 2]). In spite of his suffering the old chief directed our work at the canoe and even was able to tell us the location of the most favorable channel. Though the night that followed was as black as ink, with even the stars obscured by a rising storm, his directions never failed. We poled our way up five long rapids without special difficulties, now working into the lee of a rock whose location he knew within a few yards, now paddling furiously across the channel to catch the upstream current of an eddy.

The principal groups of Machigangas live in the middle Urubamba and its tributaries, the Yavero, Yuyato, Shirineiri, Ticumpinea, Timpia, Pachitea, and others. There is a marked difference in the use of the land and the mode of life among the different groups of this subtribe. Those who live in the lower plains and river “playas,” as the patches of flood plain are called, have a single permanent dwelling and alternately fish and hunt. Those that live on hill farms have temporary reed huts on the nearest sandbars and spend the best months of the dry season—April to October—in fishing and drying fish to be carried to their mountain homes ([Fig. 21]). Some families even duplicate chacras or farms at the river bank and grow yuca and sugar cane. In latter years smallpox, malaria, and the rubber hunters have destroyed many of the river villages and driven the Indians to permanent residence in the hills or, where raids occur, along secret trails to hidden camps.

Their system of agriculture is strikingly adapted to some important features of tropical soil. The thin hillside soils of the region are but poorly stocked with humus, even in their virgin condition. Fallen trees and foliage decay so quickly that the layer of forest mold is exceedingly thin and the little that is incorporated in the soil is confined to a shallow surface layer. To meet these special conditions the Indian makes new clearings by girdling and burning the trees. When the soil becomes worn out and the crops diminish, the old clearing is abandoned and allowed to revert to natural growth and a new farm is planted to corn and yuca. The population is so scattered and thin that the land assignment system current among the plateau Indians is not practised among the Machigangas. Several families commonly live together and may be separated from their nearest neighbors by many miles of forested mountains. The land is free for all, and, though some heavy labor is necessary to clear it, once a small patch is cleared it is easy to extend the tract by limited annual cuttings. Local tracts of naturally unforested land are rarely planted, chiefly because the absence of shade has allowed the sun to burn out the limited humus supply and to prevent more from accumulating. The best soil of the mountain slopes is found where there is the heaviest growth of timber, the deepest shade, the most humus, and good natural drainage. It is the same on the playas along the river; the recent additions to the flood plain are easy to cultivate, but they lack humus and a fine matrix which retains moisture and prevents drought or at least physiologic dryness. Here, too, the timbered areas or the cane swamps are always selected for planting.

The traditions of the Machigangas go back to the time of the Inca conquest, when the forest Indians, the “Antis,” were subjugated and compelled to pay tribute.[3] When the Inca family itself fled from Cuzco after the Spanish Conquest and sought refuge in the wilderness it was to the Machiganga country that they came by way of the Vilcabamba and Pampaconas Valleys. Afterward came the Spaniards and though they did not exercise governmental authority over the forest Indians they had close relations with them. Land grants were made to white pioneers for special services or through sale and with the land often went the right to exploit the people on it. Some of the concessions were owned by people who for generations knew nothing save by hearsay of the Indians who dwelt in the great forests of the valleys. In later years they have been exploring their lands and establishing so-called relations whereby the savage “buys” a dollar’s worth of powder or knives for whatever number of dollars’ worth of rubber the owner may care to extract from him.

The forest Indian is still master of his lands throughout most of the Machiganga country. He is cruelly enslaved at the rubber posts, held by the loose bonds of a desultory trade at others, and in a few places, as at Pongo do Mainique, gives service for both love and profit, but in many places it is impossible to establish control or influence. The lowland Indian never falls into the abject condition of his Quechua brother on the plateau. He is self-reliant, proud, and independent. He neither cringes before a white nor looks up to him as a superior being. I was greatly impressed by the bearing of the first of the forest tribes I met in August, 1911, at Santo Anato. I had built a brisk fire and was enjoying its comfort when La Sama returned with some Indians whom he had secured to clear his playa. The tallest of the lot, wearing a colored band of deer skin around his thick hair and a gaudy bunch of yellow feathers down his back, came up, looked me squarely in the eye, and asked

“Tatiry payta?” (What is your name?)

When I replied he quietly sat down by the fire, helping himself to the roasted corn I had prepared in the hot ashes. A few days later when we came to the head of a rapid I was busy sketching-in my topographic map and did not hear his twice repeated request to leave the boat while the party reconnoitered the rapid. Watching his opportunity he came alongside from the rear—he was steersman—and, turning just as he was leaving the boat, gave me a whack in the forehead with his open palm. La Sama saw the motion and protested. The surly answer was:

“I twice asked him to get out and he didn’t move. What does he think we run the canoe to the bank for?”

To him the making of a map was inexplicable; I was merely a stupid white person who didn’t know enough to get out of a canoe when told!

The plateau Indian has been kicked about so long that all his independence has been destroyed. His goods have been stolen, his services demanded without recompense, in many places he has no right to land, and his few real rights are abused beyond belief. The difference between him and the forest Indian is due quite largely to differences of environment. The plateau Indian is agricultural, the forest Indian nomadic and in a hunting stage of development; the unforested plateau offers no means for concealment of person or property, the forest offers hidden and difficult paths, easy means for concealment, for ambush, and for wide dispersal of an afflicted tribe. The brutal white of the plateau follows altogether different methods when he finds himself in the Indian country, far from military assistance, surrounded by fearless savages. He may cheat but he does not steal, and his brutality is always carefully suited to both time and place.

The Machigangas are now confined to the forest, but the limits of their territory were once farther upstream, where they were in frequent conflict with the plateau Indians. As late as 1835, according to General Miller,[4] they occupied the land as far upstream as the “Encuentro” (junction) of the Urubamba and the Yanatili ([Fig. 53]). Miller likewise notes that the Chuntaguirus, “a superior race of Indians” who lived “toward the Marañon,” came up the river “200 leagues” to barter with the people thereabouts.

“They bring parrots and other birds, monkeys, cotton robes white and painted, wax balsams, feet of the gran bestia, feather ornaments for the head, and tiger and other skins, which they exchange for hatchets, knives, scissors, needles, buttons, and any sort of glittering bauble.”

On their yearly excursions they traveled in a band numbering from 200 to 300, since at the mouth of the Paucartambo (Yavero) they were generally set upon by the Pucapacures. The journey upstream required three months; with the current they returned home in fifteen days.

Their place of meeting at the mouth of the Yanatili was a response to a long strip of grassland that extends down the deep and dry Urubamba Valley, as shown in Figs. 53-B and 55. The wet forests, in which the Machigangas live, cover the hills back of the valley plantations; the belt of dry grassland terminates far within the general limits of the red man’s domain and only 2,000 feet above the sea. It is in this strip of low grassland that on the one hand the highland and valley dwellers, and on the other the Indians of the hot forested valleys and the adjacent lowland found a convenient place for barter. The same physiographic features are repeated in adjacent valleys of large size that drain the eastern aspect of the Peruvian Andes, and in each case they have given rise to the periodic excursions of the trader.

These annual journeys are no longer made. The planters have crept down valley. The two best playas below Rosalina are now being cleared. Only a little space remains between the lowest valley plantations and the highest rubber stations. Furthermore, the Indians have been enslaved by the rubber men from the Ucayali. The Machigangas, many of whom are runaway peons, will no longer take cargoes down valley for fear of recapture. They have the cautious spirit of fugitives except in their remote valleys. There they are secure and now and then reassert their old spirit when a lawless trader tries to browbeat them into an unprofitable trade. Also, they are yielding to the alluring call of the planter. At Santo Anato they are clearing a playa in exchange for ammunition, machetes, brandy, and baubles. They no longer make annual excursions to get these things. They have only to call at the nearest plantation. There is always a wolf before the door of the planter—the lack of labor. Yet, as on every frontier, he turns wolf himself when the lambs come, and without shame takes a week’s work for a penny mirror, or, worse still, supplies them with firewater, for that will surely bring them back to him. Since this is expensive they return to their tribal haunts with nothing except a debauched spirit and an appetite from which they cannot run away as they did from their task masters in the rubber forest. Hence the vicious circle: more brandy, more labor; more labor, more cleared land; more cleared land, more brandy; more brandy, less Indian. But by that time the planter has a large sugar estate. Then he can begin to buy the more expensive plateau labor, and in turn debauch it.

Nature as well as man works against the scattered tribes of Machigangas and their forest kinsmen. Their country is exceedingly broken by ramifying mountain spurs and valleys overhung with cliffs or bordered by bold, wet, fern-clad slopes. It is useless to try to cut your way by a direct route from one point to another. The country is mantled with heavy forest. You must follow the valleys, the ancient trails of the people. The larger valleys offer smooth sand-bars along the border of which canoes may be towed upstream, and there are little cultivated places for camps. But only a few of the tribes live along them, for they are also more accessible to the rubbermen. The smaller valleys, difficult of access, are more secure and there the tribal remnants live today. While the broken country thus offers a refuge to fugitive bands it is the broken country and its forest cover that combine to break up the population into small groups and keep them in an isolated and quarrelsome state. Chronic quarreling is not only the product of mere lack of contact. It is due to many causes, among which is a union of the habit of migration and divergent tribal speech. Every tribe has its own peculiar words in addition to those common to the group of tribes to which it belongs. Moreover each group of a tribe has its distinctive words. I have seen and used carefully prepared vocabularies—no two of which are alike throughout. They serve for communication with only a limited number of families. These peculiarities increase as experiences vary and new situations call for additions to or changes in their vocabularies, and when migrating tribes meet their speech may be so unlike as to make communication difficult. Thus arise suspicion, misunderstanding, plunder, and chronic war. Had they been a united people their defense of their rough country might have been successful. The tribes have been divided and now and again, to get firearms and ammunition with which to raid a neighbor, a tribe has joined its fortunes to those of vagrant rubber pickers only to find in time that its women were debased, its members decimated by strange and deadly diseases, and its old morality undermined by an insatiable desire for strong drink.[5] The Indian loses whether with the white or against him.

The forest Indian is held by his environment no less strongly than the plateau Indian. We hear much about the restriction of the plateau dweller to the cool zone in which the llama may live. As a matter of fact he lives far below the cool zone, where he no longer depends upon the llama but rather upon the mule for transport. The limits of his range correspond to the limits of the grasslands in the dry valley pockets already described (p. [42]), or on the drier mountain slopes below the zone of heaviest rainfall ([Fig. 54]). It is this distribution that brought him into such intimate contact with the forest Indian. The old and dilapidated coca terraces of the Quechuas above the Yanatili almost overlook the forest patches where the Machigangas for centuries built their rude huts. A good deal has been written about the attempts of the Incas to extend their rule into this forest zone and about the failure of these attempts on account of the tropical climate. But the forest Indian was held by bonds equally secure. The cold climate of the plateau repelled him as it does today. His haunts are the hot valleys where he need wear only a wild-cotton shirt or where he may go naked altogether. That he raided the lands of the plateau Indian is certain, but he could never displace him. Only along the common borders of their domains, where the climates of two zones merged into each other, could the forest Indian and the plateau Indian seriously dispute each other’s claims to the land. Here was endless conflict but only feeble trade and only the most minute exchanges of cultural elements.

Even had they been as brothers they would have had little incentive to borrow cultural elements from each other. The forest dweller requires bow and arrow; the plateau dweller requires a hoe. There are fish in the warm river shallows of the forested zone; llamas, vicuña, vizcachas, etc., are a partial source of food supply on the plateau. Coca and potatoes are the chief products of the grassy mountain slopes; yuca, corn, bananas, are the chief vegetable foods grown on the tiny cultivated patches in the forest. The plateau dweller builds a thick-walled hut; the valley dweller a cane shack. So unlike are the two environments that it would be strange if there had been a mixture of racial types and cultures. The slight exchanges that were made seem little more than accidental. Even today the Machigangas who live on the highest slopes own a few pigs obtained from Quechuas, but they never eat their flesh; they keep them for pets merely. I saw not a single woolen article among the Indians along the Urubamba whereas Quechuas with woolen clothing were going back and forth regularly. Their baubles were of foreign make; likewise their few hoes, likewise their guns.

They clear the forest about a mid-cotton tree and spin and weave the cotton fiber into sacks, cords for climbing trees when they wish to chase a monkey, ropes for hauling their canoes, shirts for the married men and women, colored head-bands, and fish nets. The slender strong bamboo is gathered for arrows. The chunta palm, like bone for hardness, supplies them with bows and arrow heads. The brilliant red and yellow feathers of forest birds, also monkey bones and teeth, are their natural ornaments. Their life is absolutely distinct from that of their Quechua neighbors. Little wonder that for centuries forest and plateau Indians have been enemies and that their cultures are so distinct, for their environment everywhere calls for unlike modes of existence and distinct cultural development.

CHAPTER V
THE COUNTRY OF THE SHEPHERDS

THE lofty mountain zones of Peru, the high bordering valleys, and the belts of rolling plateau between are occupied by tribes of shepherds. In that cold, inhospitable region at the top of the country are the highest permanent habitations in the world—17,100 feet (5,210 m.)—the loftiest pastures, the greatest degree of adaptation to combined altitude and frost. It is here only a step from Greenland to Arcady. Nevertheless it is Greenland that has the people. Why do they shun Arcady? To the traveler from the highlands the fertile valleys between 5,000 and 8,000 feet (1,500 to 2,500 m.) seem like the abode of friendly spirits to whose charm the highland dweller must yield. Every pack-train from valley to highland carries luxury in the form of fruit, coca, cacao, and sugar. One would think that every importation of valley products would be followed by a wave of migration from highland to valley. On the contrary the highland people have clung to their lofty pastures for unnumbered centuries. Until the Conquest the last outposts of the Incas toward the east were the grassy ridges that terminate a few thousand feet below the timber line.

In this natural grouping of the people where does choice or blind prejudice or instinct leave off? Where does necessity begin? There are answers to most of these questions to be found in the broad field of geographic comparison. But before we begin comparisons we must study the individual facts upon which they rest. These facts are of almost every conceivable variety. They range in importance from a humble shepherd’s stone corral on a mountain slope to a thickly settled mountain basin. Their interpretation is to be sought now in the soil of rich playa lands, now in the fixed climatic zones and rugged relief of deeply dissected, lofty highlands in the tropics. Some of the controlling factors are historical, others economic; still other factors have exerted their influence through obscure psychologic channels almost impossible to trace. The why of man’s distribution over the earth is one of the most complicated problems in natural science, and the solution of it is the chief problem of the modern geographer.

At first sight the mountain people of the Peruvian Andes seem to be uniform in character and in mode of life. The traveler’s first impression is that the same stone-walled, straw-thatched type of hut is to be found everywhere, the same semi-nomadic life, the same degrees of poverty and filth. Yet after a little study the diversity of their lives is seen to be, if not a dominating fact, at least one of surprising importance. Side by side with this diversity there runs a corresponding diversity of relations to their physical environment. Nowhere else on the earth are greater physical contrasts compressed within such small spaces. If, therefore, we accept the fundamental theory of geography that there is a general, necessary, varied, and complex relation between man and the earth, that theory ought here to find a really vast number of illustrations. A glance at the accompanying figures discloses the wide range of relief in the Peruvian Andes. The corresponding range in climate and in life therefore furnishes an ample field for the application of the laws of human distribution.

In analyzing the facts of distribution we shall do well to begin with the causes and effects of migration. Primitive man is in no small degree a wanderer. His small resources often require him to explore large tracts. As population increases the food quest becomes more intense, and thus there come about repeated emigrations which increase the food supply, extend its variety, and draw the pioneers at last into contact with neighboring groups. The farther back we go in the history of the race the clearer it becomes that migrations lie at the root of much of human development. The raid for plunder, women, food, beasts, is a persistent feature of the life of those primitive men who live on the border of unlike regions.

The shepherd of the highland and the forest hunter of the plains perforce range over vast tracts, and each brings back to the home group news that confirms the tribal choice of habitation or sets it in motion toward a more desirable place. Superstitions may lead to flight akin to migration. Epidemics may be interpreted as the work of a malignant spirit from which men must flee. War may drive a defeated group into the fastnesses of a mountain forest where pursuit by stream or trail weakens the pursuer and confines his action, thereby limiting his power. Floods may come and destroy the cultivated spots. Want or mere desire in a hundred forms may lead to movement.

Even among forest tribes long stationary the facile canoe and the light household necessities may easily enable trivial causes to develop the spirit of restlessness. Pressure of population is a powerful but not a general cause of movement. It may affect the settled groups of the desert oases, or the dense population of fertile plains that is rooted in the soil. On the other hand mere whims may start a nomadic group toward a new goal. Often the goal is elusive and the tribe turns back to the old haunts or perishes in the shock of unexpected conflict.

In the case of both primitive societies and those of a higher order the causes and the results of migration are often contradictory. These will depend on the state of civilization and the extremes of circumstance. When the desert blooms the farmer of the Piura Valley in northwestern Peru turns shepherd and drives his flocks of sheep and goats out into the short-lived pastures of the great pampa on the west. In dry years he sends them eastward into the mountains. The forest Indian of the lower Urubamba is a fisherman while the river is low and lives in a reed hut beside his cultivated patch of cane and yuca. When the floods come he is driven to the higher ground in the hills where he has another cultivated patch of land and a rude shelter. To be sure, these are seasonal migrations, yet through them the country becomes better known to each new generation of men. And each generation supplies its pioneers, who drift into the remoter places where population is scarce or altogether wanting.

Fig. 24—This stone hut, grass-thatched, is the highest permanent habitation in Peru, and is believed to be the highest in the world. Altitude of 17,100 feet (5,210 m.) determined by instrumental survey. The general geographic relationships of the region in which the hut is situated are shown in [Fig. 25]. For location see the topographic map, [204] .

Dry years and extremely dry years may have opposite effects. When moderate dryness prevails the results may be endurable. The oases become crowded with men and beasts just when they can ill afford to support them. The alfalfa meadows become overstocked and cattle become lean and almost worthless. But there is at least bare subsistence. By contrast, if extreme and prolonged drought prevails, some of the people are driven forth to more favored spots. At Vallenar in central Chile some of the workmen in extreme years go up to the nitrate pampa; in wet years they return. When the agents of the nitrate companies hear of hard times in a desert valley they offer employment to the stricken people. It not infrequently happens that when there are droughts in desert Chile there are abundant rains in Argentina on the other side of the Cordillera. There has therefore been for many generations an irregular and slight, though definite, shifting of population from one side of the mountains to the other as periods of drought and periods of rain alternated in the two regions. Some think there is satisfactory evidence to prove that a number of the great Mongolian emigrations took place in wet years when pasture was abundant and when the pastoral nomad found it easy to travel. On the other hand it has been urged that the cause of many emigrations was prolonged periods of drought when the choice lay between starvation and flight. It is evident from the foregoing that both views may be correct in spite of the fact that identical effects are attributed to opposite causes.

Fig. 25—Regional diagram for the Maritime Cordillera to show the physical relations in the district where the highest habitation in the world are located. For location, see Fig. [20]. It should be remembered that the orientation of these diagrams is generalized. By reference to [20] it will be seen that some portions of the crest of the Maritime Cordillera run east and west and others north and south. The same is true of the Cordillera Vilcapampa, [Fig. 36].

Note on regional diagrams.—For the sake of clearness I have classified the accompanying facts of human distribution in the country of the shepherds and represented them graphically in “regional” diagrams, Figs. 17, 25, 26, 32, 34, 36, 42, 65. These diagrams are constructed on the principle of dominant control. Each brings out the factors of greatest importance in the distribution of the people in a given region. Furthermore, the facts are compressed within the limits of a small rectangle. This compression, though great, respects all essential relations. For example, every location on these diagrams has a concrete illustration but the accidental relations of the field have been omitted; the essential relations are preserved. Each diagram is, therefore, a kind of generalized type map. It bears somewhat the same relation to the facts of human geography that a block diagram does to physiography. The darkest shading represents steep snow-covered country; the next lower grade represents rough but snow-free country; the lightest shading represents moderate relief; unshaded parts represent plain or plateau. Small circles represent forest or woodland; small open-spaced dots, grassland. Fine alluvium is represented by small closely spaced dots; coarse alluvium by large closely spaced dots.

To take an illustration. In Figure 32 we have the Apurimac region near Pasaje (see location map, [20] ). At the lower edge of the rectangle is a snow-capped outlier of the Cordillera Vilcapampa. The belt of rugged country represents the lofty, steep, exposed, and largely inaccessible ridges at the mid-elevations of the mountains below the glaciated slopes at the heads of tributary valleys. The villages in the belt of pasture might well be Incahuasi and Corralpata. The floors of the large canyons on either hand are bordered by extensive alluvial fans. The river courses are sketched in a diagrammatic way only, but a map would not be different in its general disposition. Each location is justified by a real place with the same essential features and relations. In making the change there has been no alteration of the general relation of the alluvial lands to each other or to the highland. By suppressing unnecessary details there is produced a diagram whose essentials have simple and clear relations. When such a regional diagram is amplified by photographs of real conditions it becomes a sort of generalized picture of a large group of geographic facts. One could very well extend the method to the whole of South America. It would be a real service to geography to draw up a set of, say, twelve to fifteen regional diagrams, still further generalized, for the whole of the continent. As a broad classification they would serve both the specialist and the general student. As the basis for a regional map of South America they would be invaluable if worked out in sufficient detail and constructed on the indispensable basis of field studies.

It is still an open question whether security or insecurity is more favorable for the broad distribution of the Peruvian Indians of the mountain zone which forms the subject of this chapter. Certainly both tend to make the remoter places better known. Tradition has it that, in the days of intertribal conflict before the Conquest, fugitives fled into the high mountain pastures and lived in hidden places and in caves. Life was insecure and relief was sought in flight. On the other hand peace has brought security to life. The trails are now safe. A shepherd may drive his flock anywhere. He no longer has any one to fear in his search for new pastures. It would perhaps be safe to conclude that there is equally broad distribution of men in the mountain pastures in time of peace and in time of war. There is, however, a difference in the kind of distribution. In time of peace the individual is safe anywhere; in time of unrest he is safe only when isolated and virtually concealed. By contrast, the group living near the trails is scattered by plundering bands and war parties. The remote and isolated group may successfully oppose the smaller band and the individuals that might reach the remoter regions. The fugitive group would have nothing to fear from large bands, for the limited food supply would inevitably cause these to disintegrate upon leaving the main routes of travel. Probably the fullest exploration of the mountain pastures has resulted from the alternation of peace and war. The opposite conditions which these establish foster both kinds of distribution; hence both the remote group life encouraged by war and the individual’s lack of restraint in time of peace are probably in large part responsible for the present widespread occupation of the Peruvian mountains.

The loftiest habitation in the world ([Fig. 24]) is in Peru. Between Antabamba and Cotahuasi occur the highest passes in the Maritime Cordillera. We crossed at 17,400 feet (5,300 m.), and three hundred feet lower is the last outpost of the Indian shepherds. The snowline, very steeply canted away from the sun, is between 17,200 and 17,600 feet (5,240 to 5,360 m.). At frequent intervals during the three months of winter, snowfalls during the night and terrific hailstorms in the late afternoon drive both shepherds and flocks to the shelter of leeward slopes or steep canyon walls. At our six camps, between 16,000 and 17,200 feet (4,876 and 5,240 m.), in September, 1911, the minimum temperature ranged from 4° to 20°F. The thatched stone hut that we passed at 17,100 feet and that enjoys the distinction of being the highest in the world was in other respects the same as the thousands of others in the same region. It sheltered a family of five. As we passed, three rosy-cheeked children almost as fat as the sheep about them were sitting on the ground in a corner of the corral playing with balls of wool. Hundreds of alpacas and sheep grazed on the hill slopes and valley floor, and their tracks showed plainly that they were frequently driven up to the snowline in those valleys where a trickle of water supported a band of pasture. Less than a hundred feet below them were other huts and flocks.

Here we have the limits of altitude and the limits of resources. The intervalley spaces do not support grass. Some of them are quite bare, others are covered with mosses. It is too high for even the tola bush—that pioneer of Alpine vegetation in the Andes. The distance[6] to Cotahuasi is 75 miles (120 km.), to Antabamba 50 miles (80 km.). Thence wool must be shipped by pack-train to the railroad in the one case 250 miles (400 km.) to Arequipa, in the other case 200 miles (320 km.) to Cuzco. Even the potatoes and barley, which must be imported, come from valleys several days’ journey away. The question naturally arises why these people live on the rim of the world. Did they seek out these neglected pastures, or were they driven to them? Do they live here by choice or of necessity? The answer to these questions introduces two other geographic factors of prime importance, the one physical, the other economic.

The main tracts of lofty pasture above Antabamba cover mountain slopes and valley floor alike, but the moist valley floors supply the best grazing. Moreover, the main valleys have been intensively glaciated. Hence, though their sides are steep walls, their floors are broad and flat. Marshy tracts, periodically flooded, are scattered throughout, and here and there are overdeepened portions where lakes have gathered. There is a thick carpet of grass, also numerous huts and corrals, and many flocks. At the upper edge of the main zone of pasture the grasses become thin and with increasing altitude give out altogether except along the moist valley floors or on shoulders where there is seepage.

If the streams head in dry mountain slopes without snow the grassy bands of the valley floor terminate at moderate elevations. If the streams have their sources in snowfields or glaciers there is a more uniform run-off, and a ribbon of pasture may extend to the snowline. To the latter class belong the pastures that support these remote people.

In the case of the Maritime Andes the great elevation of the snowline is also a factor. If, in Figure 25, we think of the snowline as at the upper level of the main zone of pasture then we should have the conditions shown in Figure 36, where the limit of general, not local, occupation is the snowline, as in the Cordillera Vilcapampa and between Chuquibambilla and Antabamba.

A third factor is the character of the soil. Large amounts of volcanic ash and lapilli were thrown out in the late stages of volcanic eruption in which the present cones of the Maritime Andes were formed. The coarse texture of these deposits allows the ready escape of rainwater. The combination of extreme aridity and great elevation results in a double restraint upon vegetation. Outside of the moist valley floors, with their film of ground moraine on whose surface plants find a more congenial soil, there is an extremely small amount of pasture. Here are the natural grazing grounds of the fleet vicuña. They occur in hundreds, and so remote and little disturbed are they that near the main pass one may count them by the score. As we rode by, many of them only stared at us without taking the trouble to get beyond rifle shot. It is not difficult to believe that the Indians easily shoot great numbers in remote valleys that have not been hunted for years.

The extreme conditions of life existing on these lofty plateaus are well shown by the readiness with which even the hardy shepherds avail themselves of shelter. Wherever deep valleys bring a milder climate within reach of the pastures the latter are unpopulated for miles on either side. The sixty-mile stretch between Chuquibamba and Salamanca is without even a single hut, though there are pastures superior to the ones occupied by those loftiest huts of all. Likewise there are no permanent homes between Salamanca and Cotahuasi, though the shepherds migrate across the belt in the milder season of rain. Eastward and northward toward the crest of the Maritime Cordillera there are no huts within a day’s journey of the Cotahuasi canyon. Then there is a group of a dozen just under the crest of the secondary range that parallels the main chain of volcanoes. Thence northward there are a number of scattered huts between 15,500 and 16,500 feet (4,700 and 5,000 m.), until we reach the highest habitations of all at 17,100 feet (5,210m.).

Fig. 26—Regional diagram to show the physical relations in the lava plateau of the Maritime Cordillera west of the continental divide. For location, see Fig. [20]. Trails lead up the intrenched tributaries. If the irrigated bench (lower right corner) is large, a town will be located on it. Shepherds’ huts are scattered about the edge of the girdle of spurs. There is also a string of huts in the deep sheltered head of each tributary. See also [Fig. 29] for conditions on the valley or canyon floor.

The unpopulated belts of lava plateau bordering the entrenched valleys are, however, as distinctly “sustenance” spaces, to use Penck’s term, as the irrigated and fertile alluvial fans in the bottom of the valley. This is well shown when the rains come and flocks of llamas and sheep are driven forth from the valleys to the best pastures. It is equally well shown by the distribution of the shepherds’ homes. These are not down on the warm canyon floor, separated by a half-day’s journey from the grazing. They are in the intrenched tributary valleys of Figure 26 or just within the rim of the canyon. It is not shelter from the cold but from the wind that chiefly determines their location. They are also kept near the rim of the canyon by the pressure of the farming population from below. Every hundred feet of descent from the arid plateau ([Fig. 29]) increases the water supply. Springs increase in number and size; likewise belts of seepage make their appearance. The gradients in many places diminish, and flattish spurs and shoulders interrupt the generally steep descents of the canyon wall. Every change of this sort has a real value to the farmer and means an enhanced price beyond the ability of the poor shepherd to pay. If you ask a wealthy hacendado on the valley floor ([Fig. 29]), who it is that live in the huts above him, he will invariably say “los Indios,” with a shrug meant to convey the idea of poverty and worthlessness. Sometimes it is “los Indios pobres,” or merely “los pobres.” Thus there is a vertical stratification of society corresponding to the superimposed strata of climate and land.

At Salamanca ([Fig. 62]) I saw this admirably displayed under circumstances of unusual interest. The floor and slopes of the valley are more completely terraced than in any other valley I know of. In the photograph, [30] , which shows at least 2,500 feet of descent near the town, one cannot find a single patch of surface that is not under cultivation. The valley is simply filled with people to the limit of its capacity. Practically all are Indians, but with many grades of wealth and importance. When we rode out of the valley before daybreak, one September morning in 1911, there was a dead calm, and each step upward carried us into a colder stratum of air. At sunrise we had reached a point about 2,000 feet above the town, or 14,500 feet (4,420 m.) above sea level. We stood on the frost line. On the opposite wall of the valley the line was as clearly marked out as if it had been an irrigating canal. The light was so fully reflected from the millions of frost crystals above it that both the mountainside and the valley slopes were sparkling like a ruffled lake at sunrise. Below the frost line the slopes were dark or covered with yellow barley and wheat stubble or green alfalfa.

It happened that the frost line was near the line of division between corn and potato cultivation and also near the line separating the steep rough upper lands from the cultivable lower lands. Not a habitation was in sight above us, except a few scattered miserable huts near broken terraces, gullied by wet-weather streams and grown up to weeds and brush. Below us were well-cultivated fields, and the stock was kept in bounds by stone fences and corrals; above, the half-wild burros and mules roamed about everywhere, and only the sheep and llamas were in rude enclosures. Thus in a half hour we passed the frontier between the agricultural folk below the frost line and the shepherd folk above it.

Fig. 27—Terraced valley slopes at Huaynacotas, Cotahuasi Valley, Peru. Elevation 11,500 feet (3,500 m.).

Fig. 28—The highly cultivated and thoroughly terraced floor of the Ollantaytambo Valley at Ollantaytambo. This is a tributary of the Urubamba; elevation, 11,000 feet.

Fig. 29—Cotahuasi on the floor of the Cotahuasi canyon. The even skyline of the background is on a rather even-topped lava plateau. The terrace on the left of the town is formed on limestone, which is overlain by lava flows. A thick deposit of terraced alluvium may be seen on the valley floor, and it is on one of the lower terraces that the city of Cotahuasi stands. The higher terraces are in many cases too dry for cultivation. The canyon is nearly 7,000 feet (2,130 m.) deep and has been cut through one hundred principal lava flows.

In a few spots the line followed an irregular course, as where flatter lands were developed at unusual elevations or where air drainage altered the normal temperature. And at one place the frost actually stood on the young corn, which led us to speculate on the possibility of securing from Salamanca a variety of maize that is more nearly resistant to light frosts than any now grown in the United States. In the endless and largely unconscious experimentation of these folk perched on the valley walls a result may have been achieved ahead of that yet reached by our professional experimenters. Certain it is that nowhere else in the world has the potato been grown under such severe climatic conditions as in its native land of Peru and Bolivia. The hardiest varieties lack many qualities that we prize. They are small and bitter. But at least they will grow where all except very few cultivated plants fail, and they are edible. Could they not be imported into Canada to push still farther northward the limits of cultivation? Potatoes are now grown at Forts Good Hope and McPherson in the lower Mackenzie basin. Would not the hardiest Peruvian varieties grow at least as far north as the continental timber line? I believe they could be grown still farther north. They will endure repeated frosts. They need scarcely any cultivation. Prepared in the Peruvian manner, as chuño, they could be kept all winter. Being light, the meal derived from them could be easily packed by hunters and prospectors. An Indian will carry in a pouch enough to last him a week. Why not use it north of the continental limit of other cultivated plants since it is the pioneer above the frost line on the Peruvian mountains?

The relation between farmer and shepherd or herdsman grows more complex where deeper valleys interrupt the highlands and mountains. The accompanying sketch, [32] , represents typical relations, though based chiefly on the Apurimac canyon and its surroundings near Pasaje. First there is the snow-clad region at the top of the country. Below it are grassy slopes, the homes of mountain shepherds, or rugged mountain country unsuited for grazing. Still lower there is woodland, in patches chiefly, but with a few large continuous tracts. The shady sides of the ravines and the mountains have the most moisture, hence bear the densest growths. Finally, the high country terminates in a second belt of pasture below the woodland.

Fig. 32—Regional diagram representing the deep canyoned country west of the Eastern Cordillera in the region of the Apurimac. For photograph see [Fig. 94]. For further description see note on regional diagrams, [p. 51]. Numbers 1, 2, and 3 correspond in position to the same numbers in [Fig. 33].

Whenever streams descend from the snow or woodland country there is water for the stock above and for irrigation on the alluvial fan below. But the spur ends dropping off abruptly several thousand feet have a limited area and no running streams, and the ground water is hundreds of feet down. There is grass for stock, but there is no water. In some places the stock is driven back and forth every few days. In a few places water is brought to the stock by canal from the woodland streams above, as at Corralpata.[7] In the same way a canal brings water to Pasaje hacienda from a woodland strip many miles to the west. The little canal in the figure is almost a toy construction a few inches wide and deep and conveying only a trickle of water. Yet on it depends the settlement at the spur end, and if it were cut the people would have to repair it immediately or establish new homes.