Notes of a naturalist in South America

The aspect of the coast is not less monotonous than that of the inhabited places. The sea-board is nearly a straight line running from north to south, and, except at Mejillones, I saw no projecting headland to break its uniformity. Nearly everywhere what appears to be a range of flat-topped hills from about eight to fifteen hundred feet in height, of uniform dull grey hue unbroken by a single patch of verdure, forms the background. In truth, these seeming hills are the western margin of the great plateau of the desert of Atacama, which at its edge slopes rather steeply towards the Pacific coast, sometimes leaving a level margin of one or two miles in width, sometimes approaching within a few hundred feet of the shore. I find it difficult to form a conception of the causes which have led to this singular uniformity in the western limit of the volcanic rocks of the plateau. Whether we suppose the mass to have been originally thrown out from craters or fissures in the range of the cordillera by subaërial or submarine eruptions, we should think it inevitable that the western front should show great irregularities corresponding to greater volume of the streams of eruptive matter in some parts.

Admitting – what may be held for a certainty – that, whatever may have been the original conditions, the whole region has since been submerged, and that marine action would have levelled surface inequalities, it is not easy to understand how the uniformity in the western front could have been brought about during the period of subsequent and comparatively recent elevation. If this had occurred along an axis of elevation near to the present coast-line, the effect must have been to produce a coast-range parallel to that of the Andes, with a watershed having an eastern as well as a western slope, and accompanying disturbance of the strata, such as we find on a great scale in western North America. Some indications of such action may be seen in Chili, south of Copiapò, and further to the south, but I am not aware of any fact to justify a similar supposition respecting this part of the coast of South America.

WHITE ROCKS AT PISAGUA.

On the morning of May 3 we were anchored in front of Pisagua, which, being the port of Tarapacà, the chief centre of the nitrate deposits, is at present an active place. The houses are rather more scattered than usual, some of them being built on rising ground, apparently above the reach of earthquake waves. The range of apparent hills, fully fifteen hundred feet in height, rises steeply behind the little town, and the monotonous slope is broken by a long zigzag line marking the railway to Tarapacà. Some steep rocks rising from the sea to the south of the anchorage were in great part brilliantly white, recalling the appearance of quartz veins, or beds of crystalline limestone, dipping at a high angle. Thinking the existence of such rocks on this coast very improbable, I was anxious to inspect them; but when I was told that the time of our stay would merely allow of a short visit to the town, I did not care to land. The same appearances are common along the coast, and I soon afterwards ascertained that they are produced by the droppings of sea-birds – the same which, when accumulated in large masses, form the guano deposits of the detached rocks and islets of the coast.

In the afternoon we reached Iquique, which is, I believe, the largest of the unnatural homes of men on this coast. Some one who had gone ashore here returned, bringing copies of two newspapers, by which the public of Iquique are kept informed as to the affairs of the world. I had already seen with surprise, and had many further opportunities for observing, the extent to which the newspaper press in South America has absorbed whatever literary capacity exists in the country. Of information there is not indeed much to be gathered from these sheets; but of grand sentiments and appeals to the noblest emotions the supply seems inexhaustible. I regret to own that experience in other parts of the world had already made me somewhat distrustful of such appeals; but the result of my study of South American newspapers culminated in a severe fit of moral indigestion, and I do not yet receive in a proper spirit any appeal to the noblest sentiments of my nature.

I am far from supposing, however, that with those who read literature of this kind the debilitating effect attributed to it by some critics necessarily ensues. Some at least of the heroic virtues have survived. For a man to die for his country may not be the highest form of heroism, but in every age it has drawn forth the instinctive admiration of his fellows; and it is not at Iquique that one should think of making light of it. These waters, which, during the late war, witnessed the fight between the Esmeralda and the Huascar,14 would, in another age of the world, have become as famous as those of Salamis.

THE SEA-FIGHT AT IQUIQUE.

On the morning of May 4 we called at Huanillos, a small place of recent growth, not marked on any map that I have seen. It lies within a few miles of the mouth of the Loa, which, as laid down on maps, appears to be a considerable stream, rising in the Cordillera and traversing in a circuitous course the Bolivian part of the Atacama desert. I naturally inquired why the mouth of such a river had not been selected as the site of a port. I was informed that, in spite of the maps, no water flows through the channel of the river, and that what can be obtained by digging is brackish and unfit for drinking. Whether this arises from the fact that the trials have been made too near the shore, within reach of the infiltration of sea-water, or that all the water traversing the region inland becomes impregnated with saltpetre, I am unable to decide; but it seems probable that careful examination of the water, some of which undoubtedly finds its way underground from the Cordillera to the Pacific coast, might add considerably to the resources of the country. The cost of conveying water direct from the mountains to certain points in the interior, and thence to the coast, would possibly be repaid by the saving in fuel now used for the distillation of sea-water, to say nothing of the probability that some portions of the surface would become available for cultivation. The experience of the Isthmus of Suez, where a constantly increasing area near the course of the freshwater canal has become productive, should, I think, encourage the attempt.

SCENERY OF THE MOON.

About midday we reached Tocopilla, another place of recent creation, consisting of a large establishment with several chimneys and the usual group of sheds for the workmen. Steep rocky slopes rise close behind, and it seemed possible to see something of the conditions of life on this part of the coast without going beyond sight and hearing of the steamer. Being told that our stay was to be short, but that the steam-whistle would be sounded a first time exactly a quarter of an hour before our departure, I shouldered my tin vasculum and went ashore. Passing the houses, I at once steered for the rocky slopes behind. Here at last I found what I had often heard of, but in whose existence I had almost ceased to believe – a land absolutely without a trace of vegetable life. Among the dolomite peaks of South Tyrol I had often been told that such a peak was absolutely bare of vegetation, but had always found a fair number of plants in clefts and crevices. I had been told the same thing at Suez of the burnt-up eastward face of Djebel Attakah, where even on the exposed rocks I had been able to collect something; but here I searched utterly in vain. Not only was there no green thing; not even a speck of lichen could I detect, though I looked at the rocks through a lens. Even more than by the absence of life, I was impressed by the appearance of the surface, which showed no token that water had ever flowed over it. Every edge of rock was sharp, as if freshly broken, and on the steep slope no trace of a channel furrowed its face.15 The aspect is absolutely that of the scenery of the moon – of a world without water and without an atmosphere. I saw no insect and no lizard, no living thing, with the strange exception that on the rocks nearest the houses there were several small birds, which appeared to be rather shy, and which I was not able to approach. I was afterwards told that these birds live on the grain which they are able to steal or to pick out from the manure in the stables, where a few horses and mules are kept for the needs of the place. Assuming this to be correct, the arrival of the birds at such a place remains a mystery.

A passenger who had spent some time at this singular place further told me that the horses, constantly fed on dry grain, and receiving but a scanty ration of distilled sea-water, usually become blind, but do not otherwise suffer in health. He added a story to the effect that some palings which had been painted green were found a few days after covered with marks of teeth, and with the paint almost completely removed. The mules, attracted by the colour, had sought the refreshment of green food, and had vainly gnawed away the painted surface.

However singular the aspect of nature in this place might be, it could not long detain a naturalist. A world without life is soon found to be monotonous; and after clambering about for some time, and satisfying myself that there was nothing to be found, I turned to the shore, where broken shells and other remains of marine animals presented at least some variety. Seaweeds appeared to be scarce, but some were to be seen in the little pools left among the rocks by the retreating tide.

Just as I was about to collect some objects which might have been of interest, the steam-whistle of the Ayacucho summoned me to return to the ship. As I was by this time at some distance from the landing-place, I hurried back under a blazing sun, and reached the ship within less than twenty minutes, only to find that haste was quite superfluous, as we did not start until more than an hour later.

ANTOFAGASTA.

The sun had already set when we reached Cobija. This was, I believe, the first place inhabited on this part of the coast. Before the late war, Bolivia held the coast from the mouth of the Loa to the Tropic of Capricorn, a tract of about one hundred and sixty miles, rich in mineral wealth, the whole of which, along with the adjoining provinces of Peru, is now annexed to Chili. Cobija, which was a place of some importance, is now much reduced, and little business seems to be carried on there.

Early on the 5th of May we were before Antofagasta, now the most thriving place on this coast, if a place can be said to thrive which exists under such unnatural conditions. It is, however, slightly better off than its neighbours to the north. A gentleman who resided here for some time assured me that at intervals of five or six years a heavy fall of rain occurs here. At such times not only the coast region, but the Atacama desert lying between the Cordillera and the sea is speedily covered with fresh vegetation, which after a few months is dried up and disappears. At such times the guanacos descend from the mountains, and actually reach the coast.

We must, without my attention being called to the fact while in my cabin, have turned back to the northward after leaving Antofagasta, as in the dusk we were before Mejillones, which lies fully thirty miles north of the former place. It stands on a little bay, well sheltered from the south by a considerable rocky promontory, and, as I had been led to expect, the ground is here broken and irregular, offering more promise of safe retreat for the indigenous vegetation than anywhere else on this coast. I had looked forward with interest to an hour or two on this more promising ground, and it was a disappointment to be unable to profit by a comparatively long stay, for we remained at anchor after nightfall, embarking cargo and some passengers until midnight. For the third time within twenty-four hours we crossed the Tropic of Capricorn, and thenceforward remained in the south temperate zone. But in this region the term is in no way specially appropriate to the coast climate of Chili, for nothing can be more truly temperate than that of the so-called tropical zone which we were now leaving. During the voyage from Callao the thermometer properly shaded had but once (while anchored at Arica) reached 70° Fahr. It usually stood by night at 64° to 65°, and at about 68° by day, except occasionally when exposed to the cool southern breeze, when it fell rapidly on two occasions, marking only 62·2°.

My aneroid barometer by Casella, graduated only to 19 inches, and therefore useless during my visit to the Cordillera, did not appear to have suffered, as these instruments often do, by the reduced pressure. It did not vary during seven days by so much as one-twentieth of an inch from the constant pressure 29·9, and agreed closely with the ship’s mercurial barometer. Perhaps, owing to the fact that my observations were not sufficiently frequent and recorded with sufficient accuracy, I failed to detect on this coast of America the daily oscillations of pressure, which in this latitude probably amount to about one-twentieth of an inch.

UNIFORMITY OF THE CLIMATE.

On the 6th of May we reached Taltal, a small place, the general aspect of which reminded me of Tocopilla, and my first impression on landing was that this was equally devoid of vegetable and animal life. But on reaching the rocky slope, which rises very near the landing-place, I at once perceived some indications of water having flowed over the surface, and in the course of the short half-hour which was allowed ashore I found three flowering plants, two of them in a condition to be determined, the third dried up and undistinguishable. In the evening we touched at Chañeral, a place rising into importance as being the port of a rich mining district. The southerly breeze had been rather stronger than usual during the afternoon, and some passengers complained of the motion of the ship. An addition of seventy tons of copper in the hold, which was shipped here by torchlight, appeared to have a remarkable effect in steadying the vessel.

We reached Caldera early on the 7th, and remained for five or six hours. This is the port of Copiapò, the chief town of Northern Chili – the only one, indeed, which could have grown up under natural conditions. A considerable stream, the Rio de Copiapò, which drains the western slope of the Cordillera, passes by the town. Caldera, the port, is not at the mouth of the river, but several miles further north, and water is doubtless conveyed there in some abundance, as, for the first time since leaving Arica, a few bushes in little enclosed gardens could be descried from the harbour, and I was afterwards shown two stately trees, the ornament of the place, which were nearly fifteen feet in height. I went inland about a mile and a half, visiting a slight eminence where the rock, evidently very recent, crops out at the surface, and one or two other promising spots. Most of the country was covered with sand, in places soft and deep, and anywhere else in the world I should have thought it wretchedly barren, but after my recent experience the meagre vegetation appeared almost luxuriant.

There is much interest attaching to the flora of this desert region of South-western America. The species which grow here are the more or less modified representatives of plants which at some former period existed under very different conditions of life. In some of them the amount of modification has been very slight, the species, it may be presumed, possessing a considerable power of adaptation. Thus one composite of the sun-flower family, which I found here, and also at Payta, is but a slight variety of Encelia canescens,16 which I had seen growing luxuriantly in the gravelly bed of the Rimac near Lima, and along that river to a height of six thousand feet above the sea. In this parched region the plant is stunted, and the leaves are hoary with minute white hairs, which may serve as a protection against evaporation. The same species, with other slight modifications, extends to all the drier portions of the western coast as far south as Central Chili. A dwarf shrub with yellow flowers like those of a jessamine, but with very different two-horned fruit, called Skytanthus, was an example of a much greater amount of change. Its only allies are two species in tropical Brazil, very different in appearance, though nearly similar in essential structure. We may safely conclude that a long period has elapsed since these forms diverged from a common stock, and that many intermediate links have perished during the interval.

BRITISH PACIFIC SQUADRON.

Several of the ships composing the British Pacific squadron were lying at Caldera at this time, and after returning from my short excursion ashore, I went on board the Triumph, Captain Albert Markham, bearing the flag of Admiral Lyons, commander-in-chief. With regret I declined the admiral’s hospitable invitation to accompany the squadron to Valparaiso, but I was unable to refuse Captain Markham’s kind suggestion that, as his ship was under orders to return to England on the arrival of the Swiftsure, then expected, I should become his guest on the passage from Valparaiso to Montevideo. The Triumph having been detained in Chilian waters many weeks longer than was then expected, I was afterwards forced to forego the agreeable prospect of a voyage in company with an officer whose varied accomplishments and extensive observation of nature under the most varied conditions make his society equally agreeable and instructive.

Leaving Caldera soon after midday, the Ayacucho reached Coquimbo early on the following morning. With only the exception of Talcahuano, this is the best port in Chili, being sheltered from all troublesome winds, and affording good anchorage for large ships. The town of La Serena, the chief place in this part of Chili, stands on moderately high ground about two miles from the sea, and may be reached in about twenty minutes from the port by frequent trains which travel to and fro. We were warned that our stay was to be very short, and that those who went to the city could not remain there for more than half an hour. I had no difficulty in deciding to forego the attractions of the city, whatever they might be, for a far more tempting alternative offered itself. The range of low but rather steep slopes that rises immediately behind the chief line of street was actually dotted over with bushes, veritable bushes, and the unusual greenish-grey tint of the soil announced that it was at least partially covered with vegetation. In the spring, as I was assured, the hue is quite a bright green. To a man who for the preceding week had seen nothing on land but naked rocks or barren sand, the somewhat parched and meagre vegetation of Coquimbo appeared irresistibly attractive. I could not expect to add anything of value to what is already known, through the writings of Darwin and other travellers, respecting the evidences of elevation of the coast afforded by the raised terraces containing recent shells, whose seaward face forms the seeming hills behind the town, and I felt free to give every available moment to collecting the singular plants of this region.

IMMUNITY OF THE BOTANIST.

One of the minor satisfactions of a naturalist in South America arises from the fact that the inhabitants are so thoroughly used to seeing strangers of every nationality, and in the most varied attire, that his appearance excites no surprise and provokes no uncivil attentions. Going about almost always alone, with a large tin box slung across my back, I never found myself even stared at, which, in most parts of Europe, is the least inconvenience that befalls a solitary botanist. The amount of attention varies, indeed, in different countries. In Sicily and in Syria one is an object of general curiosity, and one’s every movement, as that of a strange animal, watched by a silent crowd; but it is only in Spain that the inoffensive stranger is subject to personal molestation, and the little boys pelt him with stones without rebuke or interference from their seniors, who nevertheless boast of their national courtesy.17 Fortunately it nowhere occurs to the most ill-disposed populations that a shabbily dressed man, engaged in grubbing up plants by the roots, can be worth robbing. Usually regarded as the assistant to some pharmacist, the botanist is, I think, less subject to molestation than the follower of any other pursuit; his only difficulty being that, if ignorant of the healing art, he cuts a poor figure when applied to for medical advice.

Quite unnoticed, I made my way through the long street of Coquimbo, and, at the first favourable opportunity, turned up a lane leading to the slopes above the town. The first plant that I saw, close to the houses, was a huge specimen of the common European Marrubium vulgare, grown to the dimensions of a much-branched bush four or five feet high. It is common in temperate South America, reaching a much greater size than in Europe. The season was, of course, very unfavourable, the condition of the vegetation being very much what may be seen at the corresponding season – late autumn – in Southern Spain, before the first winter rain has awakened the dormant vegetation of the smaller bulbous-rooted plants. Nevertheless, I found several very curious and rare plants still in flower, some of them known only from this vicinity, and among them a dwarf cactus, only three or four inches in height, with comparatively large crimson flowers just beginning to expand.

At length, on the morning of May 9, the voyage came to an end as we slowly steamed into the harbour of Valparaiso, which, with the large amount of shipping and the conspicuous floating docks, gives an impression of even greater importance than it actually possesses. The modern town, built in European fashion, with houses of two and even three floors above the ground, on the curved margin of the bay partly reclaimed from the sea, and the older town, chiefly perched on the edge of the plateau some two hundred feet above the main street, and divided by the deep ravines (quebradas) that converge towards the bay, have been described by many travellers; but I do not remember to have seen any sufficient warning as to the frightful peril to which the majority of the population is constantly exposed. Over and over again earthquakes have destroyed towns in western South America. Houses built of slight materials, with a ground floor only, or at most with a single floor above it, may fall without entailing much loss of life; but it is frightful to contemplate the amount of destruction of life and property that must ensue if a violent shock should ever visit Valparaiso. And the peril is twofold; the great wave which is the usual sequel of a violent earthquake, would inevitably destroy whatever might survive the first shock in the crowded streets of the lower town.

VALPARAISO.

After overcoming the preliminary difficulties of landing and passing my luggage through the custom-house, I proceeded to the Hotel Colon, in the main street, kept by a French proprietor to whose lively conversation I owed much information and amusement during my short stay. Some three hours were occupied by a few visits, a stroll through the chief streets, and the despatch of a telegram to Buenos Ayres. Not choosing to incur the heavy expense of a telegram from Valparaiso to England, I had availed myself of the courtesy of the officials of the Royal Mail Steamboat Company to arrange that a telegram from Valparaiso to Buenos Ayres should be forwarded by post from the latter place, thus saving fully three weeks’ time. In the afternoon I climbed up one of the steep tracks leading to the upper part of the town, where the population mainly consists of the poorest class. The houses were small and frail looking, but fairly clean, and I nowhere saw indications of abject want, such as may too often be witnessed in the outskirts of a large European city.

Valparaiso has all the air of a busy place, with some features to which we are not used in Europe. Along the line of the narrow main street tramcars are constantly passing to and fro. The names over the shops, many of which are large and handsome, are mainly foreign, German being, perhaps, in a majority; but the important mercantile houses are chiefly English, and, except among the poorer class, the English language appears to be predominant. All people engaged in business acquire it when young, and very many of Spanish descent speak it with fluency and correctness. The Hotel Colon stands between the main street and a broad quay, part of the space reclaimed from the margin of the bay, and my windows overlooked the busy scene, thronged from daylight till evening with a crowd of men and vehicles. It was somewhat startling to see frequent railway trains run through the crowd, with no other precaution than the swinging of a large bell on the locomotive to warn people to get out of the way.