A lovely sunshiny morning (one has learned to appreciate that!), and we
boarded a tram at the Zocolo and went to Zochimilco. It took an hour.
We went as fast as a train across long straight stretches of plain. A
big barefooted Indian insisted on talking to me, rapidly and at great
length, in spite of my repeated “non entiendo.” Perhaps he thought I
was only pretending not to understand, which is true, for I gathered he
belonged to Zochimilco, owned a boat on the “lago” and wished to be our
cicerone! As I knew nothing about him and dislike persistency, I turned
a cold shoulder upon him.
Our tram took us across the plain and close up to the mountain feet.
Arrived at the region of lakes and floating islands and with no one to
turn to for information, the only strangers among a world of Indians,
I humbly followed the persistent guide. He had an ugly but kindly
face, and such a clean white smock that it gave us confidence in
him. We followed him for some way along a narrow cobbled way, where
wide eyed Indian girls wrapped around in blue shawls, looked at us
curiously. After a while I stopped dead, and intimated that I wanted
to find the lakes. Our guide looked hurt, even uglier for a moment,
and I understood him to assure us he was “secure”--and that we need
have no anxiety. A blind man, young, bare-legged, his head held
high as all blind men do, came tapping after us with his stick. They
always give me the creeps. I want to run in a panic, when I hear the
tap-tap. He stopped when the church bell sounded and taking his hat
off, he recited rapid prayers. I wonder if he was very philosophical
about his blindness, or what his mental attitude could be towards his
God. At this juncture however, we arrived at a canal, and our guide
led us through a door-way into the courtyard of a house by the water
side. Around the fountain some women were cleaning meat. I prepared my
kodak, but everyone melted away, and an old grey-haired hag shrieked at
me! A big man loomed into the background. He looked half-bred, rather
negroid, and had a severe questioning expression. I made a bolt for the
boat! This was a species of punt, with poles garlanded, and an awning
overhead, made of a faded Mexican flag. It was crude and picturesque.
In a moment we were under way and being punted noiselessly, along
the canal which joins the lakes. The small poplar-like trees that
were reflected avenues in the water, reminded me of Holland. The
islands were all luxuriant with flowers, there seemed to be acres of
carnations, mixed with pansies and chrysanthemums. In the water grew a
lovely “aquatic lily,” as our guide called it. I have never seen one
like it. The flower was mauve and like a small rhododendron. There
were yellow water lilies as well, and arum lilies on the water’s edge.
As we passed under a weeping willow, an irridescent humming bird flew
out. I had never dreamed of seeing one outside of the Natural History
Museum. The vision of it crowned my day.
I lay lazily on the slanting prow of the punt, the sun burnt down on
my back, and I wondered whether one would be content to live all one’s
days in a boat drifting along somnolently in the sun. Dick more active,
with an improvised paddle, thought he was making the boat go. Narrow
canoes slipped past us, full to the brim with scarlet carnations. Our
guide proved to be efficient and friendly. He took us to a restaurant
on an island, where we had an unedible luncheon, which we shared with
about eight famished dogs. Our table was under an arbor on a bridge
at the junction of three streams. Nearby we landed, and were shown
an electric plant which never interests me, and a garden that was
enchanting but more Dutch than ever. Trees were clipped into bird
shapes, and some climbing monkeys. The place was dense with strange
sad looking Indians, who were digging out a canal. We lingered on the
lakes until nearly four o’clock, and then our guide, devoted to the
end, insisted we should visit the village church. The doors were wide
open, but from the brilliant sun outside ones eyes had to accustom
themselves to the dimness within. There were a few Indian women
kneeling on the wooden floor, and some sort of chant was going on.
One woman was intoning in a shrill flat metallic voice. The crudest
painted figures of the Christ dressed in white muslin “shorts” edged
with lace; face and body covered with blood; hair black and matted:
legs emaciated and contorted, stared out at us from every corner. Dick
suddenly exclaimed in a terrified whisper “I _must_ go--I’ve got to
go--” and made for the sunlight at full speed with resonant steps. I
followed him, and out in the court yard was a rickety Crucifix with
human legbones tied crossways on it. Louise commented, and Dick quick
to overhear, asked: “Are they real bones...? What is a Crucifix? What
is it for...? Why...? Tell me about Christ, please tell me, tell me
about Christ,” and as we waited on a seat in the Public Garden, for the
tramway, Dick insisted upon hearing the whole story of Christ. He says
his prayers to God, and the two have no connection in his mind. And now
I realize what Dick’s first and earliest impression of Christ will be,
it is indelible,...