Pacific Shores From Panama/The Oroya Railway

AND then there is the Oroya Railway.

What city in the world can boast such an attraction at its very doors? Where else can you, in the short space of a few hours, ascend from the coast, from palms and mango groves, bananas and tropical gardens, to the snow and ice of eternal winter, to heights above the utmost summit of Mont Blanc?

All this is possible through the pluck, ingenuity, and indomitable perseverance of a certain American promoter, a picturesque figure of the sixties, Henry Meiggs. He it was who conceived this gigantic scheme to scale the dizzy steeps of the Andes, and he it was who carried to execution this first railroad, and the only one that crosses these icy summits at ​such an elevation, to this day the "highest railway in the world." No matter what else you may see in this mundane sphere of ours, you will never forget the day you climbed the Oroya Railway.

We made the trip under exceptionally favourable auspices. A private car, most comfortable in all its appointments, was put at our disposal, and in it we lived, with two excellent servants to care for us.

Instead of leaving Lima by the early morning train, as is usually done, our car was attached to the afternoon passenger and left at Chosica for the night, a station about twenty-five miles distant and a little less than three thousand feet above the sea, used as a resort, a sort of cure d'air, by the Limanians. After dinner we walked about its streets, and, in the semi-darkness of the tropic night, enjoyed its villas set in palm gardens, their windows and doors wide open and the occupants sitting upon verandas or chatting in the brightly lighted drawing-rooms.

As I awoke in the early morning I could hear our engine breathlessly climbing from height to height, puffing like a winded horse, and could see in the grey, dim dawn the long fingers of banana-trees swaying in the breeze and the clustered palms rustling their dry

​leaves. Dark-blue slaty hills shut us in, and at the bottom of the gorge the Rimac stormed along, a roaring torrent.

As it grew lighter we reached the first switchback, the only device used on this wonderful road, standard gauge, to overcome the difficulties of climbing the dizzy heights. Here, too, we came upon the first andenes, those Inca terraces still in use, irrigated with painstaking toil by canals that deflect the waters of the river along the faces of the cliffs. Below us lay the narrow river valley, divided, like a large green relief map, into states and territories by wriggly stone walls, and dotted here and there with cattle, impossibly small.

The vegetation was changing. Along the track grew strange cacti whose long green fingers stood erect and serried as organ pipes. Loquats and figs and masses of wild heliotrope were still to be seen, though we had passed the six-thousand-foot level.

We slowed down at Matucana while the engine took a drink, and we had a glimpse of its clean little hotel and gaily painted houses opposite the station. Two Franciscan friars and a group of serranos, mountaineers, in ponchos, or bright skirts, disappeared ​within the little pink church for early mass. Early mass! And we had already climbed more than a mile in altitude that morning.

But we were only beginning our ascent. Our engine, having caught its breath and greased its joints, started again to puff and snort and haul us from switchback to switchback. In the next ten miles we attained the ten-thousand-foot level, and as I looked on the one hand at the dullish purple cliffs with their varied stratifications and at the deep-red ones opposite, I thought of the Colorado Midlands and of the splendours of Marshall Pass, and of the time, years ago, when the crossing of that divide, at the same altitude that we now were, constituted an accomplishment of considerable moment.

From our observation platform at the rear of the train we looked down into giddy abysses where the Rimac now raced in a succession of cascades, while above us towered great crags covered with tunas and cacti. Every now and then a snow-peak would appear, touching the heavens. The sun had burst forth, dispelling the morning vapours. We penetrated into a region of glistening granite and porphyry. The Rimac boiled through a chasm and disappeared

​into a cave. Between two tunnels we breathlessly crossed the Infiernillo Bridge—well named in this chaos of Hades.

The air became decidedly cooler, not to say cold, after the soft warmth of the coast, and the mountain people that we saw, wrapped in shawls and woollens, showed this change. At the next station we spied the first llamas, those strange Peruvian beasts of burden, with liquid, scornful eyes and ears tipped with red worsteds, silently munching by the track. In an instant they were gone as we sped along upward. What walls to climb, what cliffs! Switchback and loop, tunnel and bridge, higher and ever higher we go! In the next two miles we climbed five hundred feet; after that three thousand more in but fifteen miles.

We had now ascended to a bleak and stony wilderness. The mighty Rimac had dwindled to a tiny stream, a thread of water but a few feet wide, boiling over the rocks. Vegetation there was none. Soft, fleecy clouds gathered again about us, and here, nearly fourteen thousand feet above the sea, Pedro served us our lunch. It was no common experience, I assure you, to partake of so delicate a repast almost ​three miles above the sea: alligator pears at the beginning, fresh-picked that morning at Chosica, chirimoyas and wonderful Italian grapes from Ica at the end, and in between fresh green corn, though it was the month of March!

And what a panorama from the window before which the table was spread! Oh, the grandeur and the beauty of colour of this high Cordillera, its dark greys spotted by golden greens, the gamuts of reds and ochres and chromes of the great coppery mountains that shut us in! The last two hundred feet of altitude was apparently the steepest grade—the greatest strain of all—for our engine snorted continuously and stopped to catch its breath and get up steam again to fight this extraordinary altitude. Again we looked into bottomless pits; again we passed through tunnel after tunnel, and at last emerged upon the verge of Lake Ticlio—a pale-green mirror of murky water, barren as a landscape on the moon. Beyond it rose bald snow-peaks, gaunt and desolate. Breathless, we had reached the summit of the pass up above the clouds, again in the sunshine.

At Ticlio our car was detached and we were ​switched off on the Morococha branch, to begin to climb once more. Not for long, however; only to Anticona, a desolate spot without a house in sight, but the highest point ever yet attained by any railroad, fifteen thousand eight hundred and sixty-five feet above the sea-level.

The frozen peaks of the Black Cordillera, seamed with greenish glaciers and deep crevasses, encompassed the lakes of Anticona, one green, one purple, below which other lakes in the clouds at times appeared, then hid again in flying vapours. We skirted each of these lakes in turn, one after the other, and, as we crossed the last of them upon a narrow causeway, beheld visions of others still, lower, matchless in colour, about which the ground was scratched and rasped by greedy human hands digging in the copper mines of Morococha.

Morococha lies in a valley between the last two lakes, its yellow-ochre houses scarcely visible, so well do they harmonise with their dark surroundings. We were welcomed at the station by two American engineers—strange to find at this extraordinary altitude. While we were talking to them a loud clap of thunder suddenly broke the stillness, the clouds ​gathered thickly, and one of those swift Andean thunder-storms, so common at these heights, was unchained about us. What deluges! what a roaring of the elements! For our return journey to Ticlio a transformation had taken place. The snow was falling heavily, the green and purple lakes had now become leaden and angry-looking, and the peaks and their glaciers were enveloped alike in a thick white mantle, only a crag or two emerging here and there, like the black tippets upon an ermine cloak.

In the chaos of snorting engine and warring elements, we were attached at Ticlio to a lone locomotive and proceeded as a special through the long Galera tunnel that pierces an abutment of the Monte Meiggs (named for the builder of the road), the highest point on the main line. It was about four o'clock as we sped down the eastern slopes to the great central plateau of Peru, through a perfect avenue of giant mountains, the snow falling unceasingly until it changed to rain, and green valleys began to succeed the snow-fields. At six o'clock we pulled into Oroya for the night.

OROYA proved, by the morning light, to be but a desolate little town set in a valley walled about by high grey mountains and drained by a saffron-tinted river that rushed madly toward the south. The natives peddling vegetables in the street or huddled about the station, the llama-trains in the corrals, the quaint music of a primitive harp that floated in the air gave us a foretaste of what we were now setting out to see: the market at Huancayo.

The sun did not top the great bald mountains until nine o'clock, and at ten we drew out of the station en route for Xauxa. The track followed the course of the Mantaro River, descending, as it did so, to a succession of lower valleys, one after another, that grew richer and more productive as we sped along. Here, under this tropical sun, ten to eleven thousand feet seems to be about the right altitude. This ​the Incas realised, for the principal seats of their civilisation lay in these inland valleys hemmed in by the mighty Cordillera.

Now, at the end of the rainy season (their March corresponds to our September), all was lovely and green. Fields of alfalfa succeeded to barley patches, the rocky ledges glowed with yellow marguerites, and spans of big white oxen dragged primitive wooden ploughs through the earth, softened by rains. In more arid spots a lonely shepherdess would sit with her dog watching her grazing herd. Cattle and sheep raising is the chief industry of the country, for the hay and grass continually resows itself.

At the end of the valley lay Llocllapampa, an old Quichua town, set in olive-groves and fields of wild mustard. Beyond it we ran alongside of a cactus-bordered road that from time to time crossed torrents pouring down from the mountains to swell the mighty Amazon. This was the sort of highway that Pizarro followed when he marched upon Cuzco from Caxamarca, and these were the very valleys through which he passed, whose simple natives stood amazed at his men of steel bestriding great animals beside which their llamas looked small and tame indeed.

​At one point in our ride some sheep and cattle were grazing along the track and two mounted

Entrance to a Corral, Oroya

herdsmen in vivid ponchos came to round them up, galloping across a frail bridge that rocked and swayed under the weight of their horses, being slung across ​the chasm only by means of willow withes like those the Incas used to twist.

But the Spanish have definitely imposed their imprint on the land. The pink-roofed villages that hug the hillsides are true bits of Spain; the cemeteries, walled about and towered at the corners, are Hispanic in character, and the haciendas are all of the Spanish type.

Now the country grew wild and treeless again, and we passed through a gorge mined out by water like the Grand Canyon of the Colorado. And then, in a veritable oasis of eucalyptus groves, lying in the broad valley whose richness was so often mentioned by the ancient chroniclers, we came upon Xauxa sunning its pink-tiled roofs in the afternoon light.

The station lies just beyond the town, and is walled about and enclosed by gates like most of the principal depots along the Peruvian railways. So it was with pleasant anticipation that we looked forward to a peaceful night in our comfortable car out under the stars in the country.

Dazzling white houses, whose broad eaves stretch out to shade the narrow sidewalks, border the streets that lead to the plaza—a vast square out of all pro​portion to the low buildings that surround it and to the market uses to which it is put. It was none the less picturesque with its wriggling lines of vendors

The Plaza, Xauxa

squatting in the shade of their primitive parasols and its churches and public buildings ranged about it.

The most important church is a large edifice of no special architectural interest, being a sort of echo of the Cathedral of Lima. But its interior has escaped restoration and makes a dignified appearance with its white walls and single barrel-vault that frame a ​superb reredos occupying the entire east end of the church—one of those amazing structures, gilded, painted, and ornamented with statues, pictures, columns, and cornices that, in this case, are held well within bounds, restrained, and fretted by the rich but flat detail of the plateresque rather than the wanton exuberance of the baroque. What a treasure-trove for some museum, this fine piece of Spanish art hidden in the mountains of Peru!

With some difficulty we found a crazy old carriage to drive us out to call upon a charming Spanish family who possess a villa on the banks of a lake some distance down the valley. The rough road led off through lanes of century plants into the open country.

Now we could see the hills behind the town crowned with Inca ruins—sole remnants of the very considerable Indian town that once played so conspicuous a part in the Wars of the Conquest and the civil wars that followed. Here, along the Mantaro, the Inca warriors, relying upon the width of the river as a barrier, made their first determined stand against Pizarro during his march upon Cuzco. But the impetuosity of the Spanish riders, whose horses plunged ​into the stream, swimming and wading to the opposite bank, soon put them to rout and sent them fleeing toward the mountains.

Here, too, at Xauxa, Pizarro spent many anxious days awaiting news of De Soto, sent ahead to reconnoitre; and, further to add to his troubles, his creature, the young Inca Toparca, whom he had set upon the throne of Atahualpa, died, a victim, it was supposed, of poison.

The ride to the lake gave us a pretty glimpse of this valley of Xauxa with its sheep grazing in the meadows, its long files of eucalypti and clusters of tincurals, and its flights of beautiful birds, eddying and dipping and soaring aloft in brilliant yellow clouds—principally hilgueros and trigueros—that, when they alighted in the cactus-hedges, sang as sweetly as canaries.

The villa that we visited was set upon the very waters of the lake, the long reeds brushing the veranda as they bowed in the breeze. The air was balmy, like a lovely day in spring—soft, yet with a delicious tang in it. A little removed from the shore, a group of flamingoes stood, pink and rosy, one-legged in the water. The children were presented ​for our inspection; one of the señoritas "touched" the piano; we were offered refreshments, and then before sunset started back for the town.
A Native Family, Huancayo At dawn next morning I felt a bump and then realised that we were moving. Grey silhouettes of trees and fainter silhouettes of mountains flitted past the window.

We had been anxious to see the great market at Huancayo, and, as there is no train on Sunday morning, a special engine had been sent up for our car, so that we pulled in to the station before seven o'clock.

In spite of the early hour all was in a bustle, and when we walked into the main plaza, what a sight met our eyes! This plaza, surrounded by low houses, forms a part, as it were, of a main street broad enough ​for a metropolitan boulevard, yet it and the square were a compact, seething mass of humanity and beasts. They told us that there were between ten

Corner of the Indian Market, Huancayo

and twelve thousand Indians at that morning's market, and I fully believe it.

In the great square itself the men stood about for the most part, bartering and talking, arrayed in gaudy ponchos and wide-rimmed hats. The women were sitting in circular groups upon the ground, eating their morning meal of steaming food, dipping it ​out of earthen vessels with the spoons whose handles pin their shawls at the shoulder like the Roman agrafes, or they squatted in long lines from end to end of the plaza, forming, with their bright shawls, and their vivid wares wrapped in woven bags and blankets, a huge crazy quilt covering every foot of available space.

It was a bewildering scene indeed, this multitude of bright colours, relieved against the low houses in whose tiendas men and women sat drinking those tiny glasses filled apparently with water, but in reality with the fiery alcohol, almost pure, distilled on the sugar plantations along the coast. At one end stood a great mud-coloured ruin—of a church, I think, with sightless windows and an open portal—around whose base great herds of llamas and donkeys stood gathered in picturesque confusion. Down the street came water-carriers, staggering along among vendors of coca and bright aniline dyes that would delight a post-impressionist's heart, while along the curbs sat the sellers of ollas and drinking-gourds, of ponchos and saddles, of yellow earthen pottery and big vessels for cooking the chupe, their national dish.

Our wanderings finally brought us to the far end of ​the main street just in time to see the garrison, a battalion of infantry, march out of its barracks with colours flying and headed by its band. The officers were Peruvians of Spanish descent, but the rank and file seemed entirely of Indian origin. They marched well, however, and looked like neat and self-respecting soldiers. When I asked why they paraded thus during the full market, I was told that every Sunday this was done to stimulate interest in the army and show the Indian youths what fine fellows they would be when their time came for military service.

Half an hour later the cracked bells of the church began to chime, and we walked back to the little square in front of it. Here, nearly twelve thousand feet above the sea, sweet-peas and calla lilies, roses, dahlias, and geraniums were blazing in a perfect riot of colour. Inside the church all was hushed and still. Women in black rebosos, or gaily coloured shawls, sat or knelt upon the stone floor, and a crowd of men stood near the high altar where three officiants were celebrating low mass.

It was a picture of quiet dignity, this church interior, the groups silhouetting handsomely against the pale-tinted walls and the gilded side-altars, the ​alcaldes from the mountain villages standing apart, leaning upon their long canes bound about with silver, badges of the mayor's office. As the women removed their hats to cover their heads with shawls, coca leaves fell fluttering to the ground, and we noticed many of them wearing these same leaves pasted on their temples to deaden headaches.

We were asked by the mayor of the city to go informally with him to the Club Nacional, my wife being included in the invitation, though she was the only lady present. We enjoyed the experience, especially the Incaic music that followed, played by an Indian, a descendant of the old stock. It was our first opportunity to hear these weird melodies, so sad, so plaintive in tone, so strange in their syncopations, that were to follow us wherever we went in the mountains. He played, turn by turn, the old Inca dances, the yaravis sung by the women, and the gay marmeras danced nowadays by the common people all over Peru. What an interesting opera could be woven upon these themes, with the romantic history of the Incas and the scenery of the country and quaint customs of these mountain people as a background!

​Some of the Indian women are quite handsome, with their straight noses, full lips, and bronze-coloured skin, smooth and soft, that glistens in the sun. The men, too, have the hardy type of mountaineers: their legs bare, fine, and strong, their chests deep, and their heads erect. Though dirty personally, their town is surprisingly clean for an isolated mountain community.

The alcalde dined with us that evening, and we had an interesting discussion of Peruvian politics.

We had half planned to visit Santa Rosa de Ocopa, a monastery in the mountains, upon our return journey; but that did not prove feasible, so we proceeded directly back to Oroya, at which station we arrived several hours behind our schedule. To this fact, however, we owed one of the most wonderful impressions of our entire trip: the crossing of the pass at sunset.

As we emerged from the Galera tunnel that pierces Mount Meiggs at the top of the grade, nearly sixteen thousand feet above the sea, great clouds piled high about the summits of the mountains, whose peaks, copper, ashen, silver, or coral, stood glistening with eternal glaciers. As we started down the grade the evening mists began to rise, hurrying upward from ​gorge, valley, and precipice to swell the gathering vapours—caught by winds and air currents, eddying hither and thither like the fumes from a witch's caldron. In these flying, ghost-like forms lakes appeared and disappeared from time to time, hanging suspended, as it were, in mid-air.

Embattled peaks rose enormous through the fog, their bulk doubled by the mist, just as the depth of the gorges was rendered doubly terrifying by the mystery of bottomless pits and precipices whose bases were swallowed in swirling vapours.

As we descended, the sun, with its last rays, shot shafts of lurid light through these scurrying mists that thus became great tongues of fire, licking the mountains like the flames of a giant conflagration—a Walhalla, a glorious apotheosis to this wonderful ride in the Andes.

We passed the night at Matucana, half-way down the grade, and in the morning came down to Lima, to sea-level and the warmth of banana groves, jasmine, and heliotrope after the snow and ice of the mountains.