The wilds of Patagonia

IN THE HEART OF CHILE

During the following weeks we got an opportunity of seeing quite new features of Chile. Hitherto we had almost exclusively travelled in parts where civilization had not reached or was quite new—the big island of Chiloé excepted; but the difference between the poor places there and the towns we now visited was certainly enormous.

The more important towns are generally situated on the coast or very near it, and sometimes so close that only a few hours’ journey by steamer separates them. Most of them do not offer much of interest to a travelling European; they do not afford any historical memories or examples of art and architecture, and they are not the right places if one wishes to see Chilean customs. On board the Vestfold we passed several towns. Already elsewhere I have mentioned that we visited Valdivia, with its port, Corral. The last-named little town has a very picturesque situation, and can boast of some ruins of the Spanish fortress. Industry is beginning to flourish; a Norwegian whaling company has a station there, and a French syndicate was just building large electric furnaces to melt down the Chilean iron ores. Valdivia, situated at some distance from the coast, on the Calle-calle river, is a German town. Everywhere you met German faces, German signboards and placards alongside the Spanish. There is a large German school, a church and various Vereine, large shoe-factories, and, of course, breweries. It gives an impression of a rapidly increasing community. After the great fire last year a large part of the town will be rebuilt on a much grander scale than before. But Valdivia is especially famous for its streets. Situated in one of the rainiest parts of Chile, surrounded by luxuriant forests, the town literally drips with moisture, and the streets have hardly passed the state of the forest soil. One can only cross at certain places, where wooden causeways are laid, and we saw the horses wade up to their bellies in the mud, the wheels of the carts almost disappearing.

In Coronel our expedition divided again. Halle was kindly taken care of by the Swedish Vice-Consul, Mr. G. Granfelt, and during the following weeks dedicated himself to a geological survey of the interesting coal-mines in the province of Arauco; he made his headquarters in Coronel, Lota, and Lebu, and obtained very valuable results. Certainly all of us took the chance of visiting the famous park in Lota. This, as well as a part of the town itself and the coal-mines, are the property of the family Cousiño. Unfortunately, the park is not as well kept as it used to be, and is also spoilt by a palace with four façades in four different styles, and by dozens of spurious statues of a very suspiciously German origin. From Lota, Quensel and I went to Concepción, a larger town of pure European stamp, and from there by electric tramway to its port, Talcahuano, the naval port of Chile, and the only good harbour north of Chiloé. There we went on board the Vestfold once more. On August 14 Valparaiso spread out over the narrow beach, and, climbing high up on the many hills behind, lay before us, and between the hundreds of steamers and sailing-vessels we were conducted to an anchorage.

The principal reason for our visit here was that we intended to make an excursion to the Juan Fernandez Islands, which we accomplished between August 20 and 31. We had prepared it long before, and Captain Löwenborg pleaded our case so well that Admiral Montt put at our disposal the large and comfortable transport vessel the Casma. Before the trip was undertaken, and also after our return, we found ample time to see both Valparaiso and Santiago, with their scientific institutes, and also to make a couple of longer excursions. In 1906, the year of the great earthquake, Valparaiso was on every one’s tongue. Two years had elapsed since that tremendous catastrophe, but numerous traces were still left, especially as the authorities have seized the opportunity partly to re-plan the town, which somewhat delayed the rebuilding of waste streets. Everywhere, even in the blocks that had suffered but little, one could discover filled-up cracks in the walls. In Valparaiso several Swedes live, but only in Santiago could one speak of a real Swedish colony. It counts some very prominent members. I need only mention a couple of the most able officers in the army, Colonel Ekdahl and Lieutenant-Colonel Schönmeyr, or the director of gymnastics, Mr. J. Billing, late lieutenant in the Swedish army. The reception given to us by our countrymen in Santiago will always remain one of the most agreeable memories of our journey.

Santiago is famous for its situation at the foot of the Andes. I daresay there is nothing in the world like its racecourse, with snowy peaks and crests many thousand feet high as decoration. I am afraid, however, that the fine view does not account for the enormous number of people there.

Nature in Central Chile is truly different from all we had seen before of that country. The climate is warm and dry, even on the coast; only in the valleys of the coast cordillera is there forest, formed by a number of fine trees, most of which I had not met with before. On the plateaus and ridges the reddish soil shines through, and with its peculiar plants, amongst them the large pillar-cactus (Cereus), it gives the impression of a semi-desert. One ought to see, as we did, these parts in springtime, when beautiful lilies, orchids, &c., adorn the earth. With the approach of summer they go to sleep.

Between Valparaiso and Santiago one passes one of the sources of wealth in Chile, the central valley between the two mountain ranges—vast prairies, thousands of cattle and large vineyards everywhere. Through the kindness of the Transandino Railway Company we visited the much-spoken-of tunnel joining Chile and Argentina, and at the same time a grand mountain district. The railway starts from the small town Los Andes. Here we have a typical Chilean country town, with low white, pink, or light blue buildings of one storey, mostly not very well kept, long brown earthen walls, broken and picturesque—how well the flowering peach-trees stand out against the dark clay! The sun scorches, there are clouds of thick brown dust over the streets, covering the willows and their opening buds, marring the finery of the horsemen. It is dia de fiesta, the birthday of the Holy Virgin; dark-faced Don Juans, with trappings and enormous spurs of silver, embroidered leggings and many-coloured, homespun poncho, gallop towards the garlanded triumphal arches forming a walk up to the church. Evening steals upon Los Andes, life dozes off, only now and then the faint notes of a guitar reach us. The sun sinks, the mountains glow in the last beams, then the outlines fade away, snow-patches and bare rock melt together into a blue haze and darken to deep night. The moon rises, drowning the peach-blossom in floods of silver, everything dusty and ugly disappears in the soft lustre. But a strenuous day is in store for us, and we are forced regretfully to go to sleep.

The train winds up the valley of Aconcagua, lined with gay groves, adorned by many flowers; the river sinks deeper and deeper, the air grows thin, pure, and cool. The rack commences, higher and higher we rise. In Juncal our special train was stopped. The line was ready for another nine and a half miles, but as work was going on in two of the thirteen tunnels on this stretch we had to mount the mules kept in readiness for us. Besides the guide, Mr. Curtis, whom the company had sent with us, we got an additional member for our party, the police-sergeant in Juncal; the road was not considered safe just then, and the police wanted to be at hand in case anything should happen. We rose in an eternal zigzag line; in all directions we enjoyed grand scenery, but Nature was still in the grip of winter. At some distance we passed Laguna del Inca, one of the most beautiful mountain lakes I ever saw, and late in the evening we arrived at the entrance of the tunnel, Caracoles, where we were invited to dinner by the English engineer; we had a merry time, and from the gramophone horn Melba and Caruso competed for our favour.

Each of us got on a pair of rubber boots and had a lamp to carry, and we splashed into the tunnel, where work was going on day and night, and where we got an idea of how a tunnel is made. The total length, 1·9 miles, was evidently not very considerable, but the loose quality of the rock made work very difficult. At the time of our visit a thick wall still separated the two republics; last year, however, the first train passed under the enormous mass of the Andes. We were glad to get out into the cold night air once more, and sit down and enjoy some whisky and a pipe of tobacco.

Life among the labourers and the scum of mankind seeking its way across the Uspallata pass is rather wild. A few weeks before our arrival eleven men left Caracoles to cross to the Argentine side. They never got there. They appeared, however, when the snow melted; for every spring, when the road across is put in order, the bodies of those who have disappeared during the winter are found, frozen to ice, partly robbed of their clothes, sometimes with the pockets turned inside out—murdered, robbed, and simply left. The soil of that pass is literally soaked with the blood of the victims of assassins and highwaymen.

When traffic is open it is no risk for the railway passengers to cross. More than 30 feet of snow have been recorded near the pass, and during the winter the railway has not hitherto been used. Traffic had not begun, the road lay partly under snow and ice, but with a guide as excellent as ours we did not hesitate to cross. We had a splendid morning on September 10. The ground was frozen hard, the ice jingled like broken glass under the hoofs of our mules. With uncommon agility they passed the most dangerous places, of which there was no lack. The sergeant made a halt at a small stone house he wanted to inspect, took his carbine with the air of an official, and entered, but was soon back, there being no traces of the rascals he was looking for. The thin air made us feel a slight pressure across the temples, but otherwise it did not affect us. We reached the pass, la cumbre, on a height of 13,000 feet, thus having a good deal of our globe under our feet. Some few steps from us is the gigantic statue of Christ, erected as a monument to the eternal peace between the two republics, but not a living soul, not a blade of grass, only rock and snow.

With legs stiff, so that the loose sand whirled round them, our mules slide down the most westerly slopes of Argentina, and we reached Las Cuevas, the entrance to the tunnel on the Argentine side. From there we continued our ride and passed the valley where Aconcagua, hitherto regarded as the highest mountain in America, makes the background. Huascarán is now said to compete for the honour, but as the proofs are not sufficient we took off our caps and bowed to his Alpine majesty. In Baño del Inca, where one has to cross the famous natural bridge, we tried the sulphur baths; no doubt we were the very first visitors that year. We turned round and slept in Las Cuevas, and the next morning Mr. Curtis and I crossed to Chile again, Quensel waiting till the next day. Our journey from Caracoles to Los Andes was rather original; with fine disdain for the train, we used a trolley. Down we went, sometimes at a breakneck speed, but the intense feeling of freedom made us forget the risk. The line for long stretches runs on narrow shelves, cut in the steep mountain-sides; derailment would mean instantaneous death. Further down we were very nearly run over by a train, and just had time to throw ourselves and the trolley off the rail. Situations rapidly change in this world: in the morning we experienced a temperature of several degrees below freezing-point on the high crests of the desolate Cordillera; at night that same day we were enjoying the tepid air between the park trees in a big city.

From another excursion to the coast at Zapallar, north of Valparaiso, I returned just in time to take part in the great national feast, from September 18 to 20, the anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, 1810. It is a real people’s feast, celebrated with the same enthusiasm by all classes of society. Aristocracy has its processions, Te Deum, races, and military parades, the people dance la cueca and drink chicha in the parks all night long. I could not deny that the air itself was really filled with a feeling of festivity, the whole country being decorated with banners of all colours, garlands, and triumphal arches, while on the railway the engines were adorned with green leaves, flowers, and flags, and everywhere were heard patriotic speeches and the playing of bands. And for three whole days no one who is not forced to does any work.

When Halle had finished his work he joined us in Santiago, and, using the great central railway, running longitudinally through the Valle Central, we went to Valdivia once more. In Corral we took a passenger steamer; it was the Teno, with a Swede, Mr. Boklund, as captain—another late piloto, who had left the navy after some years’ service. Again we visited Ancud, said good-bye to all our friends there, took on board our equipment, and crossed the gulf to Puerto Montt, where we were now going to prepare the expedition overland through the whole of Patagonia.