One evening I happened to be dining with a friend at the hospitable Arequipa Club.  Suddenly the windows rattled violently and we heard a loud explosion; at least that is what it sounded like to me.  To the members of the club, however, it meant only one thing—­an earthquake.  Everybody rushed out; the streets were already crowded with hysterical people, crying, shouting, and running toward the great open plaza in front of the beautiful cathedral.  Here some dropped on their knees in gratitude at having escaped from falling walls, others prayed to the god of earthquakes to spare their city.  Yet no walls had fallen!  In the business district a great column of black smoke was rising.  Gradually it became known to the panic-stricken throngs that the noise and the trembling had not been due to an earthquake, but to an explosion in a large warehouse which had contained gasoline, kerosene, dynamite and giant powder!

In this city of 35,000 people, the second largest of Peru, fires are so very rare, not even annual, scarcely biennial, that there were no fire engines.  A bucket brigade was formed and tried to quench the roaring furnace by dipping water from one of the azequias, or canals, that run through the streets.  The fire continued to belch forth dense masses of smoke and flame.  In any American city such a blaze would certainly become a great conflagration.

While the fire was at its height I went into the adjoining building to see whether any help could be rendered.  To my utter amazement the surface of the wall next to the fiery furnace was not even warm.  Such is the result of building houses with massive walls of stone.  Furthermore, the roofs in Arequipa are of tiles; consequently no harm was done by sparks.  So, without a fire department, this really terrible fire was limited to one warehouse!  The next day the newspapers talked about the “dire necessity” of securing fire engines.  It was difficult for me to see what good a fire engine could have done.  Nothing could have saved the warehouse itself once the fire got under way; and surely the houses next door would have suffered more had they been deluged with streams of water.  The facts are almost incredible to an American.  We take it as a matter of course that cities should have fires and explosions.  In Arequipa everybody thought it was an earthquake!

A day’s run by an excellent railroad takes one to Puno, the chief port of Lake Titicaca, elevation 12,500 feet.  Puno boasts a soldier’s monument and a new theater, really a “movie palace.”  There is a good harbor, although dredging is necessary to provide for steamers like the Inca.  Repairs to the lake boats are made on a marine—­or, rather, a lacustrine—­railway.  The bay of Puno grows quantities of totoras, giant bulrushes sometimes twelve feet long.  Ages ago the lake dwellers learned to dry the totoras, tie them securely in long bundles, fasten the bundles together, turn up the ends, fix smaller bundles along the sides as a free-board, and so construct a fishing-boat, or balsa.  Of course the balsas eventually become water-logged and spend a large part of their existence on the shore, drying in the sun.  Even so, they are not very buoyant.  I can testify that it is difficult to use them without getting one’s shoes wet.  As a matter of fact one should go barefooted, or wear sandals, as the natives do.