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Morality and Political Violence 1st Edition C. A. J. Coady
Digital Instant Download
Author(s): C. A. J. Coady
ISBN(s): 9780521560009, 0521560004
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 1.49 MB
Year: 2007
Language: english
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Morality and Political Violence

Political violence in the form of wars, insurgencies, terrorism, and

violent rebellion constitutes a major human challenge today as it has
so often in the past. It is a challenge not only to life and limb, but also
to morality itself. In this book, C. A. J. Coady brings a philosophical
and ethical perspective to the subject. He places the problems of war
and political violence in the frame of reflective ethics. In clear and
accessible language, Coady reexamines a range of urgent problems
pertinent to political violence against the background of a contempo-
rary approach to just war thinking. The problems examined include
the right to make war, the right way to conduct war, terrorism, revolu-
tion, humanitarianism, mercenary warriors, conscientious objection,
combatant and noncombatant status, the ideal of peace and the right
way to end war, pacifism, weapons of mass destruction, and supreme
emergency exemptions from just war prohibition. Coady attempts
to vindicate the relevance of the just war tradition to contemporary
problems without applying the tradition in a merely mechanical or
uncritical fashion.

C. A. J. Coady is an Australian philosopher with an international repu-

tation for his research in both epistemology and political and applied
philosophy. In addition to his academic work, he is a regular contrib-
utor to public debate on topics having to do with ethical and philo-
sophical dimensions of current affairs. A professor of philosophy at
the University of Melbourne, he has served as the founding director
of the Centre for Philosophy and Public Issues and the deputy direc-
tor of the Centre for Applied Philosophy and Public Ethics and head
of its University of Melbourne division. In 2005, he gave the Uehiro
Lectures on practical ethics at Oxford University.

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Morality and Political Violence

C. A. J. COADY
University of Melbourne

iii
CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS
Cambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town, Singapore, São Paulo

Cambridge University Press

The Edinburgh Building, Cambridge CB2 8RU, UK
Published in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York

www.cambridge.org
Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9780521560009
© Cambridge University Press 2008

This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the

provision of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part
may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press.
First published in print format 2008

ISBN-13 978-0-511-48034-8 eBook (NetLibrary)

ISBN-13 978-0-521-56000-9 hardback

Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy

of urls for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication,
and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain,
accurate or appropriate.
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For my parents, Phyllis and Jack, in gratitude

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The air is loud with death,

The dark air spurts with fire,
The explosions ceaseless are.
Isaac Rosenberg,
“Dead Man’s Dump”

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Contents

Preface page ix

1 Staring at Armageddon 1
2 The Idea of Violence 21
3 Violence and Justice 43
4 Aggression, Defence, and Just Cause 68
5 Justice with Prudence 88
6 The Right Way to Fight 107
7 The Problem of Collateral Damage 132
8 The Morality of Terrorism 154
9 The Immunities of Combatants 179
10 Morality and the Mercenary Warrior 205
11 Objecting Morally 228
12 Weapons of Mass Destruction 249
13 The Ideal of Peace 263
14 The Issue of Stringency 283

Bibliography 301
Index 313

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Preface

My interest in war and related forms of political violence dates back to my

early childhood, when, before conscription was instituted, my father volun-
teered for service in World War II. I recall being shocked when I realised
that war involved people who didn’t know each other and had no direct
grievance against each other trying desperately to kill each other because
they were on opposite “sides.” My shock was of course all the greater and
more personal for the realisation that my father might kill or be killed. He
was not killed or physically wounded, as it happens, though he took part
in one of the bloodiest battles of the Australian involvement in the Pacific
war against the Japanese on the island of Tarakan off the Borneo coast. I
don’t know what part he played in the killing of enemy soldiers, since, like
many combat soldiers, he was most reluctant to speak to his family of his
war service.
Since then, my conviction that there is something affronting, even absurd,
and certainly morally problematic about the resort to war has been strength-
ened by reading and reflection about war’s reality. I have never myself expe-
rienced what Keegan once called “the face of battle,” and hope never to do
so. My nearest brush with military realities was when I had a commission
from the British (and, sadly, still Australian) queen as a cadet lieutenant
in my school cadet corps and learned the arcane skills of firing the Bren
gun, the .303 rifle, and the anti-tank six-pounder. All these weapons were,
even then, antiquated, and are now almost antique, so I hardly qualify as “a
trained killer,” but I got a whiff of the atmosphere of military training, and
it did nothing to promote the romance of war for me.
I will not here elaborate my position on political violence, since what
follows is an attempt to do that, but I will foreshadow my attitude. I am sym-
pathetic to some strands in the just war tradition, but also to some central
elements in the pacifist tradition. Indeed, I think that there is more conver-
gence between the two traditions than is usually acknowledged. The third
tradition often invoked in the discussion of war and political violence more
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x Preface

generally is the one known as realism, and again I think that there is more
affinity between central elements in realism (understood as the creation of
political theorists like Morgenthau) and the just war tradition than is usually
allowed. But to say this much is only to gesture at a position; my defence of
it is to be found in what follows.
I owe thanks to many people and many institutions. In the course of
researching and writing this book over far too many years, I have published
articles on the themes of a number of its chapters in learned journals, and I
must thank various journal publishers for allowing me to make use of rewrit-
ten versions of those articles or extracts from them. The journals are Ethics,
Inquiry, Philosophy, The American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly, The Journal of
Applied Philosophy, and The Journal of Ethics. I thank Jeff Ross for permission
to use some material in Chapter 13 that I wrote for our joint publication in
The American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly (2000), “St. Augustine and the
Ideal of Peace.” I have also drawn upon work of mine that has appeared
in edited books, most notably in The Encyclopedia of Ethics, second edition,
ed. Laurence and Charlotte Becker (Routledge, 2001); Terrorism and Justice:
Moral Argument in a Threatened World, ed. C. A. J. Coady and Michael O’Keefe
(Melbourne University Press, 2002); A Companion to Applied Ethics, ed. R. G.
Frey and K. Wellman (Blackwell, 2003); Ethics and Foreign Intervention, ed.
Deen K. Chatterjee and Don Scheid (Cambridge University Press, 2003);
Terrorism: The Philosophical Issues, ed. Igor Primoratz (Palgrave, 2004); Ethics
and Weapons of Mass Destruction, ed. Sohail Hashmi and Steven Lee (Cam-
bridge University Press, 2004); Ethics of Terrorism and Counter-Terrorism, ed.
Georg Meggle (Ontos Verlag, 2005); and Righteous Violence: The Ethics and
Politics of Military Intervention, ed. Tony Coady and Michael O’Keefe (Mel-
bourne University Press, 2005). My thanks to the publishers for permission
to draw upon these writings.
I have been supported in my research by the University of Melbourne
and its Philosophy Department and by the Centre for Philosophy and Public
Issues (CPPI) and later the Centre for Applied Philosophy and Public Ethics
(CAPPE) at the University of Melbourne. I also gratefully acknowledge sev-
eral grants and a Senior Fellowship from the Australian Research Council,
and Fellowships at the University Center for Human Values at Princeton Uni-
versity (1993–94), Corpus Christi College Oxford (2005), and the United
States Institute of Peace in Washington, D.C. (1999–2000). I learned from
my participation in a variety of workshops and seminars on issues to do
with the themes of this book at the University of Melbourne, the Center for
International Security and Cooperation (CISAC) at Stanford University, the
Institute for Philosophy and Public Policy at the University of Maryland, the
Philosophy Department at the University of Arizona in Tucson, the Jean Beer
Blumenfeld Centre for Ethics at Georgia State University, Princeton Univer-
sity (both the Center for Human Values and the Philosophy Department),
Oxford University, and Leipzig, Bonn, Berlin, and Bielefeld Universities.
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Preface xi

I have received particularly helpful comments and criticism on topics

discussed in the book from too many people to mention here, but special
thanks are due to Andrew Alexandra, Robert Fullinwider, Mark Johnston,
Arthur Kuflik, John Langan, David Lewis, Judith Lichtenberg, David Luban,
Jeff McMahan, Igor Primoratz, David Rodin, Debra Satz, Henry Shue, and
Janna Thompson. My thanks also to David Coady for discussion of some
issues involved in causation that are relevant to the discussion of C. D.
Broad’s position in Chapter 11 and of some problems concerning inten-
tion and terrorism in Chapter 8. I have also learned from many who have
published on these topics, especially Anthony Coates, Robert Fullinwider,
Robert Holmes, Jeff McMahan, Richard Norman, David Rodin, Henry Shue,
and Jenny Teichman, to name only a few. (Others are cited in the text.) It
is unlikely that anyone who writes on the central topics dealt with in this
book can fail to be indebted to Michael Walzer’s restatement and recasting
of traditional just war thinking in his book Just and Unjust Wars, and I am
happy to acknowledge the stimulation I received from his work. Much of
this has been stimulation to disagreement, for philosophers are disagreeing,
if not disagreeable, people.
I would also like to thank a number of people who helped me with
research assistance over the years, especially Will Barrett, Mianna Lotz,
Andrew Schaap, Jeff Ross, Toni Morton, Anna Goppel, Jessica Wolfendale,
and, most helpfully, Ned Dobos, who was in at the death, so to speak, and who
worked very hard to help organise the final presentation of the manuscript.
He also provided invaluable help in compiling the index. My wife, Margaret,
deserves more than the usual ritual of thanks to a life partner, for she has
supported me through the thick and thin of my work on these themes, even
though I suspect that she has never fully accepted my obsessional interest
in this rather depressing topic. It is certainly very depressing at the time of
this writing, though a recent report marshaling statistics to show that the
number and intensity of wars has declined dramatically since 1992 offers
some encouragement that the stubborn capacity of human beings to fail to
learn from history may be suffering some slight erosion.
Finally, the topics addressed in this book are discussed from a philosoph-
ical point of view, but since everyone has, or should have, an interest in the
bearing of morality upon political violence, I have attempted to write in a
way that avoids philosophical technicalities where possible. My hope is that
much of the argument will be accessible to those in disciplines beyond phi-
losophy and to interested nonspecialists. I admire philosophy that is clear
and embodies standards of rigorous argument – standards that I aim to
emulate here – but on topics having to do with political violence, I have
little sympathy with thought that is enclosed in houses of intellect locked
and shuttered against the world.

October 20, 2006

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Morality and Political Violence

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Staring at Armageddon

. . . my thoughts were powerless against an unhappiness so huge. I couldn’t

alter European history, or order the artillery to stop firing. I could stare at the
War as I stared at the sultry sky, longing for life and freedom and vaguely altru-
istic about my fellow-victims. But a second-lieutenant could attempt nothing –
except to satisfy his superior officers; and altogether, I concluded, Armaged-
don was too immense for my solitary understanding.
Siegfried Sassoon1

Sassoon’s ironic articulation of the enormity of war and its capacity to reach
beyond understanding or individual control captures something that has
been echoed in the thoughts and writings of many participants, observers,
and theorists of warfare. Indeed, the impotence and blankness that Sassoon
describes is one of the perceptions that lies behind a famous dictum pro-
pounded by the philosopher Thomas Hobbes in the seventeenth century.
Always a foe of euphemism and evasion, Hobbes succinctly posed a central
issue with which much of this book will be concerned: “Where there is no
common power, there is no law: where no law, no injustice. Force and fraud,
are in war the two cardinal virtues.”2 Amongst other things, we shall examine
whether this bleak view is true and what would follow if it were. Initially, the
existence of laws of war, just war theories, and codes of military ethics would
seem to give the lie to Hobbes, and it is interesting that he makes virtually
no reference to the extensive body of writing on such matters that existed at
the time he wrote, though he must have been familiar with it. Hobbes may
have thought most of this to be “mere words,” and we must ask whether it
is so. We must also ask whether the “force and fraud” outlook, if true, could
form the basis of arguments for the total rejection of war (“pacifism”) or for
the removal of war altogether from the scope of morality (some forms of

1 Siegfried Sassoon, Memoirs of an Infantry Officer (London: Faber and Faber, 1965), pp. 82–83.
2 Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan, ed. C. B. Macpherson (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1968), p. 188.

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2 Morality and Political Violence

“realism”). Both of these options have in fact been urged by people

impressed with what they see as the truth in such an outlook as Hobbes’s.
Hobbes’s comment, while it poses a challenge to any treatment of the
ethics of war, is first of all addressed to the question of whether there are
moral constraints upon how a war should be conducted, upon the ways
and means of waging war. This question has been discussed in the just war
tradition under the heading of the jus in bello (or as I shall hereafter refer to
it, the JIB). But the question that is, in some sense, prior to this is the question
of whether morality has anything to say about going to war in the first place.
(In just war terminology, this is the matter of the jus ad bellum, or as I shall
abbreviate it, the JAB). Hobbes, in fact, thought that resort to war was often
morally legitimate, an exercise of natural right by the state, but he insisted
that rebellion was always immoral. In keeping with his generally “tough”
outlook on the power of the state and his theory of absolute sovereignty,
Hobbes might be thought to give carte blanche to the sovereign state’s right
to go to war, but his discussions of war between states, though not fully
developed, suggest otherwise. The sovereign cannot be called to account by
the citizens, but has certain obligations as a ruler to preserve the peace and
is bound before God to conform to the tenets of Natural Law. Consequently,
many resorts to war would be ruled out on prudential and moral grounds
(insofar as this distinction can be made in Hobbesian theory – and, in a
complex way, I think it can). Moreover, Hobbes, at least sometimes, allows
for some, admittedly minimal, restrictions on how warriors should conduct
themselves in the course of a war. In The Elements of Law, for instance, he
rejects the resort to unnecessary violence or cruelty. After mentioning with
approval the idea that laws are silent about war (captured in the Latin saying
that he cites, inter arma silent leges), Hobbes draws back from this terrifying
brink by adding: “Yet thus much the law of nature commandeth in war:
that men satiate not the cruelty of their present passions, whereby in their
own conscience they foresee no benefit to come. For that betrayeth not a
necessity but a disposition of the mind to war, which is against the law of
nature.”3 He continues by noting that even in those times when “rapine
was a trade of life,” some restraint in killing and dispossessing victims was
nonetheless exercised, both in obedience to the law of nature and as a matter
of honour. He concludes “that though there be in war no law, the breach
whereof is injury, yet there are those laws, the breach whereof is dishonour.
In one word, therefore, the only law of actions in war is honour; and the
right of war providence.”4 In this discussion, he echoes some of the views of
medieval theologians about proportionality in the use of military violence
and also seems to have in mind some of the military codes of honour, but he

3 Thomas Hobbes, The Elements of Law: Natural and Politic, ed. Ferdinand Tonnies (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1928), Part 1, Chapter 19, section 2, p. 100.
4 Ibid.
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Staring at Armageddon 3

also looks forward to the doctrine of “military necessity,” which, as we shall

see, can be used both to restrict certain forms of immoral activity in war and
to license others.
I have begun with Hobbes and war, but the key term in the title of this
book is “political violence” rather than “war,” and this requires a terminolog-
ical explanation, since the choice of terms raises substantial issues. My use
of the expression “political violence” includes war as the primary instance
of such violence, but it is also meant to cover other violent activities that
some would not include under the heading of war. Such activities encom-
pass terrorism, armed intervention (for “humanitarian” or other purposes),
armed revolution, violent demonstrations or attacks by citizens aimed at less
than the overthrow of their government, and the deployment of mercenary
companies or individuals. It could also include other activities, which, for
reasons of space, I will not discuss in great depth, such as certain forms
of torture, assassination, and violent covert operations. There are common
usages, especially, I think, in the United States, which would restrict the term
“political violence” to the activities of nonstate agents and strongly separate
ethical questions concerning such activities from those having to do with war
or intervention. This form of discourse would have it that war and armed
intervention by states are not uses of political violence.
I want to resist this restriction of the term on semantic, political, and
ethical grounds. Since the usage I object to is often linked to a “legitimist”
definition of violence, which I discuss in Chapter 2, my reasons need to be
supplemented by the discussion to come in that chapter and in Chapter 6.
Nonetheless, they can be briefly outlined here. Given the appalling record
of states in the unjustified employment of lethal force to devastate popu-
lations, economies, and cultures over the centuries, I am unimpressed by
any attempt to put a conceptual or moral gulf between the resort to such
force (or, as I would prefer to say, violence) for political purposes by state
agencies and its political employment by nonstate actors. The tendency to
talk of the state as using “force” and of terrorists or revolutionaries as using
“violence” embodies an attempt to bring initial opprobrium upon the non-
state actors (via the negative connotations of “violence”) and to give an a
priori mantle of respectability to the state actors. When the qualification
“political” is added only to the activities of the nonstate agents and withheld
from the state’s operations, even where the means employed are identical or
similar in kind, this can suggest that the purposes of state violence are some-
how above politics and presumptively acceptable, at least when employed
by “our” state. But we should not smuggle into the terms of our discussion
some bias in favour of states when they employ morally contestable means.
Indeed, given the power of states, their deployment of the sword is more
likely to wreak morally objectionable damage, at least in terms of scale, than
anything nonstate agents can achieve. These facts can be concealed by the
anodyne expression “force,” which is one reason why I prefer to use the
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4 Morality and Political Violence

term “violence”; military cum political jargon is replete with euphemisms

for the state’s efforts to inflict death, carnage, and damage, and a serious
discussion of the ethical problems these efforts pose should be plainspoken.
Talk of “force” makes it sound as if we are proposing to move things by using
superior physical strength (as we might lift protesters out of the way with-
out seriously harming them), when what is usually on the agenda is killing,
maiming, and destroying.5
So I shall view the moral problems of international war as a central part
of the wider issue of the use of violence for political purposes. It is true
that there are aspects peculiar to international war that cause grave moral
concern, such as the scale of actual and possible carnage and the capacity
for escalation. These help to explain the tendency to concentrate upon it. It
is also true that the last quarter of the twentieth century and the beginning
of the twenty-first century have seen a dramatic decline in warfare under-
stood as direct state-versus-state conflict, and a proportionate increase in
other forms of warfare such as revolutionary and secessionist war; client
war, such as the U.S.-Pakistani sponsorship of Mujahideen violence against
the Soviet Union in Afghanistan; tribal war, such as the Hutu massacres of
Tutsi in Rwanda; violent terrorist attacks like that of September 11 and the
“war on terror” it provoked, and so on. These developments have induced
the Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, to declare that “we have
come very near to the end of war,” and others have made similar claims.6
Of course, they don’t mean that there is an end to violence on behalf of
political or ideological causes. It is rather that they identify war with war
between nation-states and an associated paraphernalia of formal declara-
tions, opposing massed armies, clearly identified enemy states, and so on.
What Archbishop Williams believes to be outmoded is war “conceived as
sovereign states squaring up,” and he thinks that this means that just war
theory is similarly outmoded.7 But I do not believe that this was ever an
adequate understanding of war, and I doubt that it was essential to the oper-
ation of the just war tradition. After all, sovereign states in the way Williams
seems to think of them – namely, nation-states – are held by many scholars
to be products of the modern world, and the evolution of just war thinking
predates them by many centuries. Civil wars, tribal wars, wars against invad-
ing “barbarians,” and wars of imperial conquest have been common enough
throughout the ages, and many of these have not comfortably conformed to

5 Even the United Nations Charter falls victim to this linguistic habit, referring consistently
to “force” rather than “violence” and avoiding the use of “war” altogether. The crucial para-
graph 4 of Article 2 of the Charter says, for instance: “All members shall refrain in their
international relations from the threat or use of force against the territorial integrity or polit-
ical independence of any State, or in any other matter inconsistent with the Purposes of the
United Nations.”
6 Rowan Williams, “Chaos Dogs the End of War” Common Theology 1, no. 2 (2002), p. 9.
7 Ibid.
Other documents randomly have
different content
By Lieut. L. Gibbon U. S. N. Lith. of P.S. Duval & Co. Phil.

LA LAGUNA DE UARA-UARA.

The willow grows up like a poplar; its narrow leaves present

such a small surface to the hail or sun that they may be said to grow
between the drops. It is the tallest tree in the valley. The willow
naturally grows by the side of streams, where the roots creep out
into water or swampy ground. The apple produces best on higher
and drier earth. Almost every plant in this valley has to be raised by
irrigation.
We returned, after a harassing ride to Miraflores, "see the
flowers," where we found the old Indian's wife had provided chupe
for us, and lucerne for our animals. She had stirred in so much
"ajé"—the red dwarf pepper—that we preferred her boiled corn. This
seemed so strange she dropped several stitches in the woollen
stockings she was knitting, and looked as much as to say, "Where do
you come from, that you don't like ajé?" When she was paid for her
kindness, she laughed, gave us apples, and sent her son to show the
way through the peach trees and strawberry patches. The attention
of the Indians is much attracted to hear us talking in English. They
listen, look at each other, listen again, and say "don't understand
that." Then they close up and stand in deep thought as they reflect.
When they see we want anything they offer assistance or kindness,
which shows a frank, honest hospitality to strangers. They seldom
ask for anything; when they receive a gift it is with a quiet modesty,
which speaks their thanks more plainly than words.
On our return to Buena Vista, in town, near the alameda, we
found José with a fine young dog, which had been sent by a friend,
and which we named Mamoré. The dogs in this country are often a
miserable breed of curs. Mamoré appears to be a cross between a
Spanish terrier and the mastiff; while very brave he is very
affectionate, and being young enough to be spoiled by too much
company, we train him as sentinel at night, and keep him very
exclusive; his services may be very much needed on the journey; his
color is yellowish brown, and he is of large size. The Indians are so
partial to dogs that they raise more than they can conveniently
support. The young aborigines seem to have greater fondness for
animals than for each other. We have seen two of them pelting one
another with mud balls, while a third seated on a sow, looking with
delight at nine squealers helping themselves to milk. When she rose
on her fore-feet, the child rolled off among the pigs, laughingly
grasping the first tail in his way, to the great annoyance of his
hungry companions.
We have news of the mail being stopped between Sucre and
Oruro by a heavy fall of snow on the Andes, which was deep enough
to break in the roofs of houses in Oruro, while here peaches are sold
in the market.
The peach tree flourishes better than the apple, but both fruit
and tree are small. The quince grows to an unusual size in the
valley, and the trees are loaded with fruit of golden yellow.
The merchants are keeping back their remittances to the Pacific
on account of numerous robberies reported in the snowy regions.
 The young gentlemen give a ball every month in the palace, and
performances at the theatre, which was once a church. On both
occasions the families of the city are brought sociably together. The
balls are believed to produce political concord, and are very gay. A
Sucre lady inquired if "Cochabamba girls dressed in good taste?" The
creoles seem anxious to know the opinion strangers have of them.
The North American midshipmen used to say, the height of their
enjoyment was to dance with the South American girls. The beauty,
manners, and grace of the ladies here cannot be disputed; they are
naturally gifted with a pleasing flow of conversation, keen-sighted,
and witty. Their bright black eyes flash beneath an irresistible and
modest smile; their long, black hair is neatly arranged abroad, but at
home it usually hangs plaited over the shoulders and breast. They
appear more proud of small feet than of lovely eyes and snow-white
necks. In walking they carry themselves straight, and show their
graceful figures to advantage; their motions are slow and steady. A
bloom on the cheek gives them a fresh, healthy appearance as they
ride spirited horses by the side of their lovers, through the gardens
of Calacala, before sunrise in the morning.
At midday, on the 12th of May, 1852, we mounted and followed
a train of nineteen loaded mules towards the east. Our baggage was
reduced one half upon each animal. By law, the arriero may charge
full price in descending the eastern side of the Andes for half the
load carried on the roads of the table lands. The train followed a
white mare with a bell hung to her neck. Four arrieros were
accompanied by a number of women, carrying jars of chicha. The
party seemed to have been drinking over night, and bent upon a
frolic. They succeeded in seducing José, who rode along with our
tent pole on his shoulder, and hat pulled over his eyes, ordering
about men and women, until I was called upon to settle a difficulty
between him and the chief arriero's wife. Richards was carefully
guarding Mamoré for fear we would lose him. After some trouble in
keeping the baggage mules from escaping up the cross streets, we
bid farewell to Cochabamba. On the river bank the women seated
themselves in a row to take the last dram with the men who were
going with us. They shouted, sang, and danced; then shaking hands
all round, the arrieros called to their mules, and we all moved along
single file on our way home through the river bed, which was now
dry again, the wet season being just over.
The minister of state sent circular instructions to all the
authorities on my route, rubriconded by President Belzu, by which
they ordered the prefects and governors to facilitate the expedition.
The President usually signs public documents with his peculiar
mark or flourish alone, without writing his name. No man's signature
in the country is valued without getting him to "rubricar" the
document also. The custom is a Spanish one. They have been
known to use their own blood or red ink, but the black ink does as
well and is lawful. Our receipt book is a most flourishing volume.
After José signs his name for his monthly wages, he straddles his
legs, turns his head sideways, and gives a most gallant dash,
occupying the remainder of the page, often through the paper on to
the next leaf, with the point of the pen. We observe all along the
route that the people generally dash better than they write. The rule
may have originated for the advantage of those who could not write.
Passing over a level road and through the small town of Sacaba,
we slung our hammock on the piazza of a hacienda at the foot of
the ridge of mountains. Mamoré whipped the big house-dog and
played with the small ones, while the fleas retaliated upon us. The
mule drivers laughed among themselves when they saw us washing
our faces in the morning, while they were snugly wrapped up in their
ponchos. The country girls are quite pretty. The drovers we met on
the road with horned cattle for the Cochabamba market, said they
came from Villa Grande, in the department of Santa Cruz, to the
southeast of us. The cattle come up with the winds. They are of
good size and condition.
We turned to the northeast, rising up on the mountain. Leaving
the valley of Cochabamba, the road lies through a gorge in a range
where the Indians were digging potatoes and reaping barley.
Descending again, we encamped for the night by an Indian stone
hut, amidst the harvest fields. Don Cornello, our head arriero,
purchased a sheep in partnership with us, and his men dressed it for
the journey. One of them, who suffered with chills, Cornello dosed
with a solution of cinchona bark from a bottle he carried with his
bread in his saddle wallets.
In this small mountain basin, the thermometer stands at 52°, at
6 p. m., and wet bulb, 53°, with heavy frost in the morning. From
the last ridge of mountains we see that the waters flowing towards
the northeast go directly to the river Mamoré, and those which run
to the southeast are tributary to the same stream, winding around
the ridge, at the end of which is situated the city of Santa Cruz,
which has a population of six thousand souls. The department
contains a population of forty-two thousand two hundred and eighty-
four whites, and twenty-six thousand three hundred and seventy-
three aborigines. Santa Cruz is the rice-growing state of this
country; it being mostly situated in the bottom of the Madeira Plate.
Its climate is truly tropical—both hot and moist. It is well wooded
and watered. Among the level lands there are lakes, and on the road
to the town of Matto Grosso, there are alternately forests and plains
covered with a growth of herd grass on which cattle flourish. Tropical
fruits are raised in the gardens of Santa Cruz. The weavers of
Cochabamba receive their cotton thence, as well as sugar and
molasses. Both coffee and chocolate are of excellent quality, and
some of the tobacco is equal to that of Cuba. The Nankin cotton of
China is produced of a bright color, and contrasts beautifully with the
white. The vanilla bean grows by the side of the Indigo plant. The
Indian cultivates the pea-nut along the sandy banks of the rivers.
The white man reports signs of cinnabar among the mountains at
the end of this ridge, where wheat, maize, potatoes, and grapes are
found.
The skins of spotted and black tigers are exported to the cold
departments, with hides of horned cattle, horses, and the sloth. The
feathers and skins of rare birds, snakes, and lizards are gathered
among forest trees of the most brilliant colors. The cochineal insect
has its place, while different species of bees supply the inhabitants
with honey and wax.
The distance from the town of Santa Cruz to Cochabamba is one
hundred and seven leagues. The arrieros generally lag along the
road thirty days with a cargo of chocolate, coffee, and sugar, or with
cotton manufactures, glassware, and salt in return. The trip from
Santa Cruz to Cobija is made generally within three months by the
way of Cochabamba and Potosi; the distance by the road being
three hundred and forty-five leagues. The return cargo may arrive in
three months more, but it is not certain that two trips to the Pacific
coast and back can be made in one year. It must not be supposed a
very extensive foreign trade is carried on with the department of
Santa Cruz, though a most dense population is found on its western
border. When we look at the list of productions in that region of
country, we are struck with the independence of its inhabitants upon
all external trade. A breakfast table in Santa Cruz, constructed of
beautiful cedar wood, is described, covered with white cotton cloth,
silver plates and dishes, with silver cups, forks, and spoons; coffee,
sugar, cream, butter, corn and wheat bread, mutton, eggs, and
oranges, are all produced in the province. Beef is found on the
pampa, game in the woods, and fish in the rivers. Potatoes and all
the garden vegetables are raised upon the plantations. The arm
chair of the creole is made of the ornamental "Caoba," or mahogany
tree. Eight guests may be seated, each one in a different species of
mahogany. His Indian servants gather grapes, make wine, collect the
tropical fruits, and tobacco; while his wife or daughter take pride in
well-made cigars. The climate is such that horses roam about all the
year; there is no expense for stabling the animals. No barns are
necessary for the protection of his harvests during a hard winter. His
house may be as open as a shed. What little thin clothing and
bedding his family require are supplied by the soil, and worked into
fine cloth by the hands of Indians, who spin, weave, and sew. Silver
he cares little for except in table use. Gold ounces are melted into
crosses and earrings for the Indian girls. The inhabitants of Santa
Cruz are therefore the most indolent in the world; under its
hospitable climate, few men exert themselves beyond what is
absolutely necessary.
It may be well to give, from report, an outline of the daily life of
a family in this town. Very early in the morning the creole, getting
out of bed, throws himself into a hamac; his wife stretches herself
upon a bench near by, while the children seat themselves with their
legs under them on the chairs, all in their night dresses. The Indian
servant girl enters with a cup of chocolate for each member of the
family. After which, she brings some coals of fire in a silver dish. The
wife lights her husband a cigar, then one for herself. Some time is
spent reclining, chatting, and regaling. The man slowly pulls on his
cotton trousers, woollen coat, leather shoes, and vicuña hat, with his
neck exposed to the fresh air,—silk handkerchiefs are scarce,—he
walks to some near neighbors, with whom he again drinks chocolate
and smokes another cigar.
At midday a small low table is set in the middle of the room, and
the family go to breakfast. The wife sits next to her husband; the
women are very pretty and affectionate to their husbands. He
chooses her from among five, there being about that number of
women to one man in the town. The children seat themselves, and
the dogs form a ring behind. The first dish is a chupe of potatoes
with large pieces of meat. The man helps himself first, and throws
his bones straight across the table; a child dodges his head to give it
a free passage, and the dogs rush after it as it falls upon the ground
floor. A child then throws his bone, the mother dodges, and the dogs
rush behind her. The second dish holds small pieces of beef without
bones. Dogs are now fighting. Next comes a dish with finely-
chopped beef; then beef soup, vegetables, and fruits; finally, coffee
or chocolate. After breakfast the man pulls off his trousers and coat
and lies down with his drawers in the hamac. His wife lights him a
cigar. She finds her way back to bed with her cigar. The dogs jump
up and lie down on the chairs—the fleas bite them on the ground.
The Indian girl closes both doors and windows, takes the children
out to play, while the rest of the family sleep.
At 2 p. m. the church bells ring to let the people know the
priests are saying a prayer for them, which rouses them up. The
man rises, stretches his hand above his head, and gapes; the dogs
get down, and whiningly stretch themselves; while the wife sets up
in bed and loudly calls out for "fire;" the Indian girl re-appears with
a "chunk" for her mistress to light her master another cigar, and she
smokes again herself. The dinner, which takes place between 3 and
5, and is nearly the same as breakfast, except when a beef is
recently killed by the Indians, then they have a broil. The ribs and
other long bones of the animal are trimmed of flesh, leaving the
bones thinly coated with meat; these are laid across a fire and
roasted; the members of the family, while employed with them, look
as if all were practising music.
A horse is brought into the house by an Indian man, who holds
while the "patron" saddles and bridles him; he then puts on a large
pair of silver spurs, which cost forty dollars, and mounting, he rides
out of the front door to the opposite house; halting, he takes off his
hat and calls out "Buenas tardes, señoritas"—good evening, ladies.
The ladies make their appearance at the door; one lights him a
cigar; another mixes him a glass of lemonade to refresh himself after
his ride. He remains in the saddle talking, while they lean gracefully
against the door-posts, smiling with their bewitching eyes. He
touches his hat and rides off to another neighbor. After spending the
afternoon in this way, he rides into his house again. The Indian holds
the horse by the bridle while the master dismounts. Taking off the
saddle, he throws it into one chair, the bridle into another, his spurs
on a third, and himself into the hamac; the Indian leads out the
horse, the dogs pull down the riding gear to the floor, and lay
themselves on their usual bedsteads.
Chocolate and cigars are repeated. Should the creole be handed
a letter of introduction by a stranger travelling through the country,
he immediately offers his hamac and a cup of chocolate. The
baggage will be attended to, and as long as the traveller remains, he
is treated by the family with a degree of kindness and politeness
seldom met with in fashionable parts of the world. No alteration will
be made in their mode of living on account of his being among
them, except that the dogs and horses are kept out of the house,
and there is less dodging of bones. Pride and a natural feeling of
good manners prevent the stranger from seeing such performances.
The creole speaks of the wealth of his country in the most
exaggerated manner; he has so many of the good things of the
world at his door, that he naturally boasts; he thinks little of other
parts of the world; he has no idea of leaving his own fruits and
flowers. The roads are bad; he cares little for their use. When he
leaves his native city, it is more for pleasure than for commerce. He
is not obliged to build railroads that he may receive at low rates of
freight the tea of China; the sugar of the West Indies; the flour, iron,
or cotton goods of North America. His own climate is so agreeable
that he seldom wishes to travel; there is no place like his home!
When the traveller inquires how he would like to see a steamboat
come to the mouth of the Piray river, the water of which he drinks,
his eyes brighten, and he smilingly says "he would be delighted;" at
once telling what he would put on board of her as a cargo for the
people who sent her. He is contented with the roads constructed by
the hand of the Creator of all things; but the creole is honest in his
desire to see what he has never yet seen—a steam-engine move a
vessel. He is ready to sell his produce to those who come to him; yet
when you inquire what he desires from other parts of the world, it is
very certain, from the length of time it takes him to answer, that he
seldom thinks he is in want of anything; and if asked how much he
is willing to subscribe towards purchasing a steamboat, his usual
answer is, that "he has no money, and is very poor!"
The Spanish language is more generally spoken in Santa Cruz
than in other parts of this country. The Indians are taught and
practise that language to the exclusion of their own. The people of
Santa Cruz pride themselves upon their pure Spanish, and ridicule
the speech of those of other towns. The teachers of most of the
schools in Cochabamba are natives of Santa Cruz, as well as the
most intelligent of the clergy, who are generally foremost to speak of
the advantages of establishing trade with the Atlantic ocean by the
natural river road, instead of looking constantly towards the Pacific.
Santa Cruz may be called the frontier town of the Spanish race, who
have swept over the country from the Pacific. The bay of Arica bears
due west from Santa Cruz. As the coast of South America bends at
Arica, so the Spanish have pressed far in towards the centre of the
continent, placing those on the eastern border of Bolivia nearer to
the Atlantic than the people of Peru; although they seem to be
farthest from the markets of the world, they are the nearest, and are
best prepared for entering into commercial relations with the United
States of the North.
The industrial, agricultural, and manufacturing people of this
country are principally among the aborigines. They plant the sugar-
cane, gather the coffee, work the mines, and transport silver, copper,
and tin to the coast of the Pacific. Looking on the map, and running
the eye along the road from the town of Santa Cruz towards the
southeast, the traveller finds a country nearly level. Among hills near
the river Paraguay, in the province of Chiquitos, the inhabitants are
composed of many tribes of Indians; some savages are warlike,
while others are inoffensive and friendly to the whites. Those of the
small villages of Santiago and Jesus are described as nearer the
color of chalk than of copper, and to be a robust, intelligent people,
willing to be taught the Spanish language, to cultivate the soil, tend
cattle, and give up the life of wandering for that of the civilized man,
under the instruction and labors of the Jesuits; while the tribes south
of them, near the mouths of the rivers Pilcomayo and Bermejo,
obstinately refused any such interference, and remain savage to this
day. They are the Gran Chaco Indians, and are called Tobas. As they
are unfriendly, we have no account of their number, and will confine
ourselves to the Chiquiteños, who understand the art of planting and
gathering a harvest, the management of cattle on the grassy plains,
and the collecting of wax from the forest trees, with which, and the
cotton they cultivate, they pay tribute to the State, as well as with
salt from lakes found in the wild regions. In their little huts are
carpenters, blacksmiths, silversmiths, shoemakers, tailors, and
tanners. Their houses are usually built of adobe, and thatched with
coarse grass; yet they were taught to burn tiles for the roof of their
little church. For the purpose of manufacturing sugar and melting
wax, they erected founderies to smelt, and fabricated their own
copper boilers. The cotton of their small farms is woven by hand into
ponchos, hamacs, saddle cloths, and the fine cloths of which their
white frocks are made, after a fashion of their own invention, in
bark. The women in Chiquitos are good farmers; most of the
spinning is performed by them, as well as the manufacturing of
chicha from corn and yuca.
They find gold and silver in the tributaries of the Otuguis river,
with which they decorate the altars of their churches and hammer
into crosses, ear and finger-rings.
The men make straw hats, more for sale than for their own use
—for both sexes go bare-headed—a good sign of a delightful
climate, as it is said to be. The baskets made of the leaf of the palm-
tree, which grows in the plains, are carried on their backs as they
travel through the country. On such occasions they are armed with
bows and arrows. In the Spanish settlements, near the unfriendly
tribes, they are permitted to attend church with war-clubs and other
weapons, for the protection of their wives and children from an
attack while at prayers. The church bell is a signal to the savage, but
he takes occasion at times to commit murder under its calling.
Their houses are very small, with but one entrance, so narrow
and low that it is supposed the country was called Chiquitos,
because of the little door-ways. When first the traveller peeps into
the house all is darkness; on entering, the light from the hole he
came through shines against a few earthen pots made by the
women, an axe, macheta or cutlass, bows and arrows, pretty Indian
girls, and dogs without number. The boys are rambling about; the
old Indian and his wife are cultivating the chacra. Their great
ambition seems to be celebrating the feast days of the church,
playing ball, drinking chicha, and making love to the women.
These Indians are great musicians, playing upon the violin and
tamborine, while the women sing and dance with grace. Few of
them quarrel; should a difficulty take place, seldom more than three
or four blows are struck. They all carry knives, but these are not
often drawn. If one man kills another, his shame, compunction, and
fear in after life is much worse than death, I am told.
The Chiquiteños are very apt in learning to read, write, and
calculate. They have intelligence enough to know that knowledge is
valuable to them, and the children speak Spanish with great ease.
Lime and plaster of Paris are found among the hilly portions of
the province. Salt from the lakes is of great value where cattle are
raised. There is a market for it in the Argentine republic, Paraguay,
and in the Brazilian district of Matto Grosso. In all parts of this
province saltpetre is found of which the aborigines manufacture
powder, to make fire-works for the churches. The rockets, they send
up towards the heavens, under the dark shade of night, light the
wilderness around, and was one means used by the Jesuits to
attract the attention of the wild man to seek religion. The
Chiquiteños are a peaceful race; their gunpowder is only used for
the purpose of lighting the way towards Heaven—a lesson to
civilized men who sometimes employ it too freely for the destruction
of their fellows on the earth, of which they form a hell!
The Indians cast church bells. Brass, copper, and zinc are sent
by the Aymara Indians from the Titicaca basin in exchange for sugar
and wax. They are unacquainted with the process of casting cannon,
or the art of making the brass armor of olden times.
The Indian of Chiquitos, like the Creole of Santa Cruz, has his
full share of the delights of this earth, which he enjoys in his own
way. When he takes a fancy to wear striped trousers, he plants a
row of white cotton and a row of yellow. These colors contrast
without the trouble of dye-stuff; should he wish a blue, he plants a
row of indigo; when he requires red, he gathers cochineal from
among the woods where he also finds a bark which produces a deep
black, which the women often employ to dye their white dresses.
The heart-leaved bixa grows wild; the vanilla bean scents the
doorway, while the coffee and chocolate trees shade it. The sugar
cane may be planted in any part of the province, to be manufactured
into sugar, rum, and molasses during the year of planting. The
Indian understands the art of distilling. He cannot be considered
intemperate, generally; considering his partiality for chicha, we are
inclined to give him credit for self-denial, except when the saints'
days of the Catholic church are celebrated, then it seems to be
understood that much drinking is one of the conditions. Whatever
good ideas may be instilled into their minds by the worship in the
morning, are generally lost under the effects of strong drinks at
night. This custom shocks the stranger. An excuse has been offered
by some who resided among the more savage race of men, that in
the exertions of the Jesuits to change the worship of these people
from their own barbarous imitations of the actions of tigers and
poisonous serpents, the priests were obliged to allow them to
continue many of the most innocent popular customs, such as
dancing, singing, and drinking, as well as fighting sham battles on a
Sunday evening, until they were enabled to lead them gradually to
perceive these were not the forms of worship which would most
please the Almighty. Among these Indians, as among the people of
Japan, "every custom is a part of their religion." Music has a
powerful effect upon the savage, and therefore the Jesuits
encouraged them to cultivate it, and as its influence over the limbs
of the women was so great, that they could not stand still during
that part of the church service, it was thought best to permit them
to dance at the door, after which they quietly entered to say their
prayers. But when the music commenced again they returned to
dance in their savage fashion. They are naturally a good and
tractable people, finally willing to do their dancing at home, or only
on particular occasions at church after the Jesuits were long enough
among them. At the present day there are times when the war
dance is allowed in front of the church, performed by the able-
bodied men of the nation with war clubs and hatchets in their hands.
The drinking of chicha was a portion of the primitive worship of
the aborigines. They no doubt honestly believed that, the more
happy they made themselves while paying respect to the Creator of
all things, the better He was satisfied! They were sincere in their
thankfulness to God for the blessings they received at His hands.
The Jesuits found that the Indian had adopted this means of praise,
and the effects produced were so agreeable, that it was not an easy
matter to persuade the old Indian to give up his liquor. If force were
applied he undoubtedly would fight for it, so that a mild manner had
to be pursued until time worked its wonders. The Jesuits were
obliged to keep back an expression of disapprobation of this custom
for the purpose of converting the savage in any way, and persuaded
him to attend church in the morning, and to postpone drinking until
after the service. The Indian entered willingly into this compromise,
and after being fastened up in church under new forms, which he
did not understand, he found it rather dry, compared to what he had
been accustomed to. So the moment he got out he returned to his
mode of worship, and in the afternoon became generally intoxicated.
The women dance to music all the way home on the road; the frolic
is kept up the greater part of the night. On Monday morning the
congregation were generally complaining from the effects of
dissipation. This was the time at which the influence of the priest
was brought to bear upon them. They were taught the art of
cultivation; their minds were diverted by novel undertakings. The
women were encouraged to spin, attend to the cotton plant, and to
make use of chocolate. There was little or no difficulty in keeping
them from chicha during the week, as they seldom made improper
use of it except at the time devoted to religious worship, and that
had now become a fixed one by the Jesuits, namely—after six days
of labor.
 Among the forests are found gums, which are used at the altar;
the Indians gather and sell them to the church for incense. They
also collect the sponge plant from which they extract oil. They seek
transparent copal with the copaiba balsam, the gum of the storax-
tree, and roots of the jalapa, ipecacuanha, and sarsaparilla.
"Mate," the tea of Paraguay, is grown in Chiquitos, with a
number of species of the palm tree. There are ornamental and dye
woods, many of which are only known to the Indian; few of them
have been brought fairly to the notice of the mechanic.
Chiquitos is within the tropic of Capricorn. The natives enjoy the
fruits of the banana, the plantain, and oranges, both sweet and sour.
The grape yields wine, and from the wild apricot a pure vinegar is
made. The much esteemed chirimoya is found there by the side of
the pomegranate and granadilla, the pine-apple and water-melon,
the mandioca, the sweet and other potatoes, guavas, pea-nuts,
maize, and wheat. This is the agricultural district of Bolivia. Chiquitos
will rob Cochabamba of its name "Granary," and prove a finer garden
than Yungas. The hide and tallow trade of Buenos Ayres will be
enlarged by the yield of the pampas of Chiquitos. The trade of La
Plata must be increased when the productions of this beautiful land
are sent out upon its waters, and floated down to the sea.
In the small town of Oliden, the Indian carries to market lettuce,
onions, capsicum, tomatoes, the cummin plant, wild marjorem,
parsley, mustard, radishes, and the sweet-scented seed of the anise,
with a species of moscatel grape.
From what I can learn from persons who have navigated the
upper waters of the Paraguay, there is every reason to believe that
the navigation is open from Cuyaba, the capital of the province of
Matto Grosso, in Brazil, down to the ocean. It is said there are no
falls, and that if there should be too little water on the upper
streams in the dry season of the year, the produce of these countries
may be sent down with ease in the wet seasons, when the rivers rise
several feet, and are not very rapid.
 CHAPTER VII.
Diamonds—Animals of Chiquitos—Decree of 1837, and act of Congress—Señor
Oliden's voyage on the Paraguay river—Salt—Fall of trees—Descending the
mountains—Monkey meat—Coca plant—Espiritu Santo—Creole workmen—A
night in the wild woods—Yuracares hunting—River San Mateo—Province of
Yuracares.

It is a singular fact that no diamonds have been found on the

Bolivian side of the Madeira Plate or La Plata basin, while among
those streams, in Brazil, which flow into these rivers diamonds
abound. The general opinion is that these precious stones do not
exist in Bolivia. The streams which pay tribute to the Madeira and
Paraguay, from the east in Brazil, are clear water rivers. In these
transparent waters the diamond is easily discovered. The washing
away of the earth on that side is not very great, even in the rainy
season of the year.
All the streams on the western or Bolivian side bear muddy
water; the wearing away on that side is very great. The filling up of
the Madeira Plate is done from that side, just as the Titicaca lake is
filling up the fastest on its western shore, so that the diamonds of
Bolivia, if they exist, are lost in the mud. We were told by diamond
hunters that in rivers where the divers descend some distance, they
find the water coldest on the bottom where they pick up the
precious stone, and the men are so chilled when they returned to
the surface, that they require to be warmed by the side of a large
fire, even under the heat of a tropical sun.
In the woods, and on the pampas of Chiquitos, roams the Tapir
or Brazil elk, the meat of which resembles that of the ox, and is
considered a delicacy by the Indians. In the forests, the fields, and
about the rivers, birds abound. The wild boar pushes his way
through the grass, and the American lion or jaguar leaps to fight the
spotted tiger for the fatted calf. The bear and wild-cat prowl through
the tangled creepers, while monkeys and parrots chatter their own
peculiar idioms. The fox and armadillo inhabit the hill sides; near the
river banks the turtle deposits its eggs. Large and small snakes
require no search.
From the Pacific coast to the Paraguay river, on the parallel of
18° south latitude, there are three different climates; that of Oruro,
cold, with an unproductive soil, thinly populated, and the inhabitants
generally poor; the towns becoming every year more and more
depopulated, and the resources of the country less valuable than in
former years. The ruins of the ancient Peruvians there stand as
truthful memorials of "the Past." Descending the steppe of
Cochabamba, the climate is temperate, the soil more productive, the
inhabitants increasing in numbers, and the Spanish race in their
strength. Here are found the most intelligence and the greatest
improvements. In the heart of the nation are living examples of "the
Present."
Proceeding to the bottom of the Madeira Plate into Chiquitos, we
find the means of agriculture, commerce, and manufactures on the
very top of steamboat navigation, presenting to us elements of the
blessings of a peaceful "future."
The nation of Bolivia now stands facing the Pacific coast. The
appearance of one little steamboat on the Paraguay river, anchored
on the coast of Chiquitos, would turn the whole "right about."
 On the 27th of December, 1837, Andres Santa Cruz, President of
the republic of Bolivia, issued a decree by which foreign merchandise
should enter the province of Chiquitos and Mojos free from all duty
or tax whatever, and that all the productions of these provinces
should be exported upon the principle of free trade.
On the 5th November, 1832, the Bolivian congress, as
compensation for revolutionary services, had granted to an
enterprising citizen, Don Manuel Luis de Oliden, a tract of land,
twenty-five leagues "in all directions from a point on the river
Otuguis."
Señor Oliden sent me a short account of an exploration made by
his relative, Señor Don José Leon de Oliden, in the year 1836. Mr.
Oliden launched a canoe in the river Cuyaba, from the town of the
same name, in the province of Matto Grosso, in Brazil. It was during
the dry season, in the month of October, when the river was shallow.
Descending he found the banks low, and the country as level as a
floor in some places, while here and there the land swelled up like a
smooth heave of the ocean in a calm. During the wet season of the
year, a portion of the journey from Cuyaba to the frontier of
Paraguay can be made in canoes over the same road, travelled in
dry weather on horseback—the whole country being overflowed,
except on the higher grounds. On the seventh day after leaving the
town, the canoe touched the waters of the Paraguay river, the banks
of which are inhabited by a nation of Indians called "Guatos," who
came off in a friendly way to offer fish for sale, and were delighted
to receive payment in a glass of rum. On the Bolivian shore,
opposite the mouth of the Cuyaba, the land is hilly, the elevations
range with the stream, and also stretch back into the Bolivian
territory. Among these hills is a large lake, called Gaiba. Descending
the stream of the Paraguay river for two days, brought the canoe
opposite the ancient town of "Alburquerque," which was abandoned,
the people having moved off to another part of the country. Two
days farther down was the mission of the "Guanas," inhabited by
about fifty families, who formed the new settlement of
Alburquerque. Near the frontiers of Brazil and Paraguay, he passed
the fortress of Coimbra, erected in 1775.
Mr. Oliden then entered the territory of Paraguay, searching on
the western shore of the river for the mouth of the Otuguis, which
he desired to ascend to the town of Oliden. He suddenly came in
sight of the Forte de Borbon, with twelve pieces of iron cannon, from
which several shots were fired at his canoe. He pushed on and
landed at the port, where a soldier met and conducted him up the
bank. He sent his compliments to the commanding officer, and
requested permission to enter; the soldier returned with permission.
His passport was demanded; in handing it to the commander, he told
him he had a letter of recommendation to his Excellency the
Supreme Dictator of the State from the Governor of the Brazilian
province of Matto Grosso. The commander replied, that he could not
allow him to descend the Paraguay without special permission to do
so from the one man who ruled the country. Mr. Oliden requested
that he might continue down to Assumption, the capital of Paraguay,
and present his letter in person to the "Dictator." The commander
replied, that he could do "ni uno ni otro"—neither one nor the other.
Mr. Oliden, finding his requests fruitless; that the gates of
Paraguay were shut in his face, and that the great highway cut
through the earth was closed up by this one man's power; that the
trade of Chiquitos and all of Bolivia was blocked by this passage, and
that the people of his country were cut off from the path of peace
and commerce, took leave, and returned to his canoe to await a
passport giving him permission to retrace his steps. The logs of
wood that floated by on the stream of the river excited envy in the
heart of the enterprising Oliden; they were free and he was chained;
for he was forced to go where they would not go—up the stream
again. Had he dared to push his canoe off and let her float quietly
down by the sides of the logs with the current, there were one
hundred soldiers ready to take arms against him, and insultingly turn
him back. He remarked that the soldiers had very expressive faces,
were tall, well-made, handsome-looking fellows, stout and white.
They spoke the "Guarani" and Spanish languages. They brought him
"mate" and tobacco, for which he exchanged a little gunpowder and
a cotton handkerchief.
The soldiers were nearly in a state of starvation. The
government had neglected to send them provisions from Villa Real, a
town some distance down the river. There was not a solitary article
of food to be gathered about the fort. No man dare go more than
one hundred paces from the walls, for fear of being murdered by the
savage tribe of "Guaicurus," who inhabit the country around.
The "Capitan Commandante" was rather ancient, having arrived
near his hundredth year, and very seldom left his bed. Oliden said he
had great confidence in his soldiers, as there was only one musket
outside of the storeroom, in the hands of the sentinel at the
entrance of the fortification. The soldiers were almost naked, and
not a woman among them. Several of the sergeants came to the
canoe to converse with Oliden. He observed two old men sent by the
commander to hear what was said, news being rather scarce in
those regions. Mr. Oliden invited them to speak of the state of their
country, which they declined; and when Oliden spoke of the
Supreme Dictator, they immediately took off their hats, but refused
to talk politics or express their opinions with regard to the Paraguay
government. The term for which the soldiers enlisted on this station
was twenty years.
A soldier returned with the passport granting Mr. Oliden
permission to retire—to return to his own country. His Cuyaba crew
pulled the little canoe up stream towards the north, and slowly
paddled against the current. Oliden's patriotic spirit saddened when
he found the expedition a failure. He was the son of a man who had
fought for the liberty of Bolivia.
Mr. Oliden reports the Paraguay navigable for all classes of
vessels from Borbon to Alburquerque, and mentions no falls either in
the Cuyaba or in the Paraguay up to the Villa Maria, which place he
reached in twenty-four days from Alburquerque.
 The road from Villa Maria to Cuyaba is travelled by mules and
horses. For heavy articles, the route is down the Paraguay river to
the mouth of the Cuyaba, and up that stream to the town of the
same name, in large canoes made of a single log, and manned by
the Indians of the country. I am induced to believe that this trip can
be made in canoes in the dry season; that these rivers may be
navigable for small steamboats at least six months in the year, and
below the junction of these rivers for the whole year.
Cuyaba is between 15° and 16° south latitude. The river from
that town flows south, winding through a rich country, more than
one thousand miles, to the south Atlantic ocean. Any road,
constructed of wood, iron, or water, which passes through that
latitude, must exhibit great varieties of vegetable growth. At Cuyaba,
the coffee and chocolate tree flourish. There is nothing to do but
plant and gather. At the mouth of the river La Plata neither of these
plants will grow. The planter must study his heights above the sea-
level, or reckon his distances from the equator, as the sailors do, and
plant those crops which are congenial to the climate he lives in;
watching also carefully on which side of the hills he sows barley or
plants sugar-cane; for if he gets them both on the same side, one
will fail.
The country at the mouth of these great rivers—Paraguay and
La Plata—is a grazing country; their trade is in hides, tallow, and
glue. The drover has no time to plant, sow, or gather grain; he
would rather exchange hides for flour manufactured where wheat is
produced. He will give beef for coffee and sugar, which he cannot
grow. He wants copper boilers to prepare tallow, and the bark of the
up-country to tan hides. The climate at the mouth of the river for
half the year is cold; the "pampero" winds blow across the pampas
of Buenos Ayres from the frosty regions of Patagonia, where the hills
are covered with snow, and icebergs float along the coast. The
drover, therefore, requires the wool of the table-lands, vicuña hats,
and cotton; he can make his own shoes and boots, but his wife has
no time to spin wool and knit his stockings, even if she knew how.
The merchants at the mouth of the river do business with ships that
come from all parts of the world.
The cattle on the pampas of Buenos Ayres and Brazil suffer for
want of salt. They who prepare the beef of the southern provinces
for the markets of the northern parts of South America, require both
salt and saltpetre.
The train of mules behind which we travel are partly loaded with
cakes of salt from the plains of Potosi, which the Indian arriero says
was produced from a lake of water formed by a mountain stream.
When he is questioned closely, as though it was doubtful about the
salt being produced from a fresh-water stream, he very knowingly
looks up and says: "If I take my hoe and lead the upper waters
between the rows of my potatoes the lake will produce no salt."
The people inhabiting the rainy regions are much troubled with a
swelling in the neck and throat, called goitre, which they attribute to
the absence of salt in the water.
The Indians of the desert of Atacama, where the rains are not
hard enough to wash away the earth from off the rock salt, lead
small streams directly over a vein of salt with their hoes, so that
their cattle may fatten the quicker on a poor pasture-ground.
The mule, Rose, has carried me nearly two thousand miles, and
is in better order now than after she had travelled in a drove from
Tucuman in the Argentine republic, in latitude 27° south, through
the mountainous regions to Lima. She is the admiration of all good
judges, from the arriero down. The reason she has kept in good
order, while the mules throughout our route, from Lima to Oruro,
look so miserable, is because José constantly gives her salt, and I
observe it is not the general custom of the country to do so. The
good old padre we met in the montaña of Cuzco was an exception.
He called his cattle from the woods to offer salt. The moment they
heard his voice the bulls came rushing out as though they were
angry with him. It was a beautiful sight to see the fierce-looking
animals halt in front of the old gentleman, robed in his clerical
garments, and gratefully lick salt from his hands; afterwards rubbing
their horns against his legs by way of thanking him. He did not seem
to like this much. It may be mentioned in confidence, padres in
these countries sometimes go about without trousers.
I met an intelligent gentleman, Mr. Mauricio Bach, who had
spent some years in the province of Chiquitos, and to him I am
indebted for much information.
Mr. Bach travelled by land from Rio Janeiro to Bolivia; he was
fresh from his own country, and was so much impressed with the
value of the lands, productions, and climate of Chiquitos, that he
remained there some years, during which time he had a fair chance
of judging it. He told me that the route through Brazil is inhabited by
some savage Indians; on the plains herds of cattle are raised, and
there was much wood. He passed over with a large party, who were
prepared to protect themselves from the unfriendly Indians; but at
the present day the mail from Rio Janeiro reaches Cuyaba every
month.
The town of Santiago, in the southern part of Chiquitos, is
situated on a hill of the same name, and has a population of 1,380.
The climate is delightfully fresh, healthy, and compares well with
Chiquisaca, with the difference that the air is not so dry in Santiago;
it is free from all troublesome insects also. The country is well
watered. The streams which flow into the river Oluquis contain gold,
silver, signs of cinnibar, and a suspicion of precious stones. In the
forests are ornamental woods and medicinal plants. To the south of
Santiago the country is thickly wooded with a great variety of palm-
trees. In the plains the pasture affords a plentiful supply of cattle
and horses already there. The soil is so fertile that the products of
both the torrid and temperate zones may be produced, from
chocolate to the wheat and sugar crops. On the river Agua Caliente
Mr. Oliden, in the year 1836, established a town, and called it
Florida, over the ruins of the old settlement of Santiago, where the
Jesuits first established themselves in this wilderness. The Indians
built large wooden houses, cleared the land, and raised an abundant
crop of rice, superior to that of Bengal.
From the size of the streams which empty into the river Otuguis,
their slow, steady current and deep water, Mr. Bach considers that a
steamboat could come up from the ocean to these rice lands, but
neither he nor Mr. Oliden could descend to examine, partly from the
fear their Indians had of the savages, and want of knowledge in the
management of canoes, which they did not use like the Brazilian
Indians. Mr. Oliden gave up his residence, returned to Sucre, and
finally to Buenos Ayres, through the Argentine confederation, leaving
his valuable lands and their productions to the Indians, who live an
easy life, in plenty and in an hospitable climate.
There is dispute at the present day between the Brazilians and
Bolivians with regard to the boundary lines between their two
countries. Bolivia claims to the middle of the Paraguay river; but one
of the Brazilian commanders observed to a Bolivian that the Brazilian
government claimed as far west as the cattle of Brazil roamed, so
that it is rather a difficult question to determine exactly where the
initial point shall be, and then whereabouts a line could be drawn.
By treaty between the Spaniards and Portuguese, made more
than a century ago, the southern initial point was marked at the
mouth of the Jaurũ river where it empties into the Paraguay; thence
in a straight line to the nearest point on the Guapore or Itenez,
should be the eastern boundary of the territory of Bolivia, which
certainly makes the middle both of the Paraguay and Guapore, or
Itenez, the division line between the two countries. The question
was not, however, of much importance formerly either to Brazil or
Spain, but now, as the South Americans are beginning to awaken to
the importance of commerce and steamboat navigation, the
Bolivians raise the question how far they are entitled to these natural
communications and necessary outlets. This is a matter of interest to
Bolivia; for if she gives up a right to the Paraguay river, she has
nothing on her southern border to fall back upon, except the river
Otuguis, which may not be navigable. After the Paraguay leaves
Bolivia and Brazil, it then flows over the soil of Paraguay and the
Argentine confederation. Each claims the ownership of the navigable
waters at the head of the La Plata, which God made for all.
We began to descend the great ridge of mountains to the
northeast, with a hope that we may not be obliged to retrace our
steps. The moment we touched the brow of the mountain, a thick
fog-bank stood before us, thrown up like a great fortification. The
wall was distinctly marked along the ridge, while on the southwest
side the sun shone brightly. The mules, one by one, entered the
thick mass of steam vapor with great hesitation. It was with difficulty
the arrieros could push them in, so much did they dislike to descend.
As they had travelled the road before, they turned and ran back into
the light, but the men finally succeeded in getting them all in.
In the sunlight behind us, there was a short growth of short
grass, with a portion of the soil burnt into a hard and scaly crust, like
the outside of a steam-boiler. As soon as we had passed under the
fog, the earth was found covered with a green sod; flowers bloomed
by our path, and the foliage of the bushes covered the sides of the
ravines, while the forest trees lined the bottom. The green surface
looked like the waters of the sea as they flow up on the land,
pushing towards the top of the mountain ravine in some places,
while in others, where a bluff stood out, the foliage was forced back,
as if the elevation was too high for the green wave to cover it.
Under this thick cloud the Indian finds fire-wood; here he burns
charcoal, which is used by the silversmiths, the blacksmiths, and the
city cooks. In the valley he gathers ornamental woods for the
cabinet-maker. After he has cut down trees and sold them, he finds
that his corn crop will yield him a plentiful supply without the trouble
of leading water through the fields with his hoe, for the rains come
down on the land so plentifully that he has nothing to do but to
admire what they do for him; while his neighbor, on the other side of
the mountain, eats only by the sweat of his brow.
 For his comfort, the Indian must build himself a house for
protection against the rains. He cuts four forked poles, and stands
them up as supports to a thatched roof, slings his cotton hamac
from post to post, and there enjoys his rest, swinging in a cool,
pleasant climate, while he looks out upon the growing maize, and
listens to the dashing waters of the mountain streams.
We halted and asked permission to encamp on the third night
from Cochabamba, and to pitch our tent among an orchard of peach
trees. We cooked supper by the Indian's fire, roasted a wild goose,
shot during the day in a small lake, while José made tea and traded
with the Indian for fodder.
May 14, 1852.—At 5 p. m., thermometer, 58°; wet bulb, 57°;
cloudy and calm. This observation is made in the peach orchard, not
far below the gorge through which we passed. After spending an
uncomfortable night in our tent, which we find rather close in this
dense atmosphere, we loaded up and pushed down through the
forest trees over a most dangerous road. In some places the mules
jump down frightful steps, where trees stand so close together that
the baggage catches on both sides. I have constant fear that the
instruments will be ruined, or that some of the animals will break
their necks or our own. The water in the mountain streams being
very low, we cross some of them by wading. The rapid ones we pass
on miserable bridges made of long poles thrown over, and then
covered with the branches of trees. Their wide dry beds indicate
great floods in the rainy season. The arriero mentioned having lost
half his train, with all the baggage, in an attempt to cross during the
wet season.
Our route from Tarma to Oruro was south. We travelled ahead of
the sun. In December, when we arrived in Cochabamba, the sun had
just passed us. As soon as he did so, the rains descended heavily on
this side of the ridge; it was impossible to proceed. The roads were
flooded, the ravines impassable, and the arrieros put off their
journey until the dry season had commenced. After the sun passed
the zenith of Cochabamba, and had fairly moved the rain-belt after
him towards the north, then we came out from under shelter, and
are now walking behind the rain-belt in dry weather, while the
inhabitants are actively employed in tending their crops.
After travelling all day through the woods, we encamped near a
house owned by a white man, with a wife and large family of
children. The place was called Llactahuasi. On the road we shot a
wild turkey, which was fortunate, for the woman declined selling us
the only old hen she had, as her brood of little chickens were too
young to do without parental attention. The only other living things
about the house, besides the children, were two dogs. The question
first asked by our people on arriving at a house is for provisions, so
as to forestall the same question from the poor settlers, who are
found along the road at uncertain distances. The country may be
said otherwise to be uninhabited even by wild Indians.
May 15.—At 4 p. m., thermometer, 73°; wet bulb, 71°; clear and
calm. An increase of 15° of heat since this time yesterday.
Temperature of a stream, 56° Fahrenheit. As the mountains dwindle
into hills, the trees increase in size and the undergrowth thickens.
Thousands of creepers are tangled in the most confused manner.
The branches of the woods are loaded with a thick growth of moss,
and immense masses are heaped up on the tops of the trees. The
creepers run up the trunk, coated with moss on the south side, crawl
out on the branches, and thence grow down to the ground from the
end, on which another creeper ascends, until the branch becomes so
loaded that it breaks down with the weight. The tops of the trees
grow up, and then are pulled down by these huge vines, which hang
like hempen cables. While the climate and soil encourage the forest
trees, the creeping parasites seem determined to drag them
downward. There is a constant cracking noise of snapping branches,
accompanied by a thundering roar, when large trunks are brought
down. Great logs cross our track, and we dare not look aloft, for fear
of seeing increased danger. A creeper runs up the trunk of a large
tree, and out on a limb, descends to another large tree, and turns
itself round the butt as if done by hand; then it wound its way up to
perform the same effort again, while the branches or roots were all
pulling like so many braces, until the limb was broken from the tree.
As it drops to the ground, there is a thick moss ready to grasp it,
and the log is soon covered out of sight and rots.
Some of the larger trees have been torn up by the roots, and
have fallen to the eastward, as if done by a sudden gust of wind
rebounding from the side of the mountain. All the easterly winds
that strike the broad side of the Andes do not glide upwards, but the
current is sometimes divided. The lower half turns under, sweeping
down over the forests with such force back towards the east as to
break down the trees and place them in the position referred to. The
winds cannot rebound horizontally, for they would meet each other
and produce a calm. Their only means of escape is either close down
on the surface of the warm earth, or up into the more rarified
regions. When the heavy gales, which sometimes blow in the rainy
season from the eastward, strike these lofty Andes with a force that
uproots the forest trees, destroys the crops, and sets the ocean in a
rage, they accumulate here, and must burst their way out. They
would split the mariner's heavy canvass sails and blow through; but
here the gigantic strength of the mountains resists them with a
composure that makes the forest the sufferer. These heights of the
eastern side of the Andes are among the most terrific portions of the
earth. They seem to correspond to the rocky shores of the ocean,
where the waves beat heavily against their banks. The trees,
bushes, vines, creepers, and mosses are heaped up just here, like
we find sea-weed hanging on the rocks of the sea-coast. The
fisherman paddles his canoe into the calm ocean beyond the
troubled breakers that strike against the land. Here we find no
inhabitants. There never were any. We discover no ruins or marks of
bygone ages. These primitive forests are not inhabited by the savage
of the present day. Here are no birds among the trees, except the
wild turkey; he walks through the bushes and feeds on berries.
There are very few of this family, much to our regret. Few wild
animals roam about.
 While descending the mountains to the east of Cuzco, we found
what we see here, numbers of land shells. This, then, may be called
the snail district. They are certainly in the majority, and the only
thing with animal life, which seems to flourish in these inhospitable
places. If our poor mules were not so very sure-footed, we would
never be able to descend by this road, which is so precipitous in
some places that horses could not travel and carry a man. The
short-legged donkey would be lost in the deep mud holes, which the
mules jump into and then leap out. At night they are turned on the
path to devour leaves from the bushes, or seek some palatable herb
among the trees; there is no shelter nor pasture for them. Our party
encamped in the wilderness as much exhausted as the animals. The
climate is damp and sultry, and when we lie down to rest the season
is so gloomy, it seems like a long and tedious trance. Our old arriero
proves to be a polite and amusing character. He is a creole; makes a
living by travelling down this road with salt and returns with
chocolate. Every now and then, after we have passed a difficult part,
he turns with most downcast expression and says, "Ah! Patron! your
boxes are very heavy for my mules." We tell him the roads are bad
in his country. "They are much better than they used to be." He said
when he travelled on the table lands, we became very tired of riding
all day, but here we went so slow that he did not feel fatigued,
particularly on his way up, when his mules were poor and could
scarcely climb back. He told us that it required at least six weeks
rest for the mules in Cochabamba, keeping them well fed on lucerne
all the time, before they were fleshy enough to load again for
another trip down. His full name is Cornelio Cespedes; he had been
engaged travelling up and down the Andes for a number of years,
and appears to be an honest, worthy man. Cornelio begs me to sell
him Rose. I object, because she would have to travel this dreadful
road.
Descending some distance, the first sign of active animal life was
a perfect swarm of ring-tail monkeys. They travel along among the
tops of the trees at a rapid rate, first swinging to a limb by the feet,
and then by their long tails. A little one, who looks in the face like a
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