At the time I write of there was one
solitary Britisher resident in La Paz, and he was a Scotchman like
myself. This was before the railway from Oruro was built, and he was
proprietor of the coaches that ran, once a week, from La Paz to the
south; and I understood had quite a remunerative business. La Paz is a
peculiarly situated city, as the reader may imagine from my description
of its position. The streets are mostly hilly and steep, with the
exception of one or two which run parallel to each other on both sides
of the valley, at the foot of, and in the centre of which flows, the La
Paz river. This it bridged in about half a dozen places for horse
traffic, and while, for most of the year, there is scarcely any water in
the river, when the snow melts it is converted into a veritable roaring
torrent; and I happened to be present during one of the most serious
accidents that had ever occurred from this cause.
It had rained very copiously for some days, and the river had risen
enormously--in fact higher than ever before recorded--and many were the
predictions as to how the bridges would stand the weight of water. The
usual sightseers were about, and, unfortunately, a large number of them
paid the penalty with their lives. They had been duly warned that a
certain bridge was dangerous and threatened to give way, but this
evidently excited their curiosity all the more; at any rate, a crowd
tried to cross, with the result that the bridge tumbled into the raging
stream, carrying with it over 200 people, and many of them were
drowned--the exact number was never known.
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