CHAPTER V
PERUVIAN SHORE TOWNS
Pizarro’s Landing-Place at Tumbez—Last Sight of the Green Coast—Paita’s Spacious Bay—Lively Harbor Scenes—An Interesting and Sandy Town—Its Climatic and Other Legends—Future Amazon Gateway—Sugar and Rice Ports—Eten and Pacasmayo—Transcontinental Trail—Cajamarca—Chimbote’s Naval Advantages—Supe’s Attractions—Ancon’s Historic Treaty—Callao’s Excellent Harbor—Importance of the Shipping—Customs Collections—Pisco’s Varied Products—Rough Seas at Mollendo—Bolivian and Peruvian Commerce for the Canal.
WE steamed out of the Guayas River and into the Zambelli Channel for Tumbez by moonlight one evening. A hazy ridge lay directly in front of us, “Isla de Plata,” or little Silver Island, where the Spanish pirates buried their plunder. The gold and silver have not yet been found. So many treasure islands with the buried booty of the buccaneers lie off the Pacific coast that one does not have time to stop and exploit them all.
I always take a long look at Tumbez. There is not much to see,—a low crest of mountains somewhere inland; a long line of sandy beach bordered by mangroves and algaroba trees; a slit in the fringe of foliage, which is the mouth of the river; and a monotonous stretch of watery greenness. Back among the bushes, hidden, is the port. A few small sail-launches are hovering around, and after a time the port official comes out to the ship in one of them.
Tumbez is historic. Somewhere among these mangrove trees Pizarro and his hardy followers penetrated with their boat one day and began that wonderful march known as the Conquest of Peru. And Tumbez lies just over the line from Ecuador in what is still Peru and what was then the Empire of the Incas. Pizarro stretched his iron claws not only south to Cuzco but north to Quito. But I shall not recount history. Tumbez may be viewed to revive historic memories, but also it should claim a lingering look in order to keep alive a sense of the freshness of Nature. After it there is no green on the coast,—only rugged mountain masses, sand-hills, and towering snow-peaks. After Tumbez the coast chains of the Andes and the sublimity of Nature at rest, frowning but always majestic. Sometimes the brown cliffs with cavernous mouths rising sheer from the water, and then the plateau between this wall and the Coast Range. Oftener the sandy plain stretching from the shore to the lower flanks of the Cordilleras; beyond, the table-land; and then the lofty profiles of everlasting hills made loftier to the sight by the one range having another for its background.
The view of Paita after entering the expansive bay is a vision ranged by sand-hills. To the left are a hazy mountain, and a long reach of earth platforms, rocks, sand, and clay, rising longitudinally. To the right the land mounts to one level with torn sides like gravel viscera. The whole forms the rim of a bowl. The town hangs over the water’s edge like a drooping willow tree. The buildings are cream-colored.
The harbor is full of life. There are many small schooners and floats for loading cattle, sail rafts, and bobbing canoes with keg-like anchors. A cloud of whirling sea-gulls hangs over the bay seeking the spoils of the kitchen refuse. The captain of the port in brilliant uniform comes out with his crew in their white caps, blue blouses, and red trousers, as though they were manning a Roman emperor’s barge. The steamer is received, and then twoscore rowboats make for the vessel. The pirates board it. They are the fleteros, or boatmen, who must be braved and pacified at every port on the Pacific, for there is no other means of getting ashore. “A tierra, a tierra, Señor,—To land, to land, Sir,” they cry. One of them has you before you know it, and you are in the town.
Meantime the women pirates have swarmed over the ship. They have all kinds of wares for sale, clay drinking-vessels, knick-knacks, limes and other fruits, and the Panama hats, for the manufacture of which this district is celebrated. But we may leave them while we go ashore. There are a custom-house and government warehouse, good piers and wharves, and a passable hotel. A group of stocky soldiers, in part police and in part army, are in blue uniforms with heavy cartridge belts. All their faces are of the Indian type.
The life of Paita is seen in the market-place among the chattering women venders and their customers. All is animated, good-natured, obliging, but it is chiefly Indian with very little of the Spanish trace. The houses are of mortar, adobe, wild cane, or bamboo laths, some having mud roofs, and they are not bad dwellings. We go on a trip of exploration and find a really clean town—that is, as clean as a town can be that is swept by constant sand-storms—and evidences of good local administration. A hum like all the bees of the universe proves to be merely the murmur from the open school-room. There are two churches, one of cathedral architecture and a more modern one with a wooden steeple like a Congregational meeting-house in New England. In the plaza a forlorn but determined effort is made to coax Nature. Some palm blades are enclosed, and around the borders are scraggy carnations and scrub roses, while in the centre are Kansas sunflowers. Many of the dwellings also have climbing vines, dusty yet still green.
Paita is historic in the annals of the West Coast on account of the legends that have been grouped around it. Most of them relate to its dryness. The rain is said never to fall. This is not quite correct, but difficulty is experienced in finding when a shower may be expected. On my first visit after returning to the ship I casually mentioned at the dinner-table the information given me by an old inhabitant that it rained every seven years. The polite German merchant from Lima corrected me with an apology. “You didn’t quite understand the gentleman,” he said. “He told you that it hadn’t rained for seven years and they didn’t look for rain for another seven years.” After a while the Swiss drummer came aboard just in time for coffee. “Think of it,” he remarked, “it only rains in this place once in twenty-one years.” From later and reliable sources of information I learned that rainfall can be looked for with a reasonable degree of expectation about every fourteen years in the Piura desert, though the moisture sometimes dries before it reaches Paita and the coast. The mean annual temperature is 77° Fahrenheit.
One of the legendary libels which has clustered around Paita is that of the endless flock of goats. The basis of this legend is that the goats are driven down to the port to water, and by the time they get back in the foothills they are so thirsty they have to return, and thus the procession is continuous. Seeing a long flock of them filing through one of the town streets and waiting in vain for the rear-guard to pass, the legend does seem to have a basis in truth, but it is a perversion or exaggeration of facts.
Another libel is that the little dwarf palm which is seen at the top of the highest hill is not a palm at all, but only a slab of boards painted in imitation, so that the inhabitants may believe that a tree can grow in that soil. Actually it is a palm and not a painted post. Moreover, there are real trees. I found a group of the hardy pepper trees just back of the town, where the foothills branch off, and also some acacias, or thorn bushes.
But while it is libelled, Paita also accepts some of the stories which are circulated concerning it. One is that of the English consul or commercial agent who had lived there forty years. When his pension and retirement came, he went to his old home in England, announcing that he would spend his remaining days in the grassy downs where his boyhood had been passed and would be laid away in the green cemetery of his native village. In six months he was back in Paita, declaring that it was the only place in the world in which to live and die. In the course of nature the old gentleman passed away at a very advanced age, and was given the largest funeral that Paita ever had known.
Passing from these legends, Paita, which is now a town of 5,000 or 6,000 inhabitants, has a future as the emporium of northern Peru. It will be the Pacific gateway to the Panama Canal for the Amazon country. Its splendid sheltered bay, with all the facilities for docks and wharves and sea-room for the commercial fleets of a dozen nations, assures its future greatness. It once was the rendezvous of the Yankee whaling-fleets. The railroad runs 60 miles back to Piura, the largest interior city of northern Peru, which has a population of 15,000. Piura is the centre of the cotton-growing district, and with the extension of the irrigating systems the cotton product alone will give Paita a considerable commerce. The total of its imports and exports is between $1,400,000 and $1,500,000 annually. The certainty of the railway being extended as far as the Pongo, or Falls of Manserriche on the Marañon River 400 miles distant, is to be viewed as one means of diverting the rubber and other commerce of the Amazon from the Atlantic to the Pacific. The railway may be built before the Canal is completed.
Paita is the petroleum port. The oil fields lie between it and Tumbez at Talara. The Pennsylvania oil-drillers whom I met on two visits were graphically frank. They thought the petroleum possibilities were great, but they had a poor opinion of the English and French companies. The sulphur beds are near the Bay of Sechura, and are connected with the port of Bayovar by a railway thirty miles long.
A night out from Paita and the morning discloses a sandy shore with round bluffs. After traversing what seems a causeway, there are rocks with a salt crystalline surface. “Guano,” briefly says the experienced traveller, “the Lobos Islands.” “But where is the port of Eten?” “Eten is over there,” pointing to a shell-like side of the hill. A smashing surf is beating, and nothing can be seen but the outline of a pier. Finally heavy surf-boats with strong-armed crews to handle the long oars make their appearance. The passengers are disembarked by means of crane and basket and are hauled up to the pier by the same agency. Eten is the outlet for the sugar and rice of the Lambayeque region, and a railroad spur runs a few miles back in the interior to Ferrenafe. Its yearly commerce is $1,300,000. The Yuncas Indian dialect is spoken in this region. It antedates the Quichua, which was the language of the Inca tribes.
From Eten to Pacasmayo there is a low beach or no beach at all, with the mountains humped up at the foot of conical jagged peaks, beyond which are more peaks in regular order, the Coast Range of the Andes. Pacasmayo bathed in the sunlight and lying at the foot of a high mountain, presents a very pretty picture. The surf is heavy, but the caballitos, or grass canoes, of the natives, are at home in the tumbling waves, and the going ashore is not an unpleasant experience barring the ever present possibility of an upset. The jetty which aids commerce was built by an American company. Pacasmayo ships large quantities of sugar from the valleys beyond and also some rice and fruits. Its oranges are famous. I never saw so many sea-birds as are in this vicinity. The pelicans hang like clouds, and often they dash for the water like an inverted whirling pyramid. Porpoises are numerous, while some seals and whales are found in these waters.
Pacasmayo was the seaport for the transcontinental trail or route to the Amazon which was followed both by the natives and the early Spaniards. The road led over the Cordilleras to Yurimaguas on the Huallaga River. Various projects have been attempted for the purpose of securing through steam and river navigation. An American company has received liberal land grants and other concessions from the Peruvian government. The traffic is large enough to justify building a railway line from Cajamarca to connect with one of the existing coast spurs.
Cajamarca lies across the Continental Divide in the valley of the Marañon River. It is a town of 12,000 or 15,000 inhabitants, and is the centre of a large commerce. Freight rates by burros to the coast, the only present means of transportation, amount to $7 per ton. Historically Cajamarca has an attractiveness all its own. It was here that the usurping Inca emperor Atahualpa, who seized his brother Huascar’s birthright, hospitably received Pizarro, and, simple savage that he was, propounded the question which puzzled other untutored minds in other parts of the world during that epoch of discovery and conquest: By what right could the great man called the Pope give to the other great man called the King of Spain power and jurisdiction over land where he himself held no control?
Beyond Pacasmayo is the little sugar-loading port of Huanchaco. When the vessel puts in there, it is worth while going ashore and taking the diligencia (stage) or a horse across to Trujillo, for the road leads through a huaca, or ancient burial and treasure ground of the Incas. There is not much to see except the mud walls, but the short journey is a good introduction to the old civilization. Trujillo is a very pretty and active little place on a small river. The railroad runs down to Salaverry on the jutting slope of the mountain, the summit of which is marked by a cross. It is the fourth port of Peru in point of trade, the commerce being about $2,500,000 each twelvemonth. There is a cemetery which tourists seek in order to read the inscription, “Se prohibe pasar la muralla los botes—boats are forbidden to pass over the wall.” From this it may be understood that this graveyard sometimes is under water. From the sea Salaverry is an open roadstead nestling by a little cub of a mountain which crouches at the feet of a big mother mountain. All the time the towering peaks of the Andes are growing in grandeur.
Chimbote, the next port, as yet has little commercial importance, because the coal and other mineral wealth of the country back of it have not been developed. It has great prospects in the future, possibly as an American naval station, for the Peruvian government, it is understood, is anxious to grant the United States certain privileges there. It lies nearly midway between Panama and Valparaiso. The Bay of Ferrol, of which Chimbote is the port, is protected by a large number of islets. Its waters are always tranquil and seem more those of a lake in the interior than of the sea. The bay measures seven miles by five, and at all points offers anchorage of the first order. It is deep and a very large number of vessels of the heaviest tonnage could at all times find a shelter. Quays and wharves could easily be erected. The railway extends to Suchiman, a distance of thirty-two miles. It is to be prolonged to Recuay, and some day may form an important link in transcontinental communication to the affluents of the Amazon. The ruins of the Inca aqueduct at Chimbote possess an interest alike for tourists and for engineers.
Farther down the coast is the landing-place of Supe. I know Supe well. Five days were passed there once, not, the officials said, in quarantine, but simply under observation for the bubonic plague. The hamlet has artesian wells and a lighthouse, due to the public spirit of the planters. It ships cotton, sugar, cane rum, and rice. It also has a huaca. Several of my fellow-voyagers went ashore and dug in the graveyard. They came back with their finds,—pottery vessels looking suspiciously new and some of which, as they afterwards admitted, they bought from the natives. The visitor is allowed to dig up the pottery himself. The villagers are hospitable. They made no objection when the ship’s doctor unearthed a skeleton and left them a gratification, or hush money, for the privilege of carrying it off. His bribery was fruitless, for the captain of the Tucapel, complaining already of ill-luck and sailors’ superstitions, gave him the choice of dropping the skeleton overboard or of being dropped overboard himself.
Ancon is one of the minor ports sometimes utilized for commerce when Callao is under quarantine. When the fog rises, a perspective is disclosed of sandy mountains and of palm trees along the shore. The bay is a fine one. Seals and whales frequent it without disturbing the bathers, for Ancon is a resort to which all Lima comes by taking the railroad for thirty miles through the winding paths that penetrate and surmount the overlapping white sand-hills. Ancon is famous historically as the place in which the treaty of peace with Chile was signed when that victorious nation was exacting terms, and it is the Treaty of Ancon to which reference is so often made in the discussion of the still unsettled Tacna-Arica question.
To enter the port of Callao, the vessels follow a semicircular course around the rocks to get within the shelter of the island of San Lorenzo and the long sandy tongue of land. It is sometimes stated that the island of San Lorenzo was split off from the mainland by an earthquake, but geology gives no support to this assumption. Of recent years the government has initiated many improvements in the bay. One of the best is a fine new navy mole, and as the warships of all nations make Callao their frequent station, this improvement is appreciated. There are also the darsena, or system of wharves and piers, controlled by the government, and the floating iron dock which was constructed by a French company. This dock has a capacity of 5,000 tons. A new contract between the government and the company in 1905 relieved commerce of many burdens. Callao is a fine port. The plaza in the centre, with its blending of tropical trees and statuary, forms a refreshing picture. The custom house is the most pretentious building, but there are other tasteful structures. The population of Callao is 30,000, but in the daytime it seems to be larger, as many of the people doing business at the port live at Lima, which is only nine miles inland and is connected by an electric trolley and two steam railways. The foreign commercial colony is a large one. Much of its social life centres in the English Club.
All the commerce of central Peru passes through Callao. The shipping is extensive. Enterprising Chinese merchants have established a direct line to Hongkong via Panama, but the ships flying the English flag exceed all the other nations. Callao is visited annually by more than 1,000 coasting-vessels, steamers, and sailing-ships, with a cargo tonnage of 175,000 to 200,000 for discharge. England is first in the shipping, Chile next, and Germany third. The maritime movement is more active than at any port south of Panama except Valparaiso. With the completion of the Canal its commercial importance will be prodigiously enhanced. At present nearly half the trade of Peru pays tribute to its shipping, and the bulk of the revenues of the country are collected in its custom house. For the last year for which statistics are given, its foreign commerce amounted to $16,908,000 out of a total for the whole Republic of $37,058,000. The imports were about $13,000,000 and the exports $4,350,000. The coastwise traffic, in which foreign vessels are permitted to engage, centres in this port.
From Callao south are a large number of open roadsteads which hardly deserve to be called vessel landings, for they are entirely without harbor facilities. By means of lighters and small craft, freight and passengers are loaded and unloaded through the surf. Cerro de Azul means “blue hills,” but the place is not very blue except for ship-captains. It is a shipping-port for sugar and cattle which are driven in from the interior. Lomas is another wretched little place. Chala is an attractive coast village, chiefly a cattle-loading port. The region is noted for the production of the granadilla fruit. The granadilla is similar to the mandrake, or May apple.
Pisco is a thriving port, with an open bay sheltered by rocky islets. Among these are the Chinchas, or guano islands, which are yet capable of exploitation. The beach, with smooth rounded hills in the background, bends like a scythe. There is green vegetation, which is always grateful, and palm, olive, pine, and other trees. The beach is possible for bathing, but the sharks are too numerous to make it enjoyable.
The town lies about a mile back from the port, with which it is connected by a mule tramway. The commerce exceeds $1,100,000 yearly. A railroad runs from Pisco to Ica, forty miles. It follows a rich valley in which there are many fine haciendas, or plantations. The products are both tropical and temperate. They include cotton, sugar-cane, alfalfa, and corn. A big cotton field on the edge of the port looks like a small section of North Carolina. Pisco is noted especially for the vineyards, which extend to Ica and beyond. From these grapes is made the wine called Italia. It is enclosed in queer-looking oval-shaped earthen jars, some of them of enormous size. The best brandy that is to be had anywhere in South America takes its name from Pisco. It is a grape brandy. The pure article is superior to French cognac, but, alas! the art of adulteration has been learned, and the real distillation of the grape juice is not often procured.
The district around Pisco is famous for its variety of tropical fruits, including bananas and paltas, or alligator pears. The Pisco watermelons also are noted. In the markets of Lima they are what the Georgia watermelons are in the markets of New York. I never tasted finer ones. The whole of the surrounding country, when it can be watered, is of enormous fertility. A vast irrigation scheme has been projected for the region which extends south. There is a high range of blue-veiled, cloud-shrouded mountains, and then the plain of Noco, which spreads down to the gentle bluffs that overlap the sea. This plain parallels the coast as far as Tambo de Mora, and all of it is capable of irrigation. Tambo de Mora has some ancient tombs or burial-grounds and high mounds marked with crosses right on the edge of the village. Its shipments are cotton in bales, and liquors in casks and barrels.
Mollendo, which is the railway outlet of southern Peru and of northern and central Bolivia, is one of the three worst ports on the West Coast. Iquique and Antofagasta farther down dispute the claims, but it is impossible to see on what grounds. They are positive and comparative while Mollendo is simply superlatively worst. Seen from the sea, the town looks well enough, spreading on the flat slope of the hill, with its party-colored houses glistening in the sunlight. On a feast day or national holiday the many foreign flags flying indicate the presence of numerous consuls, which is a sure indication of commercial importance. It is the getting into the port through the open roadstead that is terrifying. There is a causeway, and in order to land it is necessary to pass through this rocky opening. Sometimes the vessels have to wait several days before they can transfer their cargo to the lighters.
For voyagers there is only one way, and that is to risk life and the hope of further voyaging to the care of the strong-armed native rowers. Long practice has enabled them deftly to grab the passenger from the ship’s ladder and stow him or her in their craft. The manœuvres are repeated until all who are courageous enough are in the boat. Then it is a question of breasting the breakers. The first time I went ashore there were three Peruvian women aboard. One was an old lady who made the trip to Lima twice a year; the others were wives of local merchants. The dame began her “Ave Marias.” The younger women were less devout. Every moment they exclaimed, “Jesu Maria” and “Madre de Dios,” but in the tone of a man swearing. A huge breaker swept over the boat and gave us all a bath. Then the craft danced on the crest of the next one like a cork. The aged lady became more calm, though she continued to pray. Later, when we were safely ashore, she confided to me that she always was terrified till the first ducking, and after that she felt that the shore would be reached.
The sea is not always quite so bad, but it cannot be counted on two hours in succession to be what the natives call “consolodora.” By that they mean, not tranquil or consoling, but comparatively calm. “Comparatively” is the difference between a raging sea and a roaring surf.
Around the point from Mollendo is the Bay of Islay, calm, sheltered, and deep. It was once a place of importance. Now its population consists of a few fishermen. Everyone inquires why it was not made the port, to which one answer is that when the railroad was built the land-owners became exorbitant in their demands, and there was no way for the line to secure terminal facilities except by paying more than the road was worth. Another explanation is that the property-owners of Mollendo, by liberal subsidies and other inducements, persuaded the railway to stop at the causeway. Whatever the reason, Mollendo now has vested rights as a port, and the change could not be made to Islay without encountering the most strenuous opposition. Consequently it will not be made. Recognizing this, the government in 1905 undertook harbor improvements for Mollendo at an initial expense of $500,000.
Mollendo has a kind of double-jointed custom house, the first for imports into Peru, and the second for imports which are to be carried through Peruvian territory up to Bolivia. The exports which come from the interior are chiefly alpaca and other wool. The last year for which figures are given, these amounted to 71,000 Spanish quintals, or approximately 7,200,000 pounds. A considerable quantity of borax and minerals are exported and a small amount of coffee. The shipments of crude rubber amount to 500,000 pounds. Mollendo is second only to Callao in its exports and imports, the total commerce averaging $5,000,000 annually according to the figures of the Peruvian officials. When the Panama Canal is opened, the major portion of the shipments from this district, which are light freight, will have the benefit of competitive ocean rates through the waterway with the tolls added, or around Cape Horn without tolls but with heavier coal bills and longer time in transport. The traffic will tend toward Panama.