When the Chiquitana women go down to the bay for water, with their
pitchers poised on their heads, the sight is very picturesque.
Sometimes a little boy will step into one of the giant, traylike
leaves of the Victoria Regia, which, thus transformed into a fairy
boat, he will paddle about the quiet bay.
The village is built on the edge of the virgin forest, where the red
man, with his stone hatchet, wanders in wild freedom. It contains,
perhaps, a hundred inhabitants, chiefly civilized Chiquitanos
Indians. There is here a customs house, and a regular trade in
rubber, which is brought in from the interior on mule-back, a journey
which often takes from three to four months.
One evening during our stay two men were forcibly brought into the
village, having been caught in the act of killing a cow which they
had stolen. These men were immediately thrown into the prison, a
small, dark, palm-built hut. Next morning, ere the sun arose, their
feet were thrust into the stocks, and a man armed with a long hide
whip thrashed them until the blood flowed in streamlets down their
bare backs! What struck us as being delicately thoughtful was that
while the whipping proceeded another official tried his best to drown
their piercing shrieks by blowing an old trumpet at its highest
pitch!
The women, although boasting only one loose white garment, walk with
the air and grace of queens, or as though pure Inca blood ran in
their veins.
