Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
officer I knew touched me on the shoulder and whispered into my ear, 'Let us go away, this
makes me positively sick.'
InthistownIvisitedanunnery,whichwasanewexperienceforme.Onceagirlentersthis
one she must stay for ever, and she can never again be seen by anybody belonging to the out-
sideworld.OnarrivalIwastakentoanentrancewheremyguidepulledathickcord.Presently
a small window opened which was made safe by a heavy iron grating over which was hung a
heavydarkcurtain.Frombehindthisafemale voiceaskedwhatwewanted.Thesurroundings
and atmosphere suggested a voice from the dead. Later we entered the church, which is pub-
lic: here the silence was broken by the mournful and monotonous voices of nuns praying up
in the cloister. They have a separate entrance from the nunnery and are high up behind heavy
iron bars which suggest an ancient prison. Behind this barrier there is again a heavy dark cur-
tain that hides the nuns from view. As it happened there was a strong light behind the curtain
andthuswecoulddistinctlyseetheshadowsofseveralnunswhowerepeepingthroughtosee
who we were.
Everything in Loja, as in all other inland towns and villages where no railroads exist, is
brought in on pack-animals when possible, but large and heavy articles that cannot be loaded
on beasts are transported by squads of Indians, as wagons and carts cannot be used on the
steep zig-zag mountain trails. I have seen pianos and heavy pieces of machinery being carried
byasmanyasthirtyIndianswhoconstructaframeworkofpoles,frombeneathwhichtheylift
theload.Slowly,stepbystep,theymovealong,scrambling,stumbling,slipping,sweatingand
shouting. The food is cooked for them along the trail and they sleep out for nights until they
slowly reach their goal with their heavy load, like ants pushing a large dead insect towards
their nest. For this heart- and back-breaking work the carriers in this neighbourhood receive
their food and 20 Ecuadorian cents, which amounts to about twopence.
The trail between Loja and Cuenca is much travelled, which makes it rather worse. The
hoofs of thousands of pack animals have worn regular steps where the rock is soft or where it
is muddy, and in many places the trail is a regular trench of thick, evil-smelling mud, where
animals sink in to the girth. As the mules and burros take much shorter paces than horses do,
the steps worn in the trail made walking very difficult for my animals until they gradually
became accustomed to taking shorter strides. These steps are called
camellones
. The space
between them is about one foot, and their depth is often as much as two feet. After a rain they
are filled with water and mud, and many a bad stumble and fall have they caused us. Only
sheer luck prevented my horses from suffering some severe injury or breaking a leg.
After crossing a mountain known as 'El Silban' (The Whistler), probably so-called owing
to the cold, strong winds that usually blow in its upper regions, we stopped in a hut in a small
settlement. During the night we were awakened by somebody tapping at the door, and when
we opened we found a man lying there moaning, covered with mud and blood. One of the
women recognised him as the mail-carrier. He had been attacked some two miles out of the
village, shot at and wounded, and his mule with the mail had been taken from him. We at-
