130 



CINCHONA BARK. 



grows to the east of us. A doubled-up piece of coarse scarlet cloth laj 

 on the top of her head to keep off the rays of the sun, being used at 

 night to cover her shoulders, which are now bare. She envies our 

 straw hats, and says it is mean not to give her one. She wears shoes 

 and stockings only on Sundays, when she goes to church; the former of 

 fine black leather, and the latter, silk. Her language is Quichua, 

 When the wise Incas mastered the Aymara tribe they colonized the 

 country to the east of them, sending the Quichuas through the Aymara 

 territory to surround those who never would be taught a strange lan- 

 guage, nor give up their own. 



While Jose enjoys a short flirtation, we get out our map to find that 

 this woman has been washing her garments at the source of the river 

 Mamore ; she is dipping her fingers into the main head of the great 

 Madeira river. 



Descending the side of the warm stream, we met a drove of sixty 

 spirited mules, with heavy loads upon their backs. They ran up the 

 road, fretting and staggering under the weight; getting out of breath, 

 they make a full stop, and then clamber up again. 



We halted, and had a talk with the arrieros ; they were from Cocha- 

 bamba, bound to Arica, in Peru, with one hundred and eighty quintals 

 of cinchona bark from the province of Yuracares. They make the trip 

 to Arica in about twelve days over both ranges of mountains. 



Calling loudly to their mules, they move slowly up hill. It was hard 

 work for them to get to the South Pacific shore with their bark, while 

 the Indian woman's soapsuds went dancing by us on the dashing stream 

 towards the North Atlantic. 



On gaining the base of the mountains, we rode into the pretty town of 

 Tapacari. The lofty church steeples were just visible above the tops of 

 the richly green willow trees. Peaches were half ripe in the gardens, 

 and our tired mules anxiously called out for food as a donkey passed 

 with a load of green lucerne just reaped by the Indians sickle. At 3 30 , 

 p. m., thermometer, 72°; wet bulb, 60° ; cumulus clouds. 



The people are so much whiter than those we have lately seen, that 

 some of them appear very little like Indians. They are dressed in thin 

 clothing. The women wear ruffles about their necks, and the lower 

 parts of their dresses are fancifully worked by their, own hands. 



This is the land for chicha; the ravines seem to be flooded with it. 

 People are dashing about on horseback, feasting and making merry near 

 by. The postman, a most polite and attentive old fellow, attended to 

 his business while taking his part in the frolic. He evidently had his 

 share of chicha, which made him show loss of teeth when he laughed. 



