doorway and halted in a well-flagged court, in the center of which a
fountain played amid many flowering plants and cages of gay-feathered
birds. It was the hotel Morelos. We were at the end of our journey in
the Highlands. We were come to the last town in the _Tierra Fria_. We
were on the brink of the hot country, the _Tierra Caliente_, which lay
stretched out beyond us, one short day’s ride and below us six
thousand feet.
[Illustration: A MILK RANCH--NEAR ARIO]
X
A Provincial Despot and His Residence
CUYACO, MICHOACAN, MEXICO,
_November 28th_.
Day before yesterday, I wrote to you from the curious and most ancient
town of Ario, but did not tell you all I might, for lack of time. The
city stands upon the verge of the highlands, the _Tierra Fria_. When
the Spaniards founded it, several centuries ago, they placed it, with
strategic judgment, at that point which would enable it to command the
several trails which here descend to the lowland hot country and lead
on to the Pacific. They placed it on a sloping hillside, as was their
wont, the better to insure more perfect drainage, for, in those days,
the sanitary engineers of old Spain knew better how to assure
healthful cities than did the more barbarous English and the less
civilized peoples of North Europe.
The streets of Ario, including every alleyway, are paved with sharp,
flat stones, set on edge, wedged fast, the pavement running from wall
to wall with a low stone gutter in the middle, into which open all
the drains from the houses on either side. Along these central gutters
are turned streams of ceaselessly flowing water, keeping the city
constantly clean. This same sort of street paving and drainage
prevails wherever possible in every Mexican city. To every town of
consideration, water is carried, anciently, by substantial and often
costly aqueducts; modernly, through pipe lines carefully laid. During
the centuries of Spanish dominion these towns and cities have enjoyed
a supply of water, pure, abundant and free to the poorest inhabitant.
There are no water rates in Mexico. Water is regarded as one of the
gifts of God to which every man and beast has an inalienable right. To
charge for it, would be regarded as indecent and criminal. At the
Rancho Tejemanil, I offered a boy a _centavo_ for bringing me a cup of
cold water. He refused to take the coin and let it drop upon the
ground, rather than disgrace himself by so much as touching it. He
turned away, the coin lying where it fell. I apologized to the master
of the house for having done such a thing as offer money for a drink
of water. He answered, saying, “_Si, Si Señor!_” “Water is indeed a
gift of God, for which no man should be asked to pay.”
Although Ario is in the neighborhood of extensive forests of pine
and oak, yet all the buildings are constructed of stone and cement,
mortar and adoby sun-dried brick. Indeed, I have seen no wooden
buildings in Mexico. Consequently, there pervades Mexican cities,
towns and even villages an air of substantial solidity, quite lacking
in American wooden towns.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR--PLAZA GRANDE--ARIO]
We brought letters to the Jefe Politico, _Señor Don_ Louis Salchaga,
the despot of the county and governor of the iron hand. He was of
large physique; tall, broad-shouldered, firmly knit, with strong,
square chin and commanding eye. His hair was gray almost to whiteness;
and a sweeping mustache, re-enforced the general impressiveness of his
countenance. He was clad in a linen undress military uniform. He
greeted us with courtly Spanish graciousness. He lives in a
two-storied stone house at the intersection of two streets, one of
which leads from the _plaza_. Entering through a narrow doorway, at
the side, we found ourselves in a small, cement-paved room, whose
stone walls perhaps, in years gone by, were white with lime. Don Louis
sat at a table scrutinizing papers handed him by a dark-faced youth,
who stood at his side. As we entered he hastily signed them, pushed
them toward the clerk and rose to greet us. We learned afterwards what
the documents were, one of them a decree settling a lawsuit, the
other an order that a prisoner be transferred from one jail to another
some miles distant. Such an order is equivalent to a death warrant in
this land of the iron hand. On the way, the prisoner is said to have
“tried to escape.” Necessarily they have been forced to shoot him. He
is buried where he falls.
_Don_ Louis pressed us to dine with him that evening at seven o’clock,
having first politely inquired of my Spanish-speaking friends whether
“_El Señor de Estados Unidos tiene dinero?_” (Does the gentleman from
the United States possess money?) My friends replied, “_Si, Si, Señor,
mucho dinero_,” (“Yes, yes, sir, much money;”) so we were asked to
dine! Probably, of all people upon this planet none are more expert in
extracting the _dinero_ from the American pocket than are the gracious
Latins of the south. If you have money, the laws open wide their
gates, and all government officials pat you on the back, meanwhile
filching just a little from your unsuspecting pocket. Even the _Padre_
and the Archbishop, for the proper toll of gold, will shove you
through the quicker to the gates of Paradise.
At seven o’clock it was dark; the stars glowed big; the moon was not
yet up. The city was ablaze with electric lights. On this second visit
we did not go to the office door, but entered the wide-arched
entrance for man and beast. We came into the usual square _patio_,
where waters plashed and tropical plants, many of them in flower, were
set about in pots. _Don_ Louis greeted us as we entered. He shook
hands twice all round. He led us across the court to the far side and
into the dining room, a stone and cement-walled chamber with
stone-flagged floor, wholly without adornments. No cloth covered the
plain wooden table. There were wooden benches along the wall on either
side. He introduced us to his wife, _Doña_ Maria, and a little
grandson of twelve years. The _Doña_ was tall, for a Mexican woman,
and stout. Her hair was white, parted in the middle and brushed
smoothly back from her forehead. She wore a light muslin of white. She
displayed no jewels, although undoubtedly possessing them. _Don_ Louis
wore an immense diamond on his left middle finger, while a heavy gold
chain about his neck secured a big gold watch.
Our hostess could speak no English, but our host said he could read it
and understood it “spoken very slow, a leetel;” “but the grandson,” he
said, “had a tutor who was teaching him English,--a young man who had
lived six months in Texas at San Antonio and there mastered the
northern tongue!” The meal was simple. A very good soup, redolent of
garlic and peppers, was followed with boiled rice and stewed chicken,
a _dulce_, some really delicious preserved guavas, and cheese. Then
cups of hot water and the small pot of coffee essence were set before
us, and we “coffeed” the water to suit our taste. Just when I presumed
we were at an end, a servant entered and set before each of us a soup
plate of _frijoles_, with a big spoon. No Mexican considers a dinner
properly concluded without _frijoles_. I had heard of _frijoles_. I
had been told that _tortillas_ and _frijoles_ were the staff of
Mexican life. Now the _frijoles_ were before me. What were they? My
plate contained nothing but large black beans floating in a thin soup.
Perhaps the water should have been poured off, I do not know, but the
beans floated and the liquor was thin. And _Don_ Louis ladled them
into his mouth with evident relish! _Vivan frijoles!_
_Don_ Louis had resided in Ario three years. He came from the state of
Toreon. How long would he remain in Ario? He did not know. _Quien
sabe?_ El Presidente Diaz sent him here and there, into such States
and Districts as might be in need of a trusted lieutenant whose smile
was beneficent, whose hand was proven steel.
In response to the letters we bore, _Señor Don_ Louis gave us other
letters to the chief men of the _Distrito_--a sort of circular blanket
letter--and hinted that he would go part of the way with us next
day, which, it came to pass he did.
[Illustration: THE DISTANT CORDILLERA]
Later in the evening, we also called upon _Señor Don_ Juan Rodrigues
Tarco, one of the leading citizens of Ario, a lawyer of distinction,
and who gave us letters to the superintendent of the Mina El Puerto,
at Churumuco, on the river Balsas. We met him at his house. Through an
unpretentious doorway, which you might drive through, we came into a
_patio_ with many flowering plants and palms and a fountain. Near the
entrance, on the left, we entered the reception room. This was a large
high-ceilinged chamber with handsomely tiled floor, palmetto rugs,
modern French furniture of cane, walls and ceiling frescoed in good
taste. There were some good pictures on the walls, a new upright
piano, and several mahogany book-cases, whose shelves were well filled
with books, mostly in Spanish, a few in French and English. There were
porcelain vases and handsome modern lamps. In any city, this would be
regarded as a room of elegance, and to think that every luxury we
looked upon had been carried more than fifty miles over frightful
trails, upon the backs of men and mules!
_El Señor_ was a small dark man, alert in his movements and quick of
mind, a gentleman, having wide knowledge concerning the mineral wealth
of Michoacan. He studied in the Universities at Morelia and Mexico
City. He was a liberal in politics, and spoke with enthusiasm of
modern Mexico, her mineral resources, the awakening of her industries,
the growth of her commerce. He read French and English, but spoke only
Spanish. His sons were away at school, in Toluca, and were learning
English. It is the great desire of the young men of Mexico to learn to
speak English, he said. The language is already taught in all the
principal schools of Mexico. It is becoming the language of business
and commerce. Before many years it will be the chief language of
Mexico, and he regretted that he had not himself, while young, been
able to master the difficulties of the tongue.
The ancient inn, the Hotel Morelos, where we put up, was built by the
Spaniards more than two centuries ago. When we arrived we rode all our
six mules and horses right through the big doorway into the interior
paved court. Here we turned to the left and stopped at a flight of
stone stairs, which went up to the second floor. All our baggage was
carried up. A large square room was assigned to us. The walls and
floor were of stone. Three narrow iron bedsteads were brought in, each
having good woven wire springs, a thin mattress, a sheet, a blanket
and a small pillow. Our baggage which the two pack mules had carried
was piled in a corner. A table and three commodes, one next each
bed, a basin and pitcher of enameled iron, and four chairs completed
the furniture, all brought in after our arrival. Big double doors
opened on the inner, tile-floored piazza, overlooking the _patio_, and
casemented windows opened on the little balcony overlooking the
street. On our left was another similar chamber, then round the
corner, a dining room, then the kitchen, then another large room, the
water-closet, with a dozen seats all in a row, used freely by both
sexes and no lock to the door! A whole company might use it
simultaneously. These places, in Mexico, are always close to the
kitchen. I then understood the reason for constant yellow fever in
less lofty altitudes.
[Illustration: BEGGING A CENTAVO]
In the town is a very old and large church with two towers and a great
clock. Many women were kneeling along the dusty floor, saying their
vespers, when we entered.
An artistic fountain (whose waters are said to be “Holy”) carved with
lions’ heads, plays in the center of the _plaza_. From the _plaza_ one
can look over the lower town and far to the southwest, over and into
_La Tierra Caliente_ (the hot country) in which we now are. But Ario
was cool, and at night I slept in flannel pajamas under two blankets.
We were early astir! and enjoyed an excellent breakfast of coffee,
eggs, chicken, rice, _tortillas_--in fact, I may remark that all
meals I have thus far eaten off the beaten track of travel in Mexico,
are quite as good as any I would get in the mountains of West
Virginia. We had the two pack animals loaded, paid our bill, about
forty cents each, (one dollar Mexican), mounted into our saddles and
filed out of the _patio_ into the street by seven-twenty o’clock.
There we found _El Jefe Politico_ superbly mounted, astride an elegant
saddle with red trappings and tassels. He was accompanied by six
cavalrymen on handsome black chargers, in white and blue uniforms, and
a company of foot soldiers in white uniforms. With them was the
prisoner, a tall dark man, his left hand in a sling and his right hand
tied behind to the small of his back. All were lined up awaiting us,
to be our escort till late in the day. So we left Ario with dignity
and pomp. Whether the prisoner would reach the day’s end was an open
question.
[Illustration: THE JEFE POLITICO AND SOLDIERS]
XI
Inguran Mines--Five Thousand Six Hundred Feet Below Ario
INGURAN MINES,
_November 29th_.
From Santa Clara to Ario we had descended one thousand two hundred
feet in thirty miles. Now we were again going down. Each mile the
country grew more tropical. A fine, rich, rolling land it was, a soil
black and fertile; guavas, bananas, coffee, and other like trees began
to be common along the road; long lines of monstrous century-plants
(maguey), supplying an unfailing source of _pulque_, bordered the
roadway on either hand, serving as impenetrable hedges. The _camino_
(road) showed signs of having once been graded and on the slopes it
had been paved from curb to curb. Now, as yesterday, all the road is
gone, or nearly so. Chasm-like ruts, vast holes, diverse and many
paths, give the traveler a varied choice.
Again we met hundreds of loaded horses, mules and _burros_ and scores
of men also, bearing crates and heavy burdens upon their backs. They
were transporting cocoanuts, and sugar, and brown ocean salt, and
palm leaves, and tropical products even from the distant Pacific
shores, seven or eight days’ journey across the gigantic summits of
the Cordilleras far to the southwest. Also, we met trains of pack
mules loaded with bags of concentrated copper ore from the mines of
this great mineral belt, wherein now I am.
I took many kodaks of these travelers as well as of passing incidents.
The Jefe Politico stopped his whole “army,” or would have done so, if
I had not waved him to come on, for the picture had been taken while
he gave his order, “_Instantemente_,” greatly to his surprise.
By 11:00 A. M., we reached the Rancho Nuevo, and entered through the
big white wall into an extensive courtyard. Here, were already several
pack trains, some from the mines, one going on beyond the Balsas River
into Guerrero. The journey is from dawn to midday. Then a halt is
made, the packs are taken off, the animals cooled,--led slowly about
by boys,--then later, the saddles and _aparejos_ (Mexican substitute
for pack-saddle) are taken off and, finally they are watered, and
given “roughness” (the stripped dried leaves of maize) to munch, but
are not fed with grain till night.
Nothing differentiates the Spanish-Indian civilization of the
Mexican--mediæval and Roman as it is--from the twentieth century
civilization of our own modern life, more than the attitude of the two
peoples in regard to the suffering of dumb creatures. This I see
everywhere and at all times. For example: The Spanish-Mexican knows no
other bit to put upon his horse than a cruel combination of rough
steel bars and pinching rings sufficient to break the jaw. No horse
nor mule, nor _burro_, wearing this cruel device, will pretend to
drink a drop of water, nor can he, until it is removed. When you would
water your beast, you must dismount, take off the bridle and remove
the harsh mass of iron from his mouth.
[Illustration: TRANSFERRING THE PRISONER]
Pack-animals are rarely shod and are often driven until their hoofs
are worn to the quick and their backs are raw and the flesh is chafed
away even to the bone. When they can travel no further they are turned
out to die or to get well as best they may, no one caring what may be
their fate. Horsemen ride the ponderous leathern saddles of the
country in the fierce heat of the _Tierra Caliente_ as well as upon
the highlands of the _Tierra Fria_. And no one would think, for a
moment, of pausing in his journey for the mere reason that his horse’s
back had become galled and sore, however grievous the wounds might be.
The gigantic spurs with their big blunt points are perpetually rolled
with pitiless insistence and an incessant jabbing heel motion along
the animal’s bloody sides.
The same cruelty which we saw practiced in the bullring, where horses
were ripped open, sewed up twice and thrice and ridden back into the
arena to be ripped open just once more, amidst the plaudits of
vociferating thousands, is equally apparent along this traveled
highway where we constantly meet animals overloaded to their death,
animals turned out to die, animals fallen beneath their loads and
unable to rise.
At the Rancho Nuevo, the Spanish-Indian ladies of the kitchen promised
us boiled chicken with our rice for the midday meal. One of the
ladies, a stocky, swarthy Indian, with her agile son, started in hot
chase after a long-legged active hen. The bird seemed to know its
fate. Several short-haired dogs joining in the pursuit, the hen was
captured. The mother brought it to me holding it up showing it to be
fat and well-fed, and then, as she stood beside me, watching a caravan
of pack animals on the moment just entering the courtyard, she calmly
broke the thigh bone of each leg and the chief bone of each wing, so
that escape became impossible, and proceeded right then and there to
pick the chicken alive. She was evidently unconscious of any thought
of cruelty. The legs and wings were broken in order that the bird
might not run or fly away. It was picked alive as a matter of
course. The sentiment of pity and tenderness for dumb things had never
yet dawned upon her mind. The fowl destined for the pot, was as little
considered as the wounded prisoner with his wrists tied tight to the
neck and back, whom _Don_ Louis’ soldiers that day were “transferring”
to another jail.
[Illustration: COOLING THE HORSES--RANCHO NUEVO]
Our _Jefe Politico_ had been joined by two Spanish (Mexican)
gentlemen, managers (_superintendentes_) of _haciendas_ and we all
dined together. We had the hen cooked with rice and then _frijoles_,
and I gave them of my precious old Bourbon, which--“_La agua de los
Estados Unidos_”--they pronounced “_mas excellentemente_” than their
own _mescal_.
Here we rested until about 3:00 P. M., when we got away for the final
descent into _La Tierra Caliente_. We came down very gradually for
about an hour and then found ourselves at Agua Sarpo, a collection of
a few huts on the brink of the plateau, whence we looked out over an
aggregation of mountain peaks and ridges, valleys and deep plains,
much as though you stood at the “Hawk’s Nest” in West Virgina, and
looked out for a hundred miles over a country five thousand feet
below, all that distant region bathed in lurid heat, verdant and
luxuriant with tropical vegetation.
The summits below me were volcanic and the flat cone of Mexico’s last
created volcano, Jorullo, thrown up to a height of nearly two thousand
feet in a single night, September 29, 1759, and so graphically
described by Humboldt, stood at our very feet--the extraordinarily
clear atmosphere making the volcano and neighboring peaks and ranges
look as though crowded hard against each other, although they were
many of them miles apart.
My first herald of the approaching tropics was a _paraquita_ gorgeous
in emerald and scarlet and gold, sitting on a stump watching me
intently, and then I noticed a flock of parrots tumbling in the air.
The road, a mere trail, was as steep as some of those which lead down
from our Kanawha mines. We let the _Jefe_ and his soldiers follow us,
we taking the lead. Down we went and down, and down, hour after hour.
We passed palm trees, multitudes of bananas, and coffee trees. There
were many Indian huts by the wayside,--for we were on a famous, much
traveled thoroughfare,--and at most of them a bottle or gourd of
_pulque_ and fruit were set out to tempt the traveler to buy.
When almost down we came to the _hacienda_ Tejemanil, a great sugar
estate, with an ancient mill run by water conveyed many miles from
the plateau. Here we rested half an hour, the _Jefe_ transacted
some business, and we ate delicious oranges, small, in color a light
yellow, and bursting with slightly acid juice.
[Illustration: A WILD FIG TREE--LA PLAYA]
We were now on a level of palm orchards, whence the dried palm leaves
are shipped to the highlands in great bales. Then we came to another
_hacienda_, a farm of a hundred thousand acres, La Playa, where the
Jefe and his company with their doomed prisoner took the diverging
road to La Huacana. Finally, we came to a broad valley, the valley of
El Rio de la Playa, black with volcanic sand, called the _mal pais_
(bad land), this being the immediate region once devastated by the
terrible eruption of volcano Jorullo. Here were extensive banana
groves, strange tropical trees quite new to me, orchids and palms and
a stretch of several miles of indigo and watermelon cultivation. We
then crossed another divide and came down again just as the big hot
sun dove behind the mountains and precipitated the night. It was pitch
dark when we entered the _hacienda_ La Cuyaco and dismounted, four
thousand eight hundred feet below Ario, six thousand feet below Santa
Clara and yet some one thousand two hundred feet above the sea.
This night we slept on rawhide springs, a piece of matting for a
mattress. We were in the tropics. I was forbid to touch water, even to
wash. Our supper was chocolate, (delicious), _tortillas_ and eggs.
Parrots and two large gray doves and a gold finch hung in cages in the
_patio_ where we ate. All were new to me. A baby swung in a cradle
suspended from the ceiling and the father, Izus, the keeper of the
courtyard, held another. He had thirteen children.
We took off our thick clothes--(it had been difficult to endure them
all the afternoon)--I put on a gauze underwear and linen, and slept
without the burden of a blanket. In the morning we set out early, but
the sun was fiercely hot by nine o’clock. For some fifteen miles we
now traversed a wide valley. We were away from the neighborhood of
Jorullo and its scattered volcanic sands, and had entered the mineral
belt. A ledge bearing copper and silver ran through the courtyard of
the _hacienda_. I tripped against it when going to supper.
And thereby hangs a tale: Not long ago, it seems, an itinerant
American--one of those casual countrymen of mine who now and then
retreat to Mexico, when the law at home gives too hot chase--dropped
in at the _hacienda_ toward the close of a hot day and asked for
lodging. He was hospitably received, as is the custom, and when the
great bell clanged for supper, he left his sleeping room and made
his way across the courtyard.
[Illustration: VOLCANO DE JORULLO]
Walking carelessly, he stubbed his toe against the unruly ledge and
limping into the dining room, his host apologized for the presence of
so ill located a ledge of obtruding rock. The guest declared his hurt
a trifling matter, and the incident was forgotten. The next morning,
he was seen knocking the ledge with a hammer and he put samples of the
rock in his pocket before he went away.
Many months passed by and all memory of the casual American had
vanished from men’s minds. Recently, however, an officer connected
with the Department de Mineria of the Mexican Government, dined at the
_hacienda_ and politely informed the _superintendente_, that an
American had “denounced” (i. e. filed claim to) the ledge of mineral
running through the courtyard, and had received title thereto along
with the right to occupy as much of the adjacent surface as might be
necessary to work the mine.