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of the one hundredth anniversary of Bolivian independence, a North American company completed the construction of a railway across this almost impassable mountain country- the first railway connection across Bolivia between the two oceans. The rainy season just beginning was the first since the road had been finished, and would put it to a most trying test.

The fates did not belie the pessimistic forecasts current as to what would happen to the new line when the first deluge came. At Tupiza, a picturesque little Spanish colonial town in a narrow valley, where we were scheduled to spend the night, we learned that a landslide had carried away a portion of the road ahead and completely blocked the way. A little Indian boy playing in front of the station, where all the idle urchins of the villages invariably gather, volunteered the information that no one would be able to get through for a week, even with mules; and the jefe de trafico was even less reassuring, for he reported a second landslide a few miles farther on. We had no recourse, consequently, but to resign ourselves to an involuntary sojourn at this point.

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Tupiza and its two hotels were still unchanged eighteenth-century. cept the railway and the telegraph office, the only innovation of later date was two automatic pianos, which, with the tireless assiduity of machines, filled the peaceful green plaza with a discordant clamor from morning until night. Consequently I greeted the prospect of an indefinite delay here with anything but satisfaction. Happily, however, it was just before Epiphany, when the Indians from all the country around gather at Tupiza for a three days' carnival.

Members of each ancient tribe, in these Andean highland valleys, still dress in traditional local costumes as

their ancestors did, and preserve the remnants of a venerable and artistic culture. The farther removed these natives are from aniline dyes and imported fabrics, the finer is the coloring, the better the weave, and the more interesting the design and ornamentation of their clothing. Their garments are woven in patterns that preserve half-forgotten native motifs, modified occasionally by horses and double eagles of colonial importation. Headdresses also change from province to province. The oddest that I saw in the Andes was in the southern part of the Peruvian highlands. It consisted of an oddly woven or knit skullcap, topped by a flat, round cover with a little pointed boss in the middle and slightly upturned edges, the upper side of which was black with gold ornamentation and the under side of bright scarlet felt. The whole thing had a strikingly Chinese effect.

But to get back to Tupiza. By evening the little town was thronged with Indians from the country, some of whom had come from a great distance. The market place, which embraced three picturesque courtyards in the early colonial style, was crowded with them and their animals. Everything that an Indian needs or desires was on sale. Unfortunately, this included baskets of coca leaves and great jars of chica, or corn beer. These plateau Indian markets differ from any others that I know of in being remarkably quiet. There is no ballyhooing or loud bargaining. Even hundreds of chaffering women make no more than a low, soft-pedaled hum. The vendors smile pleasantly, showing their white teeth, but they are silent and reserved. Even coca and alcohol rarely excite the Indio to boisterousness. The only loud things in the market are the colors, which fairly blaze in the luminous crystal air.

Here are Indian women with jackets tight across the shoulders and flaring at the hem, as many-hued as Joseph's coat. Sometimes two or three of these garments are worn at the same time. Thrown over the shoulder is a broad, shawl-like carrying cloth artistically woven in stripes and patterns, and knotted across the breast. An Indian woman carries anything in one of these, from her baby to all the luggage for a journey, and thus keeps her hands free. It is the characteristic knapsack of the Andes, and as aboriginal as the natives' plain or elaborately decorated sandals. Their bodices, however, are not American, but beautiful survivals of colonial tradition, of early Spanish satin design or ornate rococo. Around Lake Titicaca and in Southern Peru purely Indian patterns not infrequently supplement these early European borrowings. Neither are the round felt hats, which both men and women wear, indigenous, although a native touch is added by the wreaths and flowers with which they are often decorated. Half-breed women wear Indian garb with European modifications dainty lace petticoats which peek through the folds of their native skirts, silk shawls, tall leather boots, and a peculiar high cylinder hat of white straw with a narrow black band. The men are already beginning to adopt European clothing to some extent, especially in the towns; but those who had gathered for the fiesta at Tupiza, coming as they did from remote mountain valleys, were dressed the same as their forefathers would have been, in short white jackets and short, broad trousers, with a beautifully woven colored poncho slung over one shoulder and a pair of equally gay saddlebag pockets over the other. A few old fellows still wore queues under their black felt hats. How perfectly this bright-colored, warm, comfortable

clothing harmonized with their serious brown faces.

That evening the market was aglow with camp fires, and parties were cooking and eating everywhere; but the main ceremonies did not begin until the following morning. Soon after sunrise I heard a rattling of hoofs upon the pavement. Everyone was mounted, generally on handsome, gayly caparisoned horses, although occasionally a sorry old nag was visible among his handsomer brethren. Each man had his wife or his sweetheart perched behind him. Their bright-colored, flowing garments swept picturesquely over the horses' backs, and fluttered behind as they charged past at a gallop. A temporary booth, where chica, fruit, or native pastries were sold, had been set up in front of nearly every other house.

But the main show was on the banks of the river which wound through the valley. One might almost say it was in the river, for the stream's broad, stony bed was dry except for two narrow but swift channels, which give two or three barelegged Indians, an antediluvian, tall-wheeled mule cart, and a little auto truck a chance to earn a few centavos carrying foot passengers across. Picture to yourself a flat-roofed Spanish colonial town, looking just as it did two hundred years ago, standing at the edge of a broad, gray, pebbly river bed with green bushy banks, and the whole scene closed in by lofty mountains, yellow-red in the sunshine close by, but deepening into the intensest purple in the distance. On both banks of the river were Indian markets, consisting of primitive tents and women crouching behind their little stocks of gimcracks. Troops of galloping horsemen incessantly charged up and down the pebbly stream bed and across the water. One favorite manoeuvre was for

two long ranks of horsemen, riding bareback with women behind them, to rush headlong at each other at full speed. It seemed as if the horses must inevitably collide and the riders be thrown and trampled. But it was only a game to see which side would get past the other in best formation. A moment later all galloped back with much merry laughter. By the close of the fiesta, after three days of chica drinking, the horses were the only participants who knew clearly what they were doing; but no serious accidents occurred.

Even during these wild ceremonies the people were not boisterous. The hoof-beats on the gravel, the muffled tapping of a little drum, the melancholy piping of a wooden flute, and sometimes, but rarely, a low monotonous chant, were the only sounds that broke the mountain silence. It was the single pleasure-making of the year for these Indians, and it consisted entirely in exhibiting their skill as horsemen with their ladies fair, and drinking chica, plenty of chica.

At length the station master informed us that we could now continue our journey. To be sure, hundreds of tons of rock and earth still covered the track, but a trail had been made across the slide over which passengers could pick their way on foot and native carriers could carry their baggage, to a point where a train was waiting to take them on their way. The second train was not ready, however, because a second landslide had delayed it for a few hours; but this gave our party a chance to picnic on the grass. By this time I had made the acquaintance of my fellow travelers-a Yankee doctor, an Argentine estanciero, a Bolivian bishop, and a Berlin movie

man.

Our train's delay made us miss the connection at Atocha, a God-forsaken

mountain hamlet. Bolivia abounds in minerals—gold, silver, platinum, tin, copper, zinc, borax, nickel, antimony, lead, bismuth, wolfram, cobalt, iron, arsenic, coal, petroleum, and even diamonds. These fabulous riches, however, did not make our mountain station a comfortable sojourning place for the night. But the following morning, with its warm sunlight, crystalline air, llama trains, and little mountain Indians in still more marvelous garb, if possible, than those whom I had left, made me forget my hardships.

As the train carried us from Atocha to La Paz, through an incredible landscape of sky-piercing peaks and bottomless chasms, my respect for the Spanish conquistadores grew rapidly. They must have been men of iron to push into such an intimidating country, to climb the roof of the world after crossing fever-laden swamps or scaling naked cliffs in order to reach the Tibet of America, where every valley was an ambush and every pass a death trap and the infrequent trails were paths of disaster. The only access to this unknown land was through river canyons, where the stream beds may be dry in winter, but become raging torrents after a single summer's rain. What could have tempted civilized men into such a desert? In the midst of pondering upon this question, I sprang up as if I had received an electric shock. The plateau itself appeared to answer me. So suddenly that it seemed like magic, a matchless panorama unrolled before my eyes. Its background was white Illimani, a majestic snowy giant towering twenty-two thousand feet into the skies, and its foreground was a broad, smiling valley in the midst of which nestled an enchanting city-La Paz, eleven thousand feet above the sea, where roses and the red Inca flower bloom the year around.

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SYDNEY AND THE SUNDOWNER1

BY ARNALDO CIPOLLA

WHEN our vessel entered, in the cool transparency of a perfect September morning, the narrow entrance of Sydney's wonderful harbor, I exclaimed to myself: "This is another Bosporus.' The great bay is accessible to deep-sea vessels for seventeen miles from its mouth, -I do not know how far smaller boats can go, and with its numerous bays and gulfs and estuaries has a shore line of more than two hundred miles. As we rounded a range of gently sloping hills, the broad expanse of the city, with its gardens, parks, and islands, and beyond them its docks and business centre, marked by palatial buildings, semi-skyscrapers, churches, and the approaches of the colossal bridge now being built to span the harbor, unrolled in an enchanting panorama against a background of purest azure sky.

Others may not have remarked this resemblance between Sydney Harbor and the approach to ancient Byzantium, but it struck me forcibly - the same distance from shore and shore, the same soft contours on either hand, and, although the one is saturated with the history of three thousand years and the other records little more than a century of human occupation, the same wistful charm and beauty, the same serenity, peace, simplicity. Sydney Harbor, however, is not the Bosporus, but ten Bosporuses in succession. It has not only one Golden Horn, but one hundred Golden Horns, each

1 From La Stampa (Turin Independent daily), October 28, December 1

hospitably inviting, with white, sandy beaches, reaches of gravelly shores, and cottages nestling in verdant gardens.

Sydney is sometimes called the Paris, and sometimes the Naples, of the Pacific. It combines the holiday air of the former with the dolce far niente of the latter. Its people seem to be always thinking how they shall spend the coming week-end-and the delightful outings to which their beautiful bay invites them excuse the weakness, if such it be. This week-end begins Friday evening, and the entire two days that follow are sacred to rest and recreation. If, perchance, a formal and official holiday falls at that time, its observance is postponed until Monday, so that it may not trespass upon the period dedicated to those great ends. The working week consists of forty hours, but the workers are agitating to reduce it to thirty-six hours, and that will be done before the end of the year. Next season a new movement will probably start, to shorten it to thirty-two hours-and so on indefinitely. One of the latest privileges which the unions have won is an extension of the smoke-ho to five minutes out of each working hour, reserved

on full pay for devotions to Lady Nicotine.

Sydney exhibits none of that feverish activity we associate with the United States. No one appears at his office before half-past nine, and the luxurious shops of Pitt Street, George Street, Castlereagh Street, and Eliza

beth Street open their doors still later. At 10 A. M. harbor boats and ferries are still emptying upon Circular Quay -where the streams of suburbanites from Parramatta, Hunter's Hill, Lane Cove, Mosman's, and a dozen other points upon the bay, converge crowds of clerks and salespeople, who stroll away to their respective places of employment, over sidewalks that serve less for traffic than for sight-seeing. Lingering awhile over the flower trays before the Central Post Office or the majestic palace of the Commonwealth Bank, these salaried folk finally reconcile themselves to going to the office, laden with violets, yellow poppies, and hand-bags of incredible size.

Upon asking why Australians invariably carry these huge hand-bags to their work, I was told that it is because of the great distance between the metropolis and their homes. Lady employees, who rarely earn less than eight pounds sterling a week, generally spend the evening in the city. These handbags contain their evening toilettes.

Sydney is a city of contrasts. Macquarie Street, a beautiful avenue adorned with a monument to Shakespeare and skirting one of the city parks, is tenanted by very different people, apparently, from the gayly garbed throngs in the shopping centre. This avenue is lined with public buildings, including the squalid frame Parliament House that seems so oddly out of place in this land of wealth. Between twelve and one its sidewalks are black with attorneys on their way to luncheon. You cannot mistake them, for they all wear sable robes and white perukes; and there must be thousands of them. When a stranger comes upon them for the first time unaware, his eyes still dazzled by the bright colors of this city of perennial spring, he experiences a perceptible shock. They

are an anticlimax - a gloomy reminiscence of a harsher clime.

Sydney symbolizes Australia. This great, magnificent city is utterly out of proportion to the vast but sparsely populated continent of which she is the metropolis. She is the Australian siren. She sings a song that people born under these skies cannot resist. The attractions of the vast hinterland are not strong enough to entice away her people. Apparently Australians instinctively recognize the futility of trying to defy the economic law of the land, which for a century has made the pastoral industries the country's chief source of revenue. Why laboriously till the soil when one hundred million merino sheep scattered over the great grazing ranges of the interior, and requiring only a minimum of attention, support the people in affluence? These flocks produce automatic wealth, which drops into the hands of the people almost for the asking-gushing rivers of gold that flow to the metropolis under the law of gravity, the nation's Golden Fleece. It is true that the distribution of wealth is very unequal in this country; but the big landlords and station owners spend their revenue with a lordly hand, and happy Sydney is the result.

Leaving Sydney one fine morning in a motor car, I found myself much sooner than I expected in the Australian bush. Ten miles of suburb, twenty more miles of asphalt pavement, bordered by pastures, and then the eucalyptus began to crowd the highway on either hand, impressing me with the uniformity of this great southern continent. I recall an English journalist's description: 'One tree, one hill, one valley.' In fact, eucalypti, of which there are several hundred varieties to be sure, but all of them monotonously alike and strangely alien to a European, are almost the only na

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