Jan.  2,  1893.] 
THE  TROPICAL  AGRICULTURIST. 
463 
also,  which  supplies  the  world  with  alpaca  ; and  their 
more  timid  relative,  the  vicuna,  with  wool  still  more 
valuable.  Here  and  there,  we  came  upon  the  remains 
of  roads  and  crumbling  ruins,  indicating  a civilisation 
which  may  date  back  thousands  of  years,  even  be- 
fore the  advent  of  the  Inca. 
Of  human  inhabitants  there  are  now  comparatively 
few  but  such  as  there  are,  are  interesting  specimens 
of  sturdy  little  Highlanders.  The  women,  parti- 
cularly, are  admirable  examples  of  a hardy,  industrious 
race.  No  finer  female  peasantry  in  the  world,  I 
should  say. 
One  of  the  chief  towns  of  this  region  is  Tarma, 
about  200  miles  inland,  altitude  9,800  feet,  population 
about  8,000.  We  stayed  for  some  days  here,  greatly 
enjoying  its  splendid  climate;  a paradise,  I should 
think,  for  consumptive  patients.  Excellent  wheat 
and  barley  are  grown  here.  This,  also,  is  the  home 
of  the  potato,  having  been  cultivated  here  as  care- 
fully as  we  now  do  in  Europe,  perhaps  hundreds 
of  years  before  America  was  discovered  by  Euro- 
peans. “Papa”  they  are  still  called,  being  the  old 
Inca  name  of  the  tuber,  and  the  quality  is  fully 
equal  to  the  best  we  have  ever  produced.  Moreover 
they  have  some  better  varieties  than  any  of  ours, 
one  of  which  I hope  to  introduce  to  Scotland. 
It  was  in  the  latter  end  of  July,  1891,  that  one  fine 
morning  (every  morning  is  fine  here),  we  managed 
to  muster  our  retinue  and  make  a fair  start  for  the 
famous  low  country.  The  peculiar  vegetation  on  the 
steep  mountain  slopes,  more  grotesque  than  beautiful, 
betokens  a comparatively  dry  climate  all  the  year 
round.  Such  expanses  of  gigantic  cacti  and  broad- 
leaved agave  we  had  not  before  seen,  and  prior  to 
the  age  of  mineral  dyes,  fortunes  might  have  been 
made  here  in  cochineal,  as  they  still  might  be,  by 
any  enterprising  agriculturalist  who  would  devote  his 
attention  to  fibres. 
The  resplendent  flowers  of  the  cacti  were  just  closing 
as  the  morning  sunbeams  fell  across  their  brilliant 
petals,  and  we,  too,  were  soon  reminded  that  we  were 
in  the  tropics,  being  glad  to  hug  closely  the  little 
belt  of  trees  which  shaded  the  lower  side  of  the 
winding  path. 
Here  a watercourse  carries  grateful  moisture  to 
the  Alfalfa  (Lucerne)  fields  below.  The  banks  of  this 
little  water  course  are  a delightful  study.  I can 
scarcely  express  to  you  the  pleasure  I had  in  re- 
cognizing so  many  old  familiar  friends : the  trees 
themselves  were  chiefly  alder  and  buddlea.  The 
former,  our  “ain  arn,  ” the  latter,  with  its  silvery 
leaf,  a well-known  native  of  Peru.  Here  are  veri- 
table bourtree  bushes;  there  a line  of  the  beautiful 
Peruvian  willow,  named  after  the  illustrious  Humboldt. 
Nor  can  we  pass  unnoticed  the  sweet  little  flowers 
that  line  the  margin  of  the  rippling  stream.  The 
yellow  calceelaria,  ever  ready  to  assert  its  nativity, 
blended  with  the  blue  salvia  and  ageratums,  various 
vincas,  passion  flowers,  solanum  and  thunbergias, 
all  so  familiar,  and  all  so  much  at  home  here,  gave 
a peculiar  charm  to  this  morning’s  ride.  We  halted 
for  breakfast  at  Acobamba,  only  six  miles  from 
Tarma,  from  which  we  had  been  rather  late  in  start- 
ing. Acobamba  is  a beautifully  situated  but  decaying 
hamlet,  with  about  1,500  rather  seedy  looking  inhabi- 
tants, where  not  long  ago  there  had  been  more  than 
double  that  number;  evidently  destined  before  long 
to  become  another  deserted  Sweet  Auburn,  of  which 
this  grand  Spanish  colony  furnishes  so  many  sad 
examples.  Here  already 
“Ha  f the  business  of  destruction’s  done.’’ 
Every  second  house  is  in  ruins,  and  what  had 
doubtless,  once  been  trimly  kept  gardens — 
“And  still,  where  many  a garden  flowtr  grows  wild,” 
is  now  a scene  of  desolation.  Not  without  its  interest, 
however,  and  as  one  curious  in  such  matters,  I accom- 
plished the  feat  of  scrambling  through  the  straggling 
fence,  “unprofitably  gay,”  and  I dare  confess,  ex- 
plored  the  wild  spot  with  more  real  pleasure  than  I 
would  look  upon  ^well-clipped  bushes.  Beneath  a 
jungle  of  tea  roses  were  violets  scenting  the  morning 
air,  and  many  other  exotics  as  far  from  home  as 
myself,  including  the  gaudy  geranium,  Southernwood, 
and  Gostmary — bachelor’s  buttons — 
“The  golden  rod,  and  tansy  rimniDg  high. 
That  o’er  the  fence  top  smiles  on  passer-by.” 
How  they  came  there  is  a question  we  leave  to 
others.  Buxom  women  squat  under  the  trees  indus- 
triously wearing  on  the  most  primitive  of  looms,  the 
cloth  of  which  theii  husband  s ponjo  and  trousers 
are  made,  while  their  lords,  such  as  they  are,  may 
be  seen  loafing  in  crowds  round  the  drinking’  bars 
on  the  Plaza.  The  tipple  here  is  appropriately  called 
“chichi,”  made  from  fermented  maize  and  similar 
to  the  ale  from  which  rawl  grain  whisky  is  distilled. 
By  no  means  a very  deadly  poison,  “for,”  says  our 
host,  “these  people  live  to  a great  age,  110  to  120 
years  being  not  unusual”;  but  then,  I daresay,  there 
is  no  Dr.  Orammond  in  Acobamba. 
The  padre,  we  are  told,  not  unfrequently  joins 
his  flock  in  their  drunken  orgies,  indeed,  the  so-called 
Church  festivals  seem  to  have  degenerated  into 
blasphemous  ribaldry,  enough  to  make  one  shudder 
It  is  the  boast  of  the  proud  Spaniard  that  he  has 
at  least  given  the  Peruvians  a language  and  a religion 
The  language  may  be  all  right,  but  we  cannot 
congratulate  them  upon  their  religion,  and  who  will 
dare  to  say  that  it  would  not  have  been  better  for 
them  had  they  still  been  speaking  their  native 
quichua,  and  reverently  saluting  the  glorious  rising 
sun,  as  they  wended  their  way  to  work  in  their 
well-tilled  fields  as  in  the  olden  time,  when'  industry 
formed  part  of  their  religion  ? 3 
I have  perhaps  lingered  rather  longer  over  Acobamba 
than  the  reader  could  have  wished,  but  it  is  the 
last  remnant  of  a decaying  village  I shall  at  present 
have  to  notice,  for,  with  the  exception  of  a half- 
deserted  hamlet,  called  Palca,  a few  miles  further  on 
we  see  little  more  of  the  homes  of  the  mountain 
cholas  during  our  present  journey.  The  gorge  along 
which  our  road  threads  its  way  now  gradually  nai> 
rows,  a gurgling  little  torrent  runs  at  the  bottom 
and  the  presence  of  half-hardy  little  shrubs,  growing 
without  irrigation,  shows  that  the  tail  end  of  many 
a tropical  shower  must  now  reach  this  limit  Amongst 
the  native  plants  here  may  be  noted  the  beautiful 
trailing  Eubus  and  the  Monnina:  the  bark  of  the  root 
of  this  plant  is  used  for  soap,  and  the  Peruvian  ladies 
ascribe  the  beauty  of  their  hair  to  the  use  of  it 
Amongst  other  plants  there  are  many  brilliant 
billbergias,  nightshades,  &c.  We  are  now  thirty 
miles  from  Tarma;  the  ravine  gets  narrower  and 
more  dismal-looking,  and  as  the  sun  has  already  sunk 
behind  the  mountains,  we  decide  to  halt  for  the  night 
at  a place  called  Huacapistana,  where  there  is  a very 
miserable  hovel  in  which  benighted  travellers  are 
invited  to  rest ; but  such  were  the  surroundings  and 
so  strange  were  the  bed-fellows,  that  of  that  weary 
night,  I have  still  rather  more  than  a hazy  recollection 
of  lying  watching  my  companion  trying  to  sleep  with 
a loaded  revolver  in  his  hand.  But  nothing  happened 
and  next  morning  we  were  off  betimes.  Steeper  and 
steeper  became  the  descent.  We  preferred  “ shank’s 
mare  ” to  the  already  tired  mules.  Narrower  and 
narrower  became  the  gorge,  until  it  culminated  in 
two  “ tall  cliffs  which  lift  their  awful  forms  ’’  many 
hundred  feet  high,  leaving  only  room  for  the  now 
raging  river  and  a very  narrow  path  between.  Once 
through  this,  the  valley  opens  out,  and  the  vegetation 
assumes  a more  luxuriant  aspect.  Our  aneroids  in- 
dicate an  altitude  of  3,650  feet,  and  the  moist  steamy 
heat  tells  us  that  we  are  truly  in  the  tropics.  The 
district  is  called  Chanchamayo,  where  for  twenty 
years  a number  of  Frenchmen  and  Italians  have 
been  trying  their  hand  at  coffee,  indigo,  and  su°-ar- 
cane  growing,  it  must  be  confessed,  with  very°in. 
different  success,  though  certes,  “if  vain  their  toil 
they  ought  to  blame  the  culture,  not  the  soil.”  But 
these  men  had  evidently  been  sent  out  without 
sufficient  training.  “ That  is  a splendid  specimen 
of  Cinchona,”  we  said  to  a planter,  pointing  to  a 
tree  near  his  bungalow.  “ Cinchona !”  he  exclaimed, 
in  real  amazement,  “ I lrnve  been  fifteen  years  here 
and  never  knew  I had  been  cutting  down  and  bum'1 
ing  Cinchona  trees.”  In  Chanchamayo  we  learned’ 
that  the  Convent  of  St.  Louis,  on  the  borders  of  the 
Chuncho  country,  was  about  twenty-five  miles  distant ; 
we  had  letters  of  introduction  to  the  chief  priest 
