Vol. XIX, No. 4

Washington

April, 1908

Along the Old Inca Highway

By Harriet Chalmers Adams

With photographs by the author

On a June morning a season or two ago, we started out from Sicuani. then the terminus of the Southern Railway of Peru, for Cuzco, ancient capital of the Incas. We had decided not to engage passage on the regular stage coach which connects Sicuani with Cuzco, hut to journey instead by private vehicle, that we might loiter by the wayside to study the Quichuas, the remnant of a once mighty people who prospered in this highland country. Remembering the Spanish proverb. "If you can't get what you like, like what you get," I pretended to be quite enthusiastic over our equipage, which consisted of a rickety cart holding the two of us and our cholo driver, two slow but well-meaning mules in the lead. The Peruvian cholo is of mixed Indian and Spanish blood and considers himself in every way superior to the pure-blooded Quichua.

From Sicuani we traveled over the old Inca highway, worn by the feet of many pilgrims, of many llama trains, in the days before the Spanish conquest. The home life in these bolsones, the fertile mountain basins which are linked with the valley of Cuzco, is little changed since the long ago. The people are now of Roman Catholic faith and a church tower marks the site of each village, oxen and other domestic animals have been introduced: but the crude huts, the homespun dress, the primitive method of agriculture, belong to centuries long past.

We were so fortunate as to make this journey at harvesting time, and while farming" in the World's Roof Garden isn't exactly "up to date," it is most inter­esting to the traveler. In threshing the gram the men drive the oxen about in a circle, encouraging the poor animals by yanking their tails; in winnowing, the grain and chaff are blown out through a horn, that the wind may separate them. A crooked stick is used in plowing, but what the Quichua farmer lacks in modern machinery he makes up in the decorative head-dress of his oxen.

In costume these mountaineers are most picturesque. Throughout the Andean highlands the headcovering changes with the locality, and on the road to Cuzco it consists of a large, flat hat, usually of homespun, dyed bright blue or red, bedecked with tinsel (a modern innovation). Both men and women wear this headgear. The men are attired in knee-breeches, short jackets, and ponchos; the women in short skirts and low-cut blouses. They are bare-legged and seem scantily clad at an altitude of 11,000 feet above the sea.

In the villages through which we passed the huts were built of mud and thatch, consisting of maize, chuño, the frozen potato, cholona, dried goat or mutton. and quinua, a cereal which thrives at high altitudes. We passed many little fields brightened by the reddening quinua, its tall stalks waving like corn. The valleys through which we journeyed were narrow, bordered on either side by steep mountain walls. High up on the hillsides were cultivated patches, little farms which seemed in danger of falling over into the swiftly flowing river below. This river is the Vilcanota (we had seen its birth back in the snows at the Pass of La Raya) ; beyond Cuzco it is called the Yucay; farther on, the Ucayali, and it is the longest formative branch of the Amazon. Our road followed the rivers windings and crossed bridges laid by the Colonial Spaniards on old Inca foundations. Our first view of these massive stones was at the ruins of the Temple of Viracocha, about half a mile from the highway. One great wall alone remains of this once splendid edifice, said to have been erected by the eighth Inca ruler. We saw many lesser ruins of the ancients before reaching Cuzco—forts, evidently, guarding the approach to the capital.

Farming in the world's roof garden

We managed to pick up a few words of the Quichua language, which we had need of later on trips beyond Cuzco, where little or no Spanish is spoken. On this main highway Spanish is now the universal tongue, although the Quichuas cling to their own expressive language, and their sullen demeanor shows their hatred for the white man and the half-breed. They speak Spanish when they must, but most ungraciously.

My pleasantest recollection of this drive of two days is of the early evening, when we heard the shepherds playing on their pipes. From the hillsides where the flocks grazed came the clear notes, monotonous but sweet, and. the music carried me back to Peru's olden days. As we drove through these Andean valleys, past villages and haciendas, each church tower, each touch of a more modern civilization, reminded me of one of the saddest histories ever told, of the downfall and slavery of a once contented and prosperous people, now broken in spirit, degenerated ; yet in their hearts there remains a love for their lost idols, a reverence for their old religion. When we at last reached the heights overlooking Cuzco the sunset glow was gilding its many towers, and near us on a worn spot on the highway stood a group of poorly clothed Quichuas, with sad, unenlightened faces, forgetting their cruel Spanish masters, forgetting their Church and their Cross. With heads bowed and un­covered, they stood as in the long ago, greeting their beloved capital—Cuzco, Sacred City of the Sun.

Foot-Bridge of Woven willow over River Vilcanota, on the road to Cuzco