GUATEMALA TO ESQUIPULAS.
[Illustration: Pacaya, Fuego, Agua.]
Early one morning Frank and I rode out of the city and up hill to an
elevation of twelve hundred feet, passing the aqueduct and getting
several fine views of the capital,—better in some respects than the
view from the Cerro del Carmen; for now the two volcanoes were clear.
As the road was excellent, and our animals were in thorough trim, we
both got more enjoyment in the saddle than from almost any other mode
of sight-seeing. We were leaving the volcanoes of Antigua; but Pacaya
was before us, and we had entered a distinctly volcanic region. We
passed several small villages, in one of which we breakfasted on honey
and tortillas. Cerro Redondo is a small hamlet of perhaps a thousand
inhabitants, whose chief occupation is coffee-culture. The “round hill”
which gives the name is a small, very regular volcanic cone,—one of a
number less regular extending towards the Pacific coast. Here in the
road-cut were black volcanic sands and plenty of vesicular lava. As
the daylight waned, we met men, women, and children coming from their
day’s work in the cafétal, and a contented, happy company they were.
We did not arrive at the chief town of the Department of Santa Rosa,
Cuajinicuilapa,—or Cuilapa, as it is often abbreviated,—until nine
o’clock. Here we found a wretched posada, where we shared our room with
an enormous cockroach an inch wide and two and three quarter inches long.
Although we had a letter to the Jefe from the Department of State, we did
not care to wait in the morning for him to get up; so after climbing into
the church-tower and over the roof, we rode on to the fine old bridge
over the Rio de los Esclavos. This, consisting of ten masonry arches
spanning a rocky ravine, bears the dates 1592-1852. Our path followed
the valley for some time, and at a convenient place we had a bath in the
rapid river, whose waters were agreeably cool. As we left the river our
path led up a very steep ascent nearly eighteen hundred feet. On the
way we had several fine views of the “Hunapu” volcanoes,—Pacaya, Fuego,
Agua, and Acatenango,—clustered together, and in the clear atmosphere
seeming to be close at hand. Pacaya seemed to have the largest crater,
while Agua had none visible from this side. On the top of this “ladder”
we rested our animals on a grassy plain where they could pasture. We had
noticed cotton-trees (_Bombax_) on the way up, and we found some wild
pines that the men repairing the road had left, and we tracked the fruit,
which is pleasantly acid, to the pines used here for hedging (_Bromelia
Pinguin_). The curious umbrella-ants (_Œcodoma_) were common on the
path, each carrying its bit of leaf wherewith to stock the formicarium.
A puff of the breath would overset these heavy sail-bearers, which go
in Indian file. We had no time to follow them home on this occasion;[27]
for when we came to Azacualpa, still some eight leagues from Jutiapa,
we found this large village (twelve hundred inhabitants) had no posada.
Indeed, it had nothing but corn and beans, and even water was scarce; so
we pushed on into the night through an unknown country. After dark we
could buy no maiz for our bestias, though a señora sold us a bottle of
excellent honey. We had seen from the hill above, in the fading light,
a magnificent valley of great extent, broken by ridges and ravines, and
we had hoped to find some decent shelter. But when the moon rose over a
volcano, we decided to camp; and picketing our steeds on a fine pasture,
we slept on our blankets, undisturbed except by the wind, which was
strong at times. Our barometer told us we were 3,152 feet above the sea.
I noticed that in the highlands it was apt to be windy at night.
[Illustration: Hunapu from the East.]
In the morning our honey, a little bread, and some unripe oranges gave
us a very unsubstantial meal; nevertheless at daybreak we saddled and
rode on. We saw many pigeons, little gray quails that ran along the
path, and crows. At La Paz we found a very neat house, where we stopped
for almuerzo; but alas for external signs! my bowl of black-bean soup
contained a patriarchal cockroach. It was pleasant to see through the
open door our animals eating a good breakfast of _sacaton_. A little
farther on was a clear stream; but most of the way was over a dusty
plain among _espina blancas_[28] (_Acacia_) and calabash-trees, lava
streams and blocks. The surface of the ground was cracking open with
dry shrinkage, and there was little to interest us. Our Yankee nature
asserted itself, and we whittled at some of the little purple-spotted
calabashes as we rode along. The rind is very hard, even in young
fruit; and the inside is solid and consistent as an unripe squash.
The odd-looking, speckled blossoms spring from the trunk of the
crabbed-looking tree (_Crescentia cujete_).
About noon we came to Jutiapa, situated on a plain through which the
Rio Salado has cut a deep valley. We entered by a gateway and found the
Plaza. This was paved, and in the midst a dribbling fountain indicated a
very insufficient water-supply for the town. Before us was the church,
behind us the Casa Nacional, and the other sides were occupied by stores
and the house of the Jefe. Our anxious inquiries for a posada were met
with the too frequent answer that there was no such thing here in this
town of some twelve hundred inhabitants. Good fortune directed us to
inquire of a person in a shop at a corner just beyond the church; and
this resulted in a most hospitable invitation to the house of Señor
Alonzo Rozales, a Spanish gentleman whose name will be always a charm
to conjure by. He gave us a large room opening to the street as well
as into the patio, and we at once felt at home. We had walked many
miles, I leading, Frank driving, the poor tired animals. It was fifteen
leagues from Cuilapa to Jutiapa, and the road was very hard and maiz
very scarce. We were obliged to wait here for our mozos, whom we had
sent from Guatemala but had not overtaken on the road; and we were happy
enough that the necessary delay came in so comfortable a place. Our host
brought us new mats for our bedsteads, and pillows trimmed with lace in
Spanish style; then, after killing a very large and crusty scorpion which
had established himself over the door, presented us with a bottle of Val
de Peña,—a fine red wine from Spain,—and left us to our rest.
Sunday morning came, but no signs of our mozos. The church was closed,
as there was no resident padre; we got in, however, while an attendant
opened it to do some work on the bells. The roof was apparently arranged
for a fortification. Within we saw the skull of an Indio (?) built into
the stucco over the _agua bendita_, and a painting representing a padre
offering the consecrated wafer to a kneeling ass,—apparently in the
office of the communion, as the padre holds the chalice in his other
hand. A figure in the background—perhaps the owner of the ass—has long
mustachios, wears a turban, and holds up his hands in astonishment. No
explanation of this curious subject could be obtained there; and after
rejecting Balaam and his ass, we concluded that this was the ass on which
Christ rode to Jerusalem. As volcanoes are baptized into the Church, why
not asses?
There was a worn-out, poverty-stricken appearance to the town; not a
cultivated plant to be seen, as all the vegetables and fruits are grown
at some distance, in the more fertile mountain valleys. Some of the
larger houses, indeed, have a few flowers in their patio; but these are
quite invisible from the street. No fruit was in the shops or for sale in
the streets, and our animals were fed on squashes. Perhaps at the annual
fair (November 15) this ancient town, which under the name of Xutiapan
existed long before the Conquest, may assume a livelier appearance.
Still anxious about our mozos, we walked back several miles on our road,
though the high wind made travelling very disagreeable. At last, in the
afternoon, Santiago arrived with the mozo we had hired in Guatemala;
and to our astonishment the latter brought with him his wife and little
daughter. This was more of a caravan than we had bargained for, and I
was puzzled; but the woman seemed quiet and inoffensive, and the child,
who could hardly walk, and was carried always on her mother’s back, was
a good little thing, indeed, the most reasonable child I ever saw. I
acquiesced in the arrangement the more readily because I saw that the
woman was unwilling to have her husband go away so far from home that he
might not return to her. He was a handsome, strong fellow, and proved
well worth all the woman’s care.
On Monday we started our mozos and luggage at six in the morning, and
left our kind host before seven. We were almost surrounded by small
volcanic cones, but Suchitan was the only one we identified. This gave
little signs of its fiery origin to unpractised eyes, for the lower
slopes were covered with shrubs, and here and there a little house peeped
out among the trees, while fields extended to the cloudy summit. So
severe was the wind on the plain at the base of this volcano that our
animals several times turned from the path to seek shelter. Three leagues
out we passed Achuapa, and five leagues farther Horcones,—both small
villages. Clematis grew over the bushes and softened the rough appearance
of the calabash-trees and espina blancas,—almost the only vegetation on
this dry and unpromising upland. We had frequently seen the ocean from
our highway during the past few days, and now we saw the volcanoes of
Salvador, one of which was smoking, which I supposed to be Izalco. Blocks
of lava were scattered all over the plain, as if some bed of lava had
been broken up and brought down in fragments by an avalanche. The stone
was well suited for the manufacture of metatles, or tortilla-stones, and
fragments were scattered all about, as well as several half-finished
metatles, spoiled by an unlucky blow. We could not find any one at work,
and did not learn with what tools this rather difficult stone-cutting is
accomplished. The honey of Suchitan is very good, perhaps made partly
from acacia-flowers; its flavor being not unlike that of the famous honey
of Auvergne in France,—also, a region of extinct volcanoes.
We arrived at Santa Catarina about three in the afternoon; there,
while our animals rested and fed in front of the cabildo, we bespoke a
comida at a little cook-shop in the Plaza, and then explored the poor
little church, which was dark, windowless, and wholly bespattered with
bat-filth,—pictures, crucifix and all. We beat a hasty retreat from this
unseemly sanctuary; and after a wash in the public fountain, returned to
the _cocina_, where we were served with tortillas, fried eggs, plantains,
frijoles, and coffee,—for which we paid three reals, or thirty-seven
and a half cents. As we left the town we passed a noisy _trapiche_, or
sugar-mill, consisting of three vertical wooden rollers turned by four
oxen. It sounded very like one of the ancient cider-mills in New England.
A good mill could make a fair percentage of sugar out of the crushed cane
passing through these rollers.
From the town we found a rather steep descent, and at the bottom a large
river to ford, whose bed was full of loose rocks,—making the passage
very difficult. We had not gone two leagues from Santa Catarina before
darkness came on, and we camped by the roadside. A cheery fire and our
blankets made the camp very comfortable, and the little child was quiet
all night,—not civilized enough, Frank declared, to cry instead of sleep.
The dew-fall was very heavy; it is probably always so at this dry season.
We were up at light, and sent the men to find water while we got the fire
burning and made coffee. With honey and wheaten rolls we breakfasted
well,—indeed, our out-door life in this good climate made us feel at
peace with all men, and satisfied—nay, pleased—with everything that
befell us. The morning was cloudy; but we knew the clouds did not mean
rain at this season, and we were in the saddle before the dew was quite
dried from our blankets. As we went along we several times passed black
obsidian chips, some recent, but most of them quite old,—evidently the
refuse of the knife-makers, whose work in ancient times was much in
demand; the long, slim blades used in circumcision were never used but
once, then consecrated in the temples or broken; and those knives used
for other purposes were of course brittle, and soon destroyed.
[Illustration: Mozo on the Road.]
We arrived at Agua Blanca about eight o’clock, and stopped to feed our
bestias on cornstalks and squashes. The former were kept high up in
the trees, which neither cows nor pigs could climb, while the squashes
in endless variety nearly filled a small house, through whose bambu
walls the wandering hogs could smell the coveted food. The town is
appropriately named “White Water,” for the only supply was very milky
in appearance and very clayey in taste. Almost directly over the town,
the volcano of Monte Rico, long extinct, is the most striking feature
in the landscape. Cultivated to the very edge of the crater, which is
said to contain a large lake, the fertility of the fields was greatest
at the top,—due, no doubt, to the waters of the crater; while the lower
slopes are comparatively dry and barren. Around the base are many smaller
cones, which remind one of those which dot the slopes of Ætna and give
the Sicilian volcano the name “Mother of Mountains.” Not a league beyond
we crossed the only clear stream we saw all day; but even this water was
not very pleasing to the taste. Bars across the road made us fear we
had missed the path and were no longer in the “camino real;” we were,
nevertheless. At Piedras Gordas, in the afternoon, we stopped for food,
in hopes of hearing tidings of our guide and mozos, who had started
before us. Our frugal meal of plantains, tortillas, and red bananas was
constantly interrupted by the pigs who were stealing the sacaton from
our hungry animals. For miles there were booths and stone fireplaces
marking the camps of the pilgrims who journey to the sacred Sanctuario
de Esquipulas. At six o’clock we camped in a fine pine-forest high up
in the mountains. No human habitation was near, but a few cattle were
seen here and there. The pasturage was good between the scattered trees
of this grand park. We built a roaring fire, which cast curious shadows
from the trees, pegged our bestias securely, enjoyed a good _lomilomi_,
or Hawaiian massage, and both fell asleep. Suddenly I awoke with the
strong impression that something was wrong. There was no noise, not
even the cry of a night-bird; only the soft sough of the night-breezes
in the pine-tops. Frank was breathing quietly at my side, the fire was
out, and the night was cold outside the blankets. As I sat up to look
about, a dark object caught my eye in the dim distance, and without much
thought or reason I went towards it, simply because I felt impelled to do
so. There was no consideration of personal danger, but an overpowering
feeling that all was not as it should be. The first thought as I got
near the black object, which seemed to move towards me, was amusing,—it
looked like the devil; there were the short, straight horns, the hoofs,
and I saw the switch of a tail. It was very like a dream. I had seen the
“father of lies” in many a human form, but never so undisguised; and I
was filled with curiosity. The next moment a joyful hinny discovered our
mare Mabel, who recognized me before I could plainly see her. Putting my
arm around her neck, I found the remnant of the horse-hair lariat with
which Frank had fastened her. I tried to return to camp, more than an
eighth of a mile away, but could not orient myself in the dark, and had
to call to Frank. Guided by his answer, I retraced my steps, stumbling
into a brook I had unconsciously crossed in going out; and we found the
peg and again secured Mabel. In this curious way we were saved a long
hunt for the next day.
At daylight we were on a very good road, and soon after eight we stopped
at a sugar-plantation for some coffee and frijoles negras. Here was a
fine stream, together with vats formerly used for indigo-making, now
useless. Hill rose above hill, and Esquipulas seemed as far away as ever.
By the roadside were the pilgrim fireplaces, frequent and extensive,
and we noticed a large deposit of a pink-colored rock, which I supposed
might contain manganese (_Rhodonite_). The specimens I brought away, I
regret to say, were afterwards left at one of our camps. The last hill at
length climbed, before us lay an extensive valley reaching to the distant
mountains of Merendon, the boundary of Spanish Honduras.
[Illustration: Lava Mask in the Museo Nacional.]