rolling, cultivated, timbered country much like the blue grass
counties of Greenbrier and Monroe in West Virginia. Here we travelled
through some of the loveliest landscapes in all Mexico. This is a
region of temperate highlands amidst the tropics, so high in altitude
lies the land,--seven to eight thousand feet above the sea. There was
much grass land and there were wheat and corn fields many miles in
area. Here and there crops were being gathered, and yokes of oxen were
dragging wooden plows, the oxen pulling by the forehead as in France.
Several successive crops a year are raised upon these lands. No other
fertilization is there than the smile of God, and these crops have
here been raised for a thousand years--irrigation being generally
used to help out the uncertain rains. We passed vineyards, and apple
and peach and apricot orchards, forests of oak and pine, several
lakes, Cuitzeo and Patzcuaro, being the largest of them--lakes, twenty
and thirty miles long and ten to twenty wide. Never yet has other
craft than an Indian canoe traversed their light green, brackish
waters.
These high upland lakes of Mexico are the resting-places of millions
of ducks and other waterfowl, which come down from the far north here
to spend the winter time. It is their holiday season. They do not nest
or breed in Mexico. They are here as migratory winter visitors. Mexico
is the picnic ground of all duckdom. On Lakes Tezcoco, Xochimilco and
Chalco, near to Mexico City, the destruction of the wearied ducks is
an occupation for hundreds of Indians, the birds being so tired after
their long flight from sub-Arctic breeding grounds, that it is often
many days before they are able to rise from the water, when once they
have settled upon it. The Indians paddle among them with torches or in
the moonlight, and club them to death, or gather them in with nets or
even by hand, so easy a prey do they fall.
For many miles our train skirted these lovely sheets of water, and so
tame were the waders and swimmers along the shores that they rarely
took to flight, but swam and dove and flapped their wings and played
among the sedges as though no railroad train were roaring by. Among
them I looked for the splendid scarlet flamingo and roseate spoonbill,
but happened to see none, although they are said often to frequent
these shallow waters, but pelicans, herons and egrets I saw in
thousands.
The first town of importance we reached, after leaving Acambaro, was
Morelia, a city exceeding thirty thousand inhabitants, and the capital
of the important state of Michoacan. The people gathered at the
incoming of the train were rather darker in color than those in Mexico
City, which seemed to indicate a greater infusion of Indian blood.
Here we first beheld a number of priests garbed in cassock and shovel
hat, a costume now forbidden by the laws.
At this station, too, we came upon a curious tuber which seemed to be
cousin to the yam and the Irish potato. The Indians bake it and hand
it to you bursting with mealy whiteness of a most palatable taste. The
Mexican eats as opportunity occurs, and as opportunity is incessantly
offered, he is always eating. At least, so it is with the Indian.
Cooked food and fruits are sold at all times along the streets and
highways everywhere. The hot _tamale_, and a dozen kindred peppered
and scorching foods, are always to be had. Oranges and lemons, limes
and pomegranates, figs and bananas, cocoanuts and sugar cane are sold
at a price so low that the poorest can buy. Candied fruits are
abundantly eaten, and delicious guava paste is handed up to the car
windows on little trays.
Our sleeper went only as far as Morelia. After that we traveled in the
day coach. Our traveling companions had been three or four Mexican
gentlemen, who kept closely together, incessantly smoking cigarettes.
In the day coach we were now traveling with people of the countryside.
A tall, white-haired priest, in cassock and shovel hat, with bare feet
thrust into black, leathern sandals, sat just in front of me. A large,
brass crucifix, six or eight inches long, hanging about his neck,
suspended by a heavy brass chain, was his only ornament. He was much
interested in my kodak and watched me taking snap shots at the flying
panorama. He indicated that he would like to have his own picture
taken, arranging himself gravely for the ordeal. No sooner had I
snapped the _padre_ than several of his parishioners moved up and
intimated that they also would be pleased to have me take their
portraits. The film on which these pictures were taken was
afterwards lost, or I should be able to present these friends to you.
[Illustration: LAKE PATZCUARO]
As we drew near Patzcuaro, the car filled up, and among the incomers
were a number of pretty _señoritas_ of high-class Spanish type. Their
skins were fair, their facial outlines were softly moulded and their
large dark eyes were lustrous beneath their raven hair. Most of the
ladies smoked cigarettes, for every car is a smoking car in this
Spanish-Indian land. Very few Indians rode upon the train. The railway
is too expensive a mode of traveling for them.
It was past the midday hour when we came to Patzcuaro, a city of
perhaps ten thousand souls. For many miles we had followed the shores
of the lake of that name. Far across the light green waters I noted
many islands. Upon one of these stands the Mission Church, where is
preserved the famous altar painting supposed to be by Titian--a
picture so sacred that it has rarely been looked upon by white men,
much less by a heretic _gringo_. I had hoped to be able to voyage
across the lake and see the precious painting, despite the jealous
care with which the Indians are said to guard it, but the hurry of
travel has made this impossible.
A crowd of almost pure Indians was gathered to meet the train. They
watched us closely, while we bargained for our trunks and bags to be
carried upon the backs of eager _cargadores_ two miles up the long
hill to the town. We passengers entered an antique tram car, drawn by
six mules. It was packed to suffocation, most of the occupants being
ladies of the city, who had ridden down to see the train arrive and
were now riding back again. Among them sat one whose cracking face, I
was told, disclosed leprosy, a disease here not uncommon. Not many
_gringos_ visit Patzcuaro, and our strange foreign clothing and
unknown speech were matters of curious comment. Our mules clambered up
the hill at a gallop, urged by a merciless rawhide. We halted finally
before a quaint and ancient inn, La Colonia. Through a big open
doorway, into which a coach might drive, penetrating a high, white
wall, we passed to an ill-paved interior courtyard, where our host,
the landlord, greeted us with formal ceremony. He then led us up a
flight of stone steps to a wide, stone-flagged piazza running round
the interior of the court. We were there given rooms opening off this
open corridor, each door being ponderously locked with a big iron key.
I had scarcely reached my quarters before the _cargadore_ brought in
my trunk. He had carried it two miles upon his back in almost as quick
time as we had traveled in the six-mule car. I paid him twenty-five
cents (Mexican) for this service (ten cents in United States
money). He bowed with gratitude at my liberal fee.
[Illustration: OUR DEPARTURE--FONDA DILIGENCIA]
The inn faces upon a wide _plaza_ around which are many ancient stone
and adoby buildings, for Patzcuaro is an old city and was the chief
Tarascon town before Cortez and his _conquestedores_ made it the
capital of a Spanish province. On one side of the _plaza_ is a large
and towered church, while beside it stand the extensive, crumbling
walls of a dismantled convent. Upon the opposite side are many little
shops, and upon the other two are inns of the city with their rambling
courtyards, within which gather and disperse constantly moving streams
of horsemen, mule drivers and pack beasts. Patzcuaro is the gateway
through which a large commerce is borne by thousands of pack animals
and Indian carriers to all the country in the southwest, even to La
Union upon the Pacific, a hundred miles away. Until recently, through
here also passed a large portion of the traffic which crossed the Rio
de las Balsas and the Cordilleras to Acapulco.
My companions for the journey are three. There is “Tio,” as we have
familiarly named him, who is leader of our company. He is a
giant-framed mountaineer of the middle west, who has spent a life-time
in prospecting the Rocky Mountains and the Cordilleras from Canada to
Central America. Like all those of that fast disappearing race, the
lone prospector, he is visionary and sanguine of temperament, and a
delightful companion for a plunge among the wild and lonely regions of
the Cordilleras. His imagination is eternally fired by the
_ignes-fatui_ of mineral wealth, and he has discovered, exploited and
lost a hundred fortunes with no lessening of the gold-silver-copper
hunger which incessantly gnaws his vitals. His muscles are of iron,
his voice is deep and resonant. Kindly by nature, his solitary life
has made him reticent and self-contained. Only incidentally do I learn
of his past. A slight scar upon the back of his right hand is all that
witnesses the smashing of a _mescal_-infuriated Indian who once went
up against him with murderous two-bladed _cuchillo_; a bullet graze
upon his brow is his only reference to a duel-to-the-death, where, it
is whispered, the black eyes of a _señorita_ were once involved. Grim
and rugged and silent he declares himself to be a man of peace, and
none there are who care to disturb this tranquility. But despite his
austerity, Tio has a weakness. He is not a little vain of his mastery
of the idiomatic intricacies of the Iberian tongue. Nothing delights
him more than to dismay a humble _peon_ by the sonorous bellowing of a
salutation put in vernacular Spanish or Tarascon. He rides beside
me and acquaints me with the history, geography and probable mineral
riches of the land we traverse.
[Illustration: THE DISMANTLED CONVENT--PATZCUARO]
Then there is “El Padre” as we call him, who joins our party as our
guest and for the pleasure and profit of seeing the wilder, remoter
sections of the great state of Michoacan. He is virtually the
Presiding Bishop of the Baptist Missionaries of Mexico, for as General
Secretary he visits their different stations, handles the funds sent
down by the General Board from Richmond, Virginia, and does invaluable
work in organizing and directing the common propaganda. He is a native
of Tennessee, a graduate of the University of that state, a
cultivated, scholarly man who speaks classic Spanish and is master of
local dialects as well. I find him greatly respected by the leading
Mexicans whom we meet, and withal a most delightful and intelligent
comrade. He is an adept at adjusting all those little comforts of the
camp which only the practiced traveler can know, and by his bonhommie
and courtesy wins the good will of _señor_ and _peon_ alike, while
even the Roman _padres_ we fall in with return his salutations with
friendly greeting.
Izus Hernandes, our _mozo_, completes the party. He lives in
Patzcuaro, where _Señora_ Hernandes brings up his numerous brood, for
he is father of eleven living children. He is short and slender, with
dark black beard covering his face. His color is pale brown, and like
most of the population hereabouts, he has in his veins much Tarascon
blood. His manners are gentle and courteous, even suave to Tio and El
Padre and myself, but his orders are sharp and peremptory to the
horseboys and stablemen of the _ranchos_ and _fondas_ where we stop.
He has spent his lifetime traversing these trails between Patzcuaro
and La Union and Acapulco, driving bands of pack animals and acting as
escort for parties of _Dons_ and _Doñas_ when trusty guards have been
in demand. He supplies his own pack animals, is past master in
cinching on a load, and makes all bargains and pays all bills in our
behalf. He is our courier and valet of the camp combined. And he
proves himself worthy of his hire--two silver _pesos_ (80 cents United
States) per day--for he never fails us throughout the trip.
Our horses have been picked with care and newly shod. Tio bestrides a
mettlesome white mare, while El Padre rides a chestnut sorrel, lean
and toughened to the trail and gaited with giant stride, a famous
horse for fatiguing days of mountain travel. For myself has been
reserved the choicest of the mount, an iron-limbed black mule--the
mule is the royal and honored saddle-beast in all Spanish lands--a
beast well evidencing Isus’ discerning choice.
[Illustration: IZUS AND EL PADRE]
Our coming being expected, arrangements had been made for our further
journey to the South. Our _mozo_ was awaiting us in the courtyard of
the Fonda Diligencia with the four saddle-beasts and two pack animals,
a black bronco and a stout white pack mule. We carried snug folding
cots, which rolled up into compact bundles, and extra food against
short rations, when we should reach the borders of Guerrero. We are
provided with immense Mexican _sombreros_, of light woven straw, which
cost us fifteen _centavos_ apiece, the high, peaked crown and
wide-reaching brim protecting head and neck completely from the sun.
We have with us heavy clothing and flannels for our journey along the
highlands of the _Tierra Fria_ and also the thinnest of linen and wool
garments to save us from the scorching sun, when we descend into the
hot levels of the _Tierra Caliente_. I have purchased a pair of
immense Mexican spurs and my mule’s mouth is choked with a mass of
wicked iron, calculated to break the jaw with little effort, should I
pull hard enough on my rawhide bridle rein. A rawhide goad hangs upon
one side of my saddle-pommel and my long barreled Colt’s revolver,
loaded and ready for instant use, hangs on the other. We are all armed
and our _mozo_ has a formidable and ancient sword strapped along the
left saddle-side beneath his leg.
We dined in the low-ceilinged eating hall of the Colonia, upon a
well-served dinner of boiled rice, boiled chicken, yams and peppers,
and cups of strong black coffee, drunk with sugar, but no milk. Our
city clothes are left behind in a room, the rent of which we have paid
a fortnight in advance, and the large iron key of which we take along.
Our foreign looks and ways attracted much attention in the town. A
crowd gathered in the courtyard of the _fonda_ to see us off. Our
coming and our going were events. Nor was it altogether a simple
matter to pack our equipment safely and balance it properly upon the
beasts. But Izus was an expert, and with many yards of palmetto rope
finally cinched fast the loads. At a word from him the pack animals
trotted forth from the _fonda’s_ court, he following behind, while we
brought up the rear. “_Adios, adios, señores_,” shouted the crowd.
“_Adios, adios_,” we replied.
Our animals knew the road perfectly. They had traveled it many a time
before. We wound and twisted through narrow streets, we passed several
wide _plazas_, and then turning up a street wider than the rest, began
the ascent toward the hills which lie back of the city.
IX
A Journey Over Lofty Tablelands
ARIO, MICHOACAN, MEXICO,
_November 26th_.
As we wound higher and higher toward the summit of the hills, the town
nestled below us half-hidden among umbrageous trees, and groves of
orange and apricot and fig, while stretching beyond it, toward the
northeast, lay the light green expanse of lovely Lake Patzcuaro. The
panorama before me as I turned in my saddle to gaze upon it, presented
a vista of wood and water, of fertile, cultivated, well populated
country, delighting the eye on every hand. We were traversing a land
enjoying one of the most salubrious climates of the world.
We had started about four o’clock in the afternoon, and before we had
ridden many miles the shadows began to creep across the landscape, and
then, sudden as the drop of a curtain, down fell the fullness of the
night. This absence of twilight is always a perpetual surprise to me.
I do not yet become used to this immediate extinction of the day. The
sudden banishment of the sun did not cause me uneasiness, however,
despite the frightful condition of the labyrinthine paths along which
we threaded our way, for the moon was at its full. It shone with the
splendor and potency which our altitude and tropical latitude assured.
We were more than seven thousand feet above the sea and rising higher
at every league. The thin, translucent atmosphere gave to the moon a
wonderful quality of illumination. It shone white and radiant, with a
brilliance which permitted the reading of a newspaper with ease. The
landscape, the wide expanses of cultivated fields, the thousands of
acres of corn and wheat and rolling grass land, the dense copses and
thorny vine-woven thickets, the miles of maguey plantations, the
orchards of apples, of apricots, of lemons and of limes, lay
illuminated and distinct in the strange white light, revealed with
almost the same vividness as in the day. Only the shadows were dark,
were sharp and black and solid. For several miles we rode through
forests of oaks and pines, our little caravan appearing and
disappearing into the blackness of the shadow and then into the
lightness of moonbeam, in perpetual hide and seek. We passed
multitudes of pack beasts, in droves of a score or more, generally led
by a bell-mare, and followed by two or three _’cherros_ in _zerape_
and flapping _sombrero_, as well as many _burros_, these generally
driven by Indians. Here and there, we came upon a blazing fire by the
wayside, where were camping for the night the _cargadores_, roasting
_tortillas_ and boiling _frijoles_, or wrapped in their _zerapes_,
their chins between their knees, asleep before the flickering embers.
[Illustration: THE HIGHWAY TO THE PACIFIC]
It was nine o’clock when the white walls of Santa Clara gleamed before
us. We saw a long paved street, ending in a little _plaza_ filled with
great anciently-planted trees. Along the street were only high, bare,
white, adoby walls, rarely the glimmer of a light shone through a
small and high-up window. Midway along this street, we turned into a
wide doorway and, passing through the low encircling building, entered
a large stone-paved courtyard. The backs of thirty or forty pack
mules, from the lowlands of the Pacific, were here being unloaded of
cocoanuts, and salt and dried palm leaves for rope and mat-making.
Drivers and stableboys were swearing melodiously in Spanish and
Tarascon. There was everywhere great stir and nobody paid us the
slightest heed. We halted and dismounted. Our _mozo_ Izus, took charge
of our animals. A swarthy, burly Mexican bade us put our personal
belongings in a little room, where was also soon set our baggage. He
then locked the door and gave us a big iron key as evidence of
possession. In another house, further along the street, we found an
old Indian dame who gave us boiled rice, peppers, and a dish of stewed
chicken, setting before us cups of boiling hot water and a small
earthen pitcher of black, strong essence of coffee. A couple of
spoonfuls of this, put into the water, gave me a delightful cup of
fragrant drink, and a lump of the brown native sugar sweetened it
perfectly. This method of making coffee I commend. Every housewife in
Mexico roasts, grinds and drips through little flannel bags her own
coffee essence. She keeps it always on hand. There is always hot water
simmering on the clay oven, and it is only a moment’s care to provide
the traveler with as much of the fragrant, vivifying drink as he
requires.
In another house, across the street, we were bedded for the night. A
single, large, high-ceilinged room off a big, airy court was assigned
to us. The iron bedsteads were narrow, each with one thin mattress and
no springs, but there were home-woven blankets to roll ourselves in
and in the morning basins of beaten copper were brought us to wash in,
with water poured from graceful ewers of like metal; evidences of the
survival yet of a native industry for which this region and town have
been famous ever since the days of Tarascon dominion. I endeavored to
buy these handsome copper utensils, but my hostess would take no
price, although I really offered her a great sum in my eagerness to
possess them. They were heirlooms, she said, and too precious for
money to avail.
[Illustration: NEARING ARIO]
The night was cold, almost frosty. On these high tablelands, a mile
and a half above the sea, the radiation of the sun’s heat is rapid
and, the year round, by morning the thermometer is usually close to
thirty-nine degrees (Fahrenheit).
We were up betimes, out of the town, and among cultivated fields and
orchards and pine and oak woods again, before the sun became at all
oppressive.
As yet, I have not seen many birds in Mexico, only the waterfowl along
the lakes and a few finches in the thickets along the way. To-day we
have traveled in company with many ravens. Tame and companionable they
are, so usual is the sight of mules and men along this frequented
highway.
Santa Clara is close to the height of land. Seven thousand two hundred
feet above the sea, my aneroid declared, and from that altitude we
began to descend. The thirty miles to Ario is one steady decline, a
gradual fall of twelve hundred feet.
This whole country hereabout is held in vast _haciendas_ of thousands
of acres, and is chiefly owned by nonresident landowners who rarely,
if ever, visit their possessions, but trust entirely to overseers to
manage and work them and wring an income from the hapless peon. It is
a land of great fertility. Only the most primitive methods of
agriculture are employed, and work is done in the most inefficient
way. Yet huge incomes are withdrawn from the land, and spent by the
distant _haciendado_ in his city home in Mexico, or in Paris, or
Madrid. These lands are said to be marketable (buyable) at about ten
dollars (Mexican) per acre, say four dollars in United States money.
As I have been riding along, viewing mile after mile of this superb
fertility in a climate temperate all the year around, I have pondered
much on what a garden it might have been, and it yet may be, if ever
the thrifty American shall have it in possession.
Toward noon we began to gain a wider view of the landscape opening
before us toward the south and west. Our altitude was steadily
lessening and, many miles distant, seemingly, there was a sudden
falling away of the land to profound and indefinite depths, whence
came the impression of tropical verdure, the whole expanse backed on
the horizon by blue and jagged lines of lofty mountain chains, peaks
and summits which sometimes pierced the zenith, far to the southwest.
They were the mighty Cordilleras of Guerrero, a hundred miles away and
barring from view the Pacific Ocean just beyond. On a day wholly
clear, it is said, the snow-capped cones of Colima may be seen, also,
far to the northwest, but gaze as we might we could catch no glimpse
of the mighty volcano.
Thousands of cattle are raised in Mexico, and we passed many extensive
herds being driven toward Patzcuaro. They were urged on by vociferous
_vaqueros_, swearing musically the immense and cumbrous Spanish
oaths--yet have we seen almost no milch cows and the few we saw were
those gathered in a _corral_ hard by a wide thatched-roofed building,
known as a “milk ranch,” an establishment where milk is gathered and
shipped to nearby Ario, and butter and cheese are made for immediate
sale. A cross upon the gable denoted it to be under the protection of
the Virgin and I hope assured milk unadulterated to its patrons. From
my saddle I caught a snap shot of the ranch and send you the pretty
picture.
Our road now showed signs of being in better repair. Finally, the maze
of intricate paths along which we had traveled, coalesced, and the
ancient pavement now appeared intact. On either hand, tall
wide-spreading ash trees arched over the perfect road, carven stone
benches stood beneath them, and we found ourselves entering the
important town of Ario. It is a place of more than five thousand
inhabitants, the county seat of the District, the home of the _Jefe
Politico_ (the “political chief,” mayor, governor, boss and judge),
through whose iron-handed rule the central government of Diaz
maintains its firm control.