Last week we were joined by an Anglo-French-Dutch-American born in
Chicago--a man with a close cropped head looking like a convict; he
was reputed an anarchist and a dynamiter. He did not fit in with the
spirit of our camp. He said of me that I was a poor Socialist, too
imperious in tone. I said of him that he was a poor Anarchist, too
autocratic. He talked to the servants like dogs, and to his equals as
subordinates. Within 15 minutes of his arrival, the camp was simmering
with indignation.
Pedro, the lad of the village, who offered his services and was taken
as waiter, and who always smiles when asked for anything, opened wide
his black eyes, and looked wonderingly at this strange new personality.
The Jap cook--who shoots wild parrots with a revolver, and whose
Mexican girl wife spends her time feeding the small wild birds that her
husband has caged--were both on the verge of a general strike. As a
result of which the A. F. D. American said he would “chuck the Jap into
the river” and looked as if he meant it.
We have permanently attached to us two half-Mexican Texas boys--they
wear sloppy clothes, red knotted handkerchiefs round their necks,
and loud blue check shirts. One of them with black hair standing up
on end and a three days’ growth on his chin, looks like the most
dangerous type of Apache. I overheard these two by the light of a
lanthorne discussing the newly arisen situation. They were not going
to accept any orders from one their equal. “He may have been in the
firm 20 years, and he trades on it but that does not make us his
subordinates”--they argued what should be done: not fight him with
fists they agreed, as he had done some quite shining light boxing
in his day--“we will get him into the river!”--Here I interfered, I
assured them they were here to take care of me, and there must be no
tragedies and no rows. I left them when they had sworn to keep the
peace.
The worst thing the A. F. D. American had against me was that I offered
him the eggs after General Barragan had tasted them. General Barragan
is my parrot. So beautiful, so spoiled. He has a passion for poached
eggs, and always comes onto the table at breakfast. Who could mind
eating out of the dish after General Barragan? But whatever I did was
wrong, in the unrelenting eyes of the A. F. D. American. So I got the
Canadian, who is senior to him, to send him back as soon as possible to
Tampico on some pretext of an errand. We breathed more freely when he
was gone.
The Swede who took his place was sent, I think, as a practical joke,
for the poor man could be of no value to us and he was miserable in a
life that was perfectly alien to him. A rather thin, chetif man; he
hated the effort of the long rough walk to get here. Hated the tent,
the bugs, the heat, washing in the river, the absence of movies and
restaurants.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” I asked him--Oh yes, he agreed it was beautiful.
“Peaceful?” Oh yes, it was peaceful. “Restful?” Yes, it was restful,
but he was not in search of beauty, peace or rest, and he left us at
his earliest opportunity.
One night, however, we broke the spell. There was neither rest nor
peace. We gave a dance!
In a way it was unpremeditated, and grew by itself, as those things
sometimes do. It began by engaging two musicians, a violinist and a
mandolin player and by inviting the milkman’s daughter and two nieces.
The news spread like wildfire, and we who imagined we were far from
human habitations, suddenly found ourselves with about 50 men on our
hands! They appeared at dusk from every direction. They hailed the
ferry on both sides of the mainland, they arrived all smartened up, and
by the light of our lanterns and our few colored paper lights, we saw
rows of white bloused Indians in their best hats. Our dance floor had
been especially arranged for the occasion--all the weeds and creeping
water melon and small palms had been grubbed; the earth levelled and
quite a big space in between the two barns was rolled and ready. Four
felled tree trunks were the seats that outlined it--and on these, the
Indians sat in rows, like birds contemplatively.
The arrival on the dance ground of the four specially invited women was
full of formal ceremony. They were preceded by the wife of our landlord
and by the cook’s wife--one behind the other, in silence they walked.
At sight of them the row of men on the nearest tree rose and fled as
one man, and distributed themselves elsewhere like magic, leaving the
seat to the women, who sat on it all in a solemn row.
When the music tuned up, the bravest men walked across the ground,
selected their partners with a bow and a fine sweep of Mexican
sombrero, and before dancing they paraded round and round the ground
two by two. They never smiled. The women kept their heads bowed
and their eyes glued to the ground. When spoken to they did not
answer,--their whole attitude was maddeningly submissive and full of
humility.
When they danced it was a very fast two step, and the man held his
girl at a very respectful distance. She did not appear to lean on him
or touch him. They also danced a little country dance, monotonous and
dull, of little shifting steps in lines opposite one another. I danced
once with my landlord, and the rest of the time with the Texas “Apache”
boy. I am told the evening was a success. It looked to me dull and sad
in the extreme. One hoped up to the last moment that the party would
cheer up and get merry, but even rum served all round did not stimulate
them. I am told the Indians are like that. Stoically melancholy. Such
an evening compares curiously with the same as it would be in Italy,
Spain or Russia--there is hardly a country one can think where the
native is not stirred by national dances and music. The men as well
as the women looked rather apathetic and passive and stupid--out of
the lot I noticed only one man who had individuality, stature and fine
features. He had the appearance of a stage bandit and assurance of
manner that set him conspicuously apart from the others. He wore high
boots and immaculate white linen coat and a large revolver in a holster
on his belt. I asked about him--he kept a store some way down the river.
The great mystery was: where did these people all come from? Not from
Micos, the village afar off--but just from plain thatched huts “not
half as fine as ours!” among the woods and hillside.
The supper we provided in haste from our tinned store was greatly
appreciated. Hands dived into the apricot or sardine tin as their
choice selected--and when they left hours later, volleys were fired
from the mainland, which, as I had gone to bed and was fast asleep,
woke me up with a bewildering start.