Mancha Leads the Way

They came to “the roughest and most broken country imaginable.”

Tiny trails led through winding valleys, across high passes and over little bridges spanning deep canyons. Some of the inclines they had to climb were almost heartbreaking, and he had to be very cautious not to overstrain Mancha and Gato. Lying below in the canyon were the bleached bones of burros and horses who had died trying to scale these mountains. Then landslides and swollen rivers made it impossible to follow ever this poor excuse for a road. He was forced to turn west into the Andes mountains again and hire an Indian guide to steer him through a country seldom seen by white men.

Though Tschiffely rode, the coca-chewing Indian had no problem keeping up and in fact often out-distanced the horses. After some time he brought them to the most frightening bridge Tschiffely had ever encountered.

“We had crossed some giddy and wobbly hanging bridges before, but here we came to the worst I had ever seen or ever wish to see again. Even without horses the crossing of such bridges is apt to make anybody feel cold ripples running down the back, and, in fact, many people have to be blindfolded and strapped on stretchers to be carried across,” he recalled.

Spanning a wild river hundreds of feet below was a bridge that looked like a long hammock swung high up from one rock to another. Bits of rope, wire and fibre held the rickety structure together. The floor was made of sticks laid crosswise and covered with some coarse fibre matting to give a foothold and to prevent slipping which would inevitably prove fatal. The width was no more than four feet and its length was more than one hundred and fifty yards. In the middle the thing sagged down like a slack rope. It was a horseman’s nightmare.

Upon examining it closely, Tschiffely said he felt as if he had swallowed a block of ice. He thought about turning back. But his only other option was to wait many long months in some nameless Indian village for the dry season. He had no choice. They had to cross. He instructed the Indian to take Mancha’s lead line and go ahead. He caught the horse by the tail and followed behind.

"Spanning a chasm in Peru, this bridge swung on wire cables. The horse in the photo is Gato being led by an Indian guide. Travellers too nervous to walk across this swaying path had the option of being blind-folded, strapped on a stretcher and then carried across by locals."

“When we stepped on the bridge Mancha hesitated for a moment, then he sniffed the matting with suspicion, and after examining the strange surroundings he listened to me and cautiously advanced. As we approached the deep sag in the middle, the bridge began to sway horribly, and for a moment I was afraid the horse would try to turn back, which would have been the end of him; but now, he had merely stopped to wait until the swinging motion was less, and then he moved on again.

I was nearly choking with excitement but kept on talking to him and patting his haunches, an attention of which he was very fond. Once we started upwards after having crossed the middle, even Mancha seemed to realize that we had passed the worst part, for now he began to hurry towards safety. His weight shook the bridge so much that I had to catch hold of the wires on the sides to keep my balance. Gato, when his time came, seeing his companion on the other side, gave less trouble and crossed over as steadily as if he were walking along a trail,” Tschiffely wrote.

Through Deserts Extreme

The next few days were a terror of torrential rains, slick trails and landslides. Following their guide, the trio continued upwards. The sun disappeared, leaving them chilled to the bone. When the rains finally subsided, they pushed on, arriving at a small village at the top of the world. Here the guide left them, and Tschiffely, Mancha and Gato started their long, weary descent towards the Peruvian capital of Lima.

It was an arduous task to reach the city. On the way he was careful not to contract “verruga”, a mysterious malady that brought on frightful boils, swellings and death. Finally, looking down from the top of a mountain, far below he saw a train running through the canyon. A sight, he recalled, that he had not seen for a long time.

On the next leg of their journey water became scarce. From the freezing mountains they had plunged down into the fiery hell known as the Matacaballo (“Horse-killer”) Desert. The horses struggled and sank in merciless sand dunes which rose one after another like huge ocean billows. Outside the town of Ancon they passed through a battlefield where soldiers from Chile and Peru had fought long ago. Once buried where they fell in the sand, the retreating desert had now exposed its corrupt secret. Bleached bones lay strewn about like old toys.

Leaving the town behind, he still rode north, forsaking the trail and following the coast.

Due to the terrific heat, Tschiffely would start before sunrise, pushing Mancha and Gato hard until the heat became unbearable, at which time they would seek shelter.

“Journeys through such deserts are trying in the extreme. At first the body suffers, then everything physical becomes abstract. Later on the brain becomes dull and the thoughts mixed; one becomes indifferent about things, and then everything seems like a moving picture or a strange dream, and only the will to arrive and to keep awake is left,” he said.

Gato the Goat

Peru finally lay conquered and behind them. In Ecuador they entered the mountains and froze once again. At one point a landslide had washed the trail away. To turn back meant a detour of two or three long days. But before them lay an eight-foot gap between both sides of the trail. Mancha was the saddle horse that day and was going in front. As the pack saddle needed readjusting, Aimé walked back to Gato to do this before retracing his march. He had been working for a while, when he glanced up and saw Mancha making his way towards the spot where the trail was missing. Before he could stop him, Mancha had jumped across to the other side.

“There was no time for much thinking. I tied Gato to a rock and then jumped across to do the same to Mancha, lest he continue his dangerous wanderings. Now the question was whether it would be safer to bring the one back or cross the other. I unsaddled Gato, who jumped across like a goat. I brought across the pack and saddle by means of a rope, having to cross from side to side several times to accomplish this primitive and ticklish piece of engineering. Another fright, a good lesson and many miles saved,” Tschiffely wrote.

Some things never change for Long Riders, including the trouble and technicalities of trying to cross a border from one country to the next with their horses. Despite the fact that the automobile had not yet gained control of the remote parts of the world where he was riding, Tschiffely was forced to placate suspicious border guards along his route. This photograph shows the Swiss Long Rider trying to enter into Columbia.

He rode through Ecuador and on into Columbia. The balance of the trip to Cartagena was a nightmare of water, lightning, washed-out trails and dense jungle. He had been in the saddle for almost two years and his initial boyish enthusiasm was now tempered by the hardships he had weathered. There were few silvery moons, balmy tropical breezes or wavy palms out here. He was more likely to encounter mosquitoes, sand-flies, suffocating heat, poisonous plants and tropical diseases. He had long ago learned that the need for constant vigilance frayed his nerves and doubled the natural weariness of travel. Most importantly he had discovered that a long horseback ride, which sounds so thrilling in prospect, was in fact immensely wearisome and monotonous.

Yet he never considered turning back.

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