The best view of both the town and of the surrounding country is to be obtained from the solitary hill near by that marks the boundary between the two republics, and that bears upon its summit an old and battered boundary-stone. Viewed from here the panorama is fascinating. To the north, and immediately below, lies Santa Ana, the Brazilian sister-township of Rivera, that sends out its buildings almost to join walls with those of the Uruguayan. Santa Ana itself presents a picturesque enough prospect with its white houses and luxuriant gardens, its wide, unpaved, shadeless streets, its rambling barracks, and its red-bricked bullring. As a background to this bright, sunlit picture, and one that throws it into strong relief, rise range upon range of the dark hills with their shaven summits, starting up abruptly in the first instance from the confines of the town itself, and fading away gradually into the misty distance of the province of Rio Grande. Skirting the base of the hill to the east is a short avenue devoid of buildings that serves as the frontier line, and marks with no little emphasis where one town ends and the other begins. The significance of the spot is accentuated by the sight of the sentry-boxes of the frontier guards and custom officials. To the south, reclining in its own hollow, lies Rivera, with its shady avenues and its conspicuous round-towered church.
The aspects of the two towns are curiously different, considering the fact that from their absolute propinquity they form to all intents and purposes a single city. In the first place the difference in the tint of each is marked. The general colour of the Rivera houses is red, while that of Santa Ana is pure white. The distinction is merely the result of differing national customs. The houses of both places are constructed of precisely similar stone, but the Brazilian prefers to face his walls with plaster. Autres pays, autres moeurs; but it is seldom that the contrast may be viewed from so near at hand. The architecture, moreover, of the Santa Ana buildings is of a much squarer and older design than that of those in the Uruguayan town. The former city, as a matter of fact, is considerably more ancient than the latter, to which not only the growing timber but the buildings as well bear witness. In Santa Ana the trees, although not nearly so numerous, have attained to far grander proportions than has been the case with those across the border.
If one should not judge humanity from outward appearance, the procedure is even less wise in dealing with a collection of human habitations. Feminine powder and rouge are as mere toys in the matter of guile compared with the alluring scenic effect that a city is capable of producing by means of bricks and mortar. Judged from the summit of the hill without, Santa Ana presents an even more inviting appearance than that of Rivera. Once within the walls the aspects of the situation alter abruptly. Santa Ana possesses one spot of beauty, it is true. Its luxuriant and shady plaza where the date-palms flourish is an oasis of delight set in the midst of sordid surroundings and dusty heat. With this exception, it must be admitted that the place is shadeless, dirty, and evil-smelling.
The streets of Rivera, on the contrary, are clean, well paved, and sheltered from the rays of the sun by the innumerable green branches that stretch so pleasantly above. The townsfolk, moreover, differ less from those of Montevideo than might be imagined, although the heat of the climate has been responsible for a rather sallower and swarthier type.
CHAPTER XVI
HERE AND THERE IN URUGUAY
Uruguayan roads—A comparison with those of Argentina—The benefits of stone—Some fine metalled highways—The road to San José—On the way to Pando—The journey as effected by motor-car—A smiling landscape—Distant sand-dunes—A spotless range—The mountains of Minas—The town of Pando—A typical minor urban centre—The ending of the macadamised road—The track beyond—An abrupt change in the order of going—The bumps of the Campo—Piriapolis—A budding pleasure resort—Completeness of the enterprise—Eucalyptus forests—A vehicular wreck by the way—Unsuccessful Samaritans—The work of Señor Piria—The Castillo—An imposing home—View from the spot—The Pan de Azucar—A landscape of mountain, valley, forest, and sea—Architecture of the Castillo—Piriapolis Bay—A centre of future bathing—Preparations already effected—The hotel and casino—A wonderful feat of private enterprise—Afforestation—Encouragement of the industry by the Uruguayan Government—The work of Mr. Henry Burnett—The transformation of arid soil into fertile land—Commercial success of the venture—The Maldonado sand-dunes—Fulgurites—A curiosity of the sands—Discoveries by Mr. C. E. R. Rowland.
A feature that is not a little remarked upon by those who have entered Uruguay from the stoneless Pampa of Argentina is the excellence of the roads that surround Montevideo, and of several, indeed, that penetrate for a considerable distance inland. The highway to the town of San José, for instance, that extends for ninety-six kilometres is macadamised throughout its length, and is, moreover, excellently constructed and sustained.
The benefits of convenient deposits of stone are strikingly emphasised here. Now that a start has been made, there is no reason why efficient roads of the kind should not pierce the countryside in all directions. For, notwithstanding the natural fertility of its soil, there is scarcely a corner throughout the whole length and breadth of the Republic that is not seamed to a smaller or larger extent with these layers of useful stone, the eruption of which frequently marks the surface itself of the land.
The road to San José, as a matter of fact, is by no means the only important one of its kind. There are various similar specimens, equally well constructed if of less imposing length. A very admirable road leads from the capital to the small town of Pando in the neighbouring province of Canelones. The journey by motor-car is an easy one, and renders an admirable insight into the nature of the country in this particular district.
Curiously enough, the least smooth portion of this highway is represented by a mile or so of its length on the outskirts of Montevideo itself. This point once passed, however, the undulations in the surface of the road die away, and the broad grey thoroughfare stretches with remarkable smoothness over hill and dale. The car can snort along at the utmost speed its power will permit, since the grey band opens out ahead with a refreshing openness that is totally devoid of secrecy, and only at the lengthiest intervals is its surface darkened by the form of a rider or of a lumbering country cart.
The progress is of the switchback order, with long-drawn-out rises and falls that are effected with alternate exuberance and strainings, while on either hand the fields, verdure, and masses of fruit blossom speed by in very pleasant sequence. For a spring shower has laid the dust, and when the Oriental landscape smiles, its countenance is supremely fascinating. As though to add just the tinge of sombreness that is requisite for the accentuation of the delightful scene, a dark forest of eucalyptus stands out here and there by the way, the massive serried trunks and branches painting the landscape with a heavy splash of gloom.
For the first few leagues the aspect of the country—although the great variety of its attributes preserves it entirely from the taint of mere monotony—remains much the same. After a while, however, the skyline to the right becomes lightened in a rather remarkable fashion. The foreground is a medley of green, brown, and purple—rendered respectively by the hills, trees, orchards, and a patch or two of ploughed soil. At the back of these rich colours a range of very lofty snow-white sand-dunes has risen up. The gleaming barrier marks the frontier-line of the land; upon its farther side, invisible, of course, from inland, are the breakers of the South Atlantic Ocean. Indeed, the effect of this spotless range, when viewed from the shoreward side, is doubly curious, since the verdant landscape that leads right up to them gives no other indication of the propinquity of the sea.
To the north-east elevations of quite another kind have been slowly rising upwards from the horizon as the car speeds along. As the town of Pando itself is more nearly approached, the distant mountains of Minas have swollen into view to assert themselves in a fashion that is not to be overlooked. Great rounded masses piled in dim purple against the horizon, their aspect presents a sharp contrast to that of the dunes close by. The latter are shadowless things, clear-cut and wanting in depth for all their purity; the inland mountains are deep and secretive, with an outline that confounds itself mysteriously with the sky.
The town of Pando itself is remarkable for little in the way of commercial or industrial development beyond forming the centre of a very flourishing agricultural district. The place possesses a quaint red-brick church, the walls of which are adorned with a curious number of balconies. With this exception the buildings are unpretentious; but almost every one is lent its own particular charm by the wealth of gardens and shade-trees with which the spot is endowed. Pando, indeed, is one of those very pleasant minor urban centres with which Uruguay is so plentifully besprinkled, with its delightful surroundings of orchards, vineyards, and cultivated land planted here and there with eucalyptus forests and with groves of other trees. In the near neighbourhood of the town runs a typical Uruguayan stream, its banks thickly lined with verdure, more especially with the weeping willows whose branches droop downwards in a thick green curtain over the water's edge.
It is at this placid rural centre that the macadamised road ends. There is no mistaking the terminus of the metalled highway. One turn of the wheels of the car has left the smooth, hard surface behind—and then begins quite another order of going. The progress of an automobile over a representative local road of the country partakes of many elements, amongst others of those of steeplechasing, toboganning, and of the switchback railways common to those centres less well provided with natural forms of excitement. The mounds and valleys of the way provide an unbroken succession of surprises to which the car responds by lurching and dipping wildly, although the dexterity of the driver keeps it staggering upon its four wheels. Nevertheless, a very little of this goes a long—or an incredibly short—way. So after a while the nose of the car is turned—a manoeuvre that demands as much caution as putting a small boat about in a gale—and the vehicle bumps its way back again through the smiling outskirts of Pando to come to rest, as it were, upon the hard, grey road again.
The sand-dunes of which a glimpse has been obtained at Piriapolis are characteristic of almost the entire length of the Uruguayan coast that gives upon the Atlantic Ocean. There are many spots along this open shore that are well worthy of a visit. Not the least of these is Piriapolis—a place that is in the act of making a very bold bid for popularity as a pleasure resort. Piriapolis is a spot of no little interest. Situated a little to the west of Maldonado on the southern coast that faces the open Atlantic, the place is a budding town, and is noteworthy as much for what it promises in the future as for its present aspects, interesting enough though they are. Piriapolis is remarkable in being a one-man place—by which no connection is implied with the one-horse epithet of tradition—in that it has emanated from the mind and pocket of a prominent Uruguayan, Señor Francisco Piria.
Piriapolis lies to the coastward side of the railway line that is being prolonged in the direction of Maldonado, and, as matters at present stand, it is necessary to board a construction train, and to proceed soberly along the unballasted track to the point where the coach, with its four horses abreast, waits in readiness to complete the journey. It must be admitted that the road that goes rising and falling over the hilly country is not good. The future will doubtless endow the district with a network of highways of quite another kind.
But Piriapolis is young. Hence the unfortunate wagon that is lit upon, shortly after the start, stuck hard and fast in the deep mud of a hollow. In the way of good Samaritans, horses are detached from the coach to assist in the struggle; but the tenacious mud clings in unyielding obstinacy to its wheeled prey. In the end the contest is abandoned for the time being; the lent horses return to their place in front of the coach, and the driver of the wagon departs gloomily to scour the neighbouring country in search of oxen.
As the coach proceeds, the way lies through a wild and mountainous country that bears not a little resemblance to portions of the South West of Ireland. But here in the place of the whitewashed Irish cabins are mud ranchos, almost every one of which reposes beneath the sheltering branches of its own particular unit or group of ombú-trees.
After a little more than an hour's drive the aspect of the country to the front changes abruptly, and presently the coach enters the cool shade of a great forest of eucalyptus and pine. It is difficult to conceive these stretches of giant trees as not having covered the soil for generations. Yet less than twenty years ago the face of this particular district was as bare as any of that of the surrounding country, since it is only eighteen years ago that Señor Piria planted the first sapling that went to form this present forest land.
Roads of a better order now prick their way the length of the woodland aisles, and after a while a lonely little store and post-office stand out from amidst the trees. A little beyond evidences of civilisation appear quite unexpectedly. A pair of fine wrought-iron gates are to the front. Once through these an avenue, adorned by statues at intervals of a few yards, leads to a square turreted building that is known as the castillo, or castle, of Señor Piria himself. The dwelling is a pleasant one, with its broad stone terraces that overlook pretty grounds, covered with semi-tropical trees, shrubs, and flowers, laid out after the Italian style.
The view obtained from the upper terrace here is decidedly beautiful. Beyond the gardens spread broad orchards and vineyards, and at the back of these again on one side is a belt of forest that covers the ground for seven miles and more until the edge of the sea itself is reached—a sparkling line of blue that is visible in the distance from here. On the opposite side rises a rugged hill of immense queer-shaped boulders, from the interstices of which grows a dense tangle of scrub.
By far the most conspicuous object, however, in the whole panorama is the aptly named Pan de Azucar, or Sugar Loaf Mountain, that rises to a height of some two thousand feet on the west of the castle. The hill is a bare mass of serrated rock, and represents one of the highest points in the Republic. It is the dominating feature in a landscape that affords a wonderful combination of mountain, valley, forest, and sea.
The architecture of the castillo itself is somewhat original. The ground floor is almost entirely occupied by the guests' bedrooms, apartments with great vaulted ceilings that open promiscuously the one into the other. The living apartments are on the first floor, and the walls of the central hall are hung with many old Italian paintings. Above this again is the square tower that stands as the summit of the house. I mention the architecture more particularly, since it is entirely unusual, the ordinary country houses of Uruguay being almost without exception constructed on a single floor.
The seven miles of eucalyptus forest that intervene between the castillo and the sea afford a delightful drive to the shore of Piriapolis Bay. This portion of the coast consists of a shelving sandy shore eminently suited for the purposes of bathing, and is backed by an imposing vista of forest and mountain. The hill immediately behind the bay, by the way, is locally known as the Sierra de los Ingleses, having been employed, it is said, for the purposes of smuggling in the old days by English sailors.
It is at this point that the future town and pleasure resort of Piriapolis is to be situated. Some considerable start in this direction has already been made, as will be evident when it is explained that a great hotel has already been constructed, and is now complete, and ready for the day when it shall be officially opened. The place is of quite a palatial order, and is provided with no less than 120 bedrooms, as well as with a magnificent dining-room and very spacious apartments and lounges. A broad terrace runs the entire length of the building on the seaward side, and the tide, when at its highest, reaches to within twenty yards of the hotel itself. A very useful addition to the place is a large vegetable and fruit garden that holds everything of the kind that is needed. The plants and trees flourish amazingly well here, although, curiously enough, their roots are planted in no more satisfying a soil than sand.
The enterprise, however, has not contented itself with the erection of the hotel. In the neighbourhood of this building is a small casino, destined to be employed for the purpose of games of chance, and almost the entire margin of the bay is dotted by little, square, four-roomed châlets. At some distance from the hotel a stone mole is in the course of construction, and it is here, of course, that the pleasure steamers will land their passengers when the place is once in the full swing of its active life.
At present the place stands empty—a prepared shell awaiting this influx. As a feat of private enterprise Piriapolis must take a high rank; for the difficulties of transport have added vastly to the labour of the undertaking. It is a beautiful spot, in any case, and the pleasure resort should meet with all the success it deserves.
The topic of Piriapolis brings us to the question of afforestation. On this portion of the coast the science is undoubtedly one of supreme importance, and one to which of late years a fitting amount of attention has been paid. The Government of Uruguay has very wisely done much towards the encouragement of tree-planting and the transformation of apparently arid areas to regions of genuine fertility.
As an instance of this liberal and progressive policy it may be mentioned that in 1909 Mr. Henry Burnett, the British Vice-Consul at Maldonado, was awarded a gold medal and a bonus of three thousand dollars for having been the first to plant a collection of over ten thousand maritime pines. The labour in the first instance of inducing these young trees to grow was arduous, and time after time the budding plantation was buried beneath the masses of driven sand. With the eventual survival, however, of the first screen the remainder of the task proved easy, and Mr. Burnett has now in his possession over one hundred thousand maritime pines.
Encouraged by this example, numerous other landholders of the district have succeeded in cultivating similar plantations, and the result has proved highly beneficial, not only in the transformation of the country but from the commercial point of view as well. For districts that until recently were absolutely worthless are now valued at anything from ten dollars to forty dollars the hectare.
A peculiar characteristic of these Maldonado sand-dunes is to be met with in the fulgurites that are found there—the vitrified sand-tubes caused by the action of lightning that are referred to by Darwin on the occasion of his visit to the spot. Similar phenomena obtain in a few other corners of the world, but those found here are by far the largest in size, some extending to no less than five feet in length. Owing, however, to their extremely fragile nature, it is impossible to extract these larger specimens in any fashion but in comparatively small fragments.
Mr. C. E. R. Rowland, the British Vice-Consul at Montevideo, has taken especial interest in these fulgurites of the Maldonado Sands. The British Museum contains some very fine specimens sent by him, and he has supplied the national museum at Montevideo with its first specimens of these curiosities. This same gentleman, by the way, quite recently discovered two distinct species of Uruguayan lizards that, sent for classification to the South Kensington Natural History Museum, were discovered to be of kinds that until then had been perfectly unknown. They remain in the museum to which they were sent, dignified by the name of their discoverer.
CHAPTER XVII
MERCEDES AND THE SWISS COLONY
The journey to Mercedes—The outskirts of Montevideo—Santa Lucia—A pleasant town—Native quince and gorse—San José—The terminus of a great highway—Some feats of engineering—The urban importance of San José—A modern flour mill—Mal Abrigo—Character of the soil—A country of boulders—Some animals of the Sierra de Mal Abrigo—The surroundings of Mercedes—A charmingly situated town—The terminus of the line—Some characteristics of Mercedes—Urban dwellings—The delights of the patio—The disadvantages of economy in space—Streets and plazas—The hospital—A well-equipped institution—View from the building—An island in Rio Negro—The Port of Mercedes—River craft—Some local scenes—An equine passenger—Formidable gutters—The industries of the town—The Hôtel Comercio—Colonia Suiza—Situation of the Swiss Colony—Uruguayan Campo dwellings—Method of construction—Simplicity of household removals—Aspect of deserted huts—The houses of the Swiss Colony—Habits in general of South American colonists—The range of nationalities—Liberty accorded—Population of the Colonia Suiza—Its industries—A dairy-farming community—An important butter factory—An instance of a rapid rise from poverty to riches.
The railway journey from Montevideo to the town of Mercedes, on the Rio Negro, is of ten hours' duration. The first portion of the run is, of course, through the pleasant suburbs of the capital that have already been sufficiently described. At Juanico, some forty kilometres distant from the starting-point, the denser plantations and orchards have already fallen away, and the country has definitely assumed its natural grazing character, broken into here and there by large areas of alfalfa. The place, as a matter of fact, is an important dairy centre, from which Montevideo obtains a considerable proportion of its butter, milk, and cheese.
Santa Lucia, the next halt, is another of those smiling Oriental towns embowered in gardens and orchards, and surrounded by tree-dotted pastures. Close to the confines of the town runs the Santa Lucia River, with its banks thickly bordered by willows and poplars that at one point give way to a wide avenue of the popular and gigantic eucalyptus. The spot is much patronised in the summer for the purpose of picnics; for—to his credit be it said—the Uruguayan is a great connoisseur of the al fresco and its charms.
On leaving Santa Lucia the railway line makes a sweeping bend, and then crosses the river by an iron bridge that proudly claims the distinction of being the longest on the system. Upon the farther side of the stream the country is brightened by the innumerable blossom sprays of the many wild quince-trees, and by the broad clumps of glowing gorse. Soon, however, the aspect of the landscape alters again, and the train is speeding once more through the open Campo of pasture-land and of wheat and barley fields.
San José, the next town of importance to be reached, is remarkable as being the terminus of a splendid macadamised road that runs a distance of ninety-six kilometres from Montevideo to this point. This excellent highway is constructed in a really imposing fashion, and is engineered with a lordly disregard of all obstacles. Just before reaching San José, for instance, it crosses the river in the neighbourhood of the town by a magnificent bridge no less than 360 metres in length. This work was commenced by an Uruguayan engineer in 1906, and was completed in 1909, at a cost of nearly two hundred thousand gold dollars. The Uruguayans take a vast amount of very just pride in this structure, which is probably one of the finest road bridges in existence. It forms a fitting conclusion, moreover, to the best road in lower South America.
The town of San José itself is fairly important from the point of view of population, since it numbers thirteen thousand inhabitants—a fact that places it in the first rank of the country towns of the Republic. Its chief church dominates all the remaining buildings, and affords a notable landmark for many miles around. With the exception of this, San José contains little of interest. It is, in fact, merely a typical "camp" town that serves the surrounding agricultural area. A most up-to-date mill that turns out daily twenty-one tons of flour is, however, worthy of remark, since from the moment that the wheat is dumped into the granary to that when it emerges as fine flour and is mechanically poured into sacks, the whole process is effected by machinery.
Beyond San José the line climbs gradually to the summit of a small sierra, whence a spreading panorama of the surrounding country is obtained. On leaving Mal Abrigo, the next station, the character of the landscape alters. The rich, black, vegetable soil has given way to a rocky surface. Huge boulders of all shapes are strewn everywhere as though flung by some giant upheaval into their tremendous confusion. In the intervals of these great rocks grow thorny trees and shrubs. Indeed, this Sierra de Mal Abrigo differs from anything that has gone before. Hares abound in the neighbourhood, and at the approach of the train great numbers of the animals speed away behind the sheltering boulders. The armadillo, too, is especially plentiful in this region, which seems to favour the partridge and martineta almost equally well.
Bizcocho is the last point of call before reaching Mercedes, from which it is distant some twenty kilometres. From here the ground—once again an open, treeless plain—slopes continuously as it descends towards the valley at the Rio Negro. At the near approach to Mercedes itself the country assumes the smiling aspect that seems the inevitable attribute of the environs of the Uruguayan towns. Gardens, orchards, streams, plantations, vineyards—all these flit past in rapid sequence, until the train pulls up at Mercedes station, the terminus of the line.
This terminus of the line is well defined in more senses than one. The station is situated on a bluff that hangs immediately over the Rio Negro. It is merely necessary to proceed to the end of the rails, just beyond the platform, in order to look sheer down upon the water of the river some hundred feet below. A thoughtful act on the part of the railway company to halt on the very brink, and thus to supply a panorama in the place where the rails can no longer travel!
As a town Mercedes is attractive to a degree. The place can boast of no great size, it is true, since its population does not exceed ten thousand. Yet it is exceptionally fortunate both in its situation and in the style of its buildings. The main portion of the city consists of some half-dozen streets running parallel to the river, crossed by a rather greater number of thoroughfares that lead directly from the water's edge. The houses are almost without exception of the older style of architecture—rather low, spreading buildings, each of which encloses one of those charming patios that, alas! are now growing steadily fewer with each year. Surely nothing is more delightful than this verdure-filled courtyard set in the midst of the house—the small stone-bound garden with its flowers, shrubs, and palms, on to which give all the lower rooms of the establishment! They would doubtless continue to exist for centuries were it not for the growing power and insistence of their chief enemy, economy of space!
The streets and plazas of Mercedes are fairly animated, for the town is the centre of considerable social life. The majority of folk here are of rather darker complexion than those of the capital, but the women are almost equally good-looking. Coches are plentiful in the town; each of the two-horsed buggies will seat six people with ease, and even then will speed along at an exhilarating pace, for the steeds of these public conveyances are both willing and well cared for.
The highest point of the town is occupied by the hospital. This, like so many other Uruguayan institutions of the kind, is a very fine establishment, well appointed, and provided with large, airy rooms and corridors. From the roof of this hospital is revealed a magnificent view of the town and its surroundings. The entire panorama is one not easily to be forgotten. So far as the river itself is concerned, it is possible from this point of vantage to follow its windings for miles in both directions. The river here, by the way, attains to very nearly a quarter of a mile in width—no despicable stretch of water even for a tributary of the mighty Uruguay.
In mid-stream just opposite Mercedes is an island—a gem of an island embowered in luxurious vegetation, and completely fringed by large weeping willows, whose drooping festoons of green all but touch the waters. In conformity with the utilitarian spirit of the age, a scheme is on foot for the construction of an hotel in this place, and surely no more alluring spot could be lit upon for the purpose—although the danger to the landscape from the erection of an unsuitable building would be very real.
Between this island and the buildings of the town is the port. Here the topsail schooners and the various river craft of all descriptions lie at anchor, including the small stern-wheel steamers that serve for the passenger traffic into the far interior of the land, and a few large barges piled high with the bones of cattle. Jutting out into the stream near here is a small mole, from which point a small motor-ferry is wont to ply to and fro, and thus give connection with the Fray Bentos road upon the opposite shore. Just to the left of this, anchored in mid-river, lies a large houseboat, which serves as the headquarters of the local rowing and swimming clubs.
It is, of course, in this neighbourhood that the river life is at its busiest. Upon the rocky shore are groups of women in bright-coloured dresses busily employed in washing household linen and various garments—a sight, as a matter of fact, that may be anticipated with certainty upon any populous Oriental river bank. The motor-ferry, too, has by no means the monopoly of transit, and numerous smaller craft are continually passing from one shore to the other. Their occupants are not necessarily limited to the human species. Here, for instance, is a horse being brought across in a small rowing boat. The animal appears quite unconcerned; he is doubtless accustomed to the aquatic excursions in so tiny a skiff.
Returning from the riverside, a peculiar characteristic of the Mercedes streets should attract the eye, or, failing this, stumblings will ensue of a certainty. On either side of the roadway is an immense gutter of over a yard in depth and width. These portentous channels serve to carry off the rainfall of the heavy storms that occur from time to time, and on a dark night constitute formidable obstacles in the path of an unwary foot-passenger.
Mercedes possesses a fairly important saladero, and, in addition, constitutes a centre of the charcoal-burning industry. A couple of hundred tons of this commodity is frequently shipped from the place in the course of a month. So far as hotels are concerned, the Comercio is distinctly to be recommended. The establishment is well above the average of those that the ordinary provincial town can boast, being clean, airy, and comfortable, and provided, moreover, with a very genial host.
Colonia Suiza is situated, some twenty miles inland from the coast, midway between Mercedes and Montevideo. In order to reach this very picturesque spot from the former town by rail it is necessary to hark back to Mal Abrigo, from which junction the run to the Swiss Colony is a short one. The country through which the journey is made is of the usual grazing order, sparsely populated, the ground being marked only here and there by a typical Uruguayan rancho.
The modest establishments of this particular district are worthy of special mention. Each is contrived from square blocks of turf, carefully cut, and placed one on top of the other with the grass edge downwards. The exterior of the walls is left without any attempt at facing or adornment, and thus presents a distinctly crude and peculiar appearance. The dwelling, however, is rendered snug and waterproof by being plastered from within. These walls are extremely well made, considering the fact that their composition is not assisted by any additional material. The roof is made of wood, cut in lengths, and thatched over with wood or straw.
Household removals on the Uruguayan campo are not necessarily matters of weighty thought, whose occurrence is to be anticipated with dread for many months beforehand. When the family who owns one of these mud ranches decides to move, the procedure is very simple. The roof, doors, and windows of the home are taken down and collected. After which it is merely necessary for the party to pack these along with them on horseback, until a suitable site is lit upon for a new erection of turf into which the portable finishing touches may be inserted. That effected, the owners are once more at home. As for the discarded dwelling, it remains much as before, save that it is minus roof, door, and windows.
Many of these skeleton huts are to be met with on the rolling face of the country. They possess this in common with birds' nests, that from a distance it is difficult to ascertain whether they are occupied or to let. If deserted, there is no reason why any chance family on the move should not take possession by no more formal means than that of affixing roof, door, and windows in the gaps that await them. Many of these ranchos, by the way, are surrounded by very pretty gardens, and hedged in by tall hedges of geranium and rose.
Once arrived at the Swiss Colony, however, the aspect of the dwellings becomes altogether changed. The houses here resemble strongly the châlets of the Swiss mountains, for, like the remaining colonies of the kind throughout the River Plate republics, the immigrants have introduced their own ways and fashions of living. Indeed, the existence of such bodies provides an ample testimonial of the conditions of freedom under which life is conducted in these countries.
The number and strange variety of these self-contained colonies in this part of the world is scarcely realised. They are, of course, totally distinct from the ordinary, scattered immigrant dwellers. When surveyed en masse the result is not a little extraordinary. In the three Spanish-speaking republics of Argentina, Uruguay, and Paraguay that, together with Southern Bolivia, formed the old River Plate provinces, exist distinct and important settlements of Swiss, Austrians, Poles, Australians, Welsh, Boers, and Jews, besides numerous lesser groups of many nationalities beyond.
Within the frontiers of each perfect liberty obtains to continue existence as it is led in the country from which the immigrants came, and thus each is provided with its own churches and institutions. In the case of the more recently founded it is almost as though a portion of the foreign land had been translated bodily to South American soil, while those of older standing have invariably yielded more or less to the influence of their surroundings. But the choice of remaining entirely aloof, or of assimilating the customs that prevail outside their own frontiers lies entirely in the hands of the immigrant communities. It is, of course, only natural that each section should carry on that particular branch of industry to which it has been accustomed in its country of origin.
The Colonia Suiza constitutes an important body, containing, as it does, no less than four thousand inhabitants. Here it is not surprising that the staple industry should be that of cheese manufacture and dairy produce. In addition to this a fair amount of agriculture is carried on. The soil of the district is well adapted to linseed, and numerous vineyards are responsible for the production of a local wine of very fair quality.
Consisting for the most part of small dairy farms, no regular township exists in the colony, although a small village has sprung into being in the neighbourhood of the railway station, and three hotels are distributed at wide intervals across the area occupied. The community, first established in 1862 by the arrival of seven Swiss families, is flourishing, and its members have clung to their national habits with more tenacity than is usual.
The largest and most important butter factory in the place produces in the springtime a daily quantity of no less than a ton of butter. Its proprietor, ere he emigrated, played the rôle of a small shopkeeper in his own country. His house was burned to the ground, but, fortunately for himself, the property was insured. He employed the money derived from this source for the purpose of the voyage to South America, and, arrived at the Colonia Suiza, he found employment in the carrying round of the milk. In a very short while he was employing others to perform this service for himself, and is now a wealthy man, thus affording one more example of those rapid rises from poverty to riches that are so characteristic of South America.
The general aspects of this colony are peculiarly agreeable. Situated in one of the most pleasant districts of a smiling land, it is well watered and timbered. The verdure of the place, moreover, is enhanced by the numerous green lanes that intersect it. Indeed, no more delightful situation could be imagined than that occupied by many of the châlets of Swiss design.
CHAPTER XVIII
COLONIA
An historical town—Rarity of ruins in the River Plate countries—Specimens at Colonia—Situation of the town—Past antagonism between the capitals of Argentina and Uruguay—Present aspect of Colonia compared with the former—A sleepy hollow—Periodical awakenings of the place—Impressions of the old town—Its colouring and compactness—Fortifications of the city of discord—A warlike history—Nations that have warred together at this spot—The reddest corner in a bloodstained land—Surroundings of the town—Crumbling masonry—A medley of old and new—A Colonia street—Old-time scenes of peace and war—Some pictures of the past—Cannon as road posts—The Plaza—An episode in the wars with Portugal—The eternity of romance—Real de San Carlo—A modern watering-place—Its buildings—The bullring—A gigantic pelota-court—Popularity of the spot—A miniature tramway—Attractions of Real de San Carlo—Vegetation on the sands—A curious colour scheme—Pleasant lanes—Buenos Aires as a supplier of tourists.
The small town of Colonia stands quite alone in many respects. Not as regards situation, climate, and a reputation as a pleasure resort. In all these three the spot is especially favoured; yet in each of these it possesses a number of formidable rivals along the Uruguayan coast. Excursionists flock to Colonia, it is true, but such flighty nomads are more concerned with beaches and bathing than with the subtler and deeper interests of the spot.
To the historian and to the antiquarian Colonia represents a gem. It must be admitted that the values of such treasures go strictly by comparison. Uruguay is rich in the amethyst and topaz, but poor in architectural ruins. Indeed, these romantic features are distressingly—or pleasingly—rare throughout all the lands that made up the provinces of the old River Plate. So far as I am aware, almost the sole examples of any real antiquity are to be met with in the Jesuit ruins of Paraguay and the Misiones Province, and in the few fragmentary Inca relics upon the Andes slopes. Beyond these there is Colonia. Therefore if the gem lack the full brilliance of some of the specimens that an older continent can produce, its importance must not be under-estimated, since it possesses the rare merit of being all but unique in its own country.
From the Uruguayan bank of the great river Colonia faces Buenos Aires. The one is not visible from the other, since almost forty miles separate the two cities—a distance that has frequently been found too short for the peace of mind of both. For, although they now sit on their respective banks in undisturbed peace, the past has only too many instances to show of how the pair opposed each other with an active hostility that worked its share in the building up of the warlike history of Colonia.
The present fate of Colonia is much akin to that of many of those spots that serve as the decayed shells of old-time battles and terrific alarums. In short, it is a sleepy hollow. There are certainly times when a large river steamer comes to rest for a while against its wooden jetty, and disgorges a crowd of tourists who wander aimlessly about the quaint streets. But such spells are short, since the interests of the spot can compare in the minds of very few of such visitors with the great bullring and pelota-court, recently erected some half-dozen miles up-stream, to which they are on their way. Thus the place has barely time to shake its old walls, and yawn with its blank windows, wondering at this sudden new life that has sprung up within it, when the spasm has passed away, and Colonia sinks back from its semi-conscious state into full slumber again.
The first impressions of the old town, when viewed from the river, present a rather strange medley of brown, yellow, grey, white, pink, and green. Thrown together as abruptly as this, the colour scheme doubtless sounds perplexing. Yet in reality the tints blend with consummate harmony. The brown is rendered by the rocks that hem in the little bays and inlets of the foreground, while the lichen that clings to the stone accounts for a strangely brilliant yellow. The grey is produced by the most important asset of the town, the ruined walls and battlements of the fortifications that pile themselves sullenly upon the rocks along the river bank, penetrating the waters at many points. The pink and white gleam very softly from the more modern houses in the background that mingle with the old, crumbling erections of grey, while at close intervals the verdure of trees and shrubs sprouts out thickly from amongst the masonry. To conclude with all this colour, so far as possible at one fell swoop, the town is dominated by a brilliant white lighthouse shaft and the twin red towers of a modern church.
Undoubtedly one of the most curious effects for which Colonia is responsible is that of its compactness. There is scarcely a town in Uruguay, or in Argentina either, whose outskirts do not straggle far away from the centre into the Campo. To one who has inevitably become accustomed to these architectural loose-ends the accurately defined boundaries of the riverside town are not a little striking. The reason is a very simple one. In the old days the city of discord was completely surrounded by fortifications and, since it has performed the feat—almost unique in the country—of failing to grow in extent since that time, its original abrupt boundaries have remained. The result, from an artistic point of view, is undoubtedly far more imposing than that produced by the stress of modern development.
Colonia is not a town to be skimmed over lightly. It is worthy of almost as careful a reconnoitring as it has frequently suffered in the past. For the place can boast of half a dozen regular sieges, and pitched battles, sallies, and skirmishes galore. Indians and Spaniards, Spaniards and Portuguese, Uruguayans and Spaniards, Uruguayans and Portuguese—all these have fought together here on countless occasions, and yet the list of the warring companies is not ended. The red ponchos of Urquiza's Gauchos have charged up to the grey walls, staining the brown earth crimson as they went; buccaneers of all nations have come and gone, and the scarlet of a British garrison has gleamed out against the background of stone. Colonia is the reddest spot of all in a sadly bloodstained land.
But, however much the aftermath of battles may brood, the aspect of the place is as fair as could be desired. Just opposite its site are the first green islands of the river, the oceanward outposts of the lengthy series that rest in the midst of the waters upstream. This shore of the mainland itself is picturesque in another fashion. Bright semicircles and crescents of sand fringe the rocks of the innumerable small bays. Upon the natural boulders, and ledges, and heaps of masonry above are clusters of green leaves starred with blossoms. Here and there a growth of more artificial kind is spread upon the stone; for the sole figures upon the foreshore are those of two washerwomen, busily engaged amongst the pools, whose variegated harvest is increasing in area as it is spread out to dry.