A SHRINE OF ANCIENT FISHERMEN
At breakfast time the tractor had still not come. I felt like throwing
up the trip to Santa Cruz de Bravo in spite of the importance to the
expedition of gaining the good graces of General May.
Spinden urged us to be patient. He dwelt upon the folly of expecting
Latin-Americans to hurry, illustrating his point with an anecdote of a
Costa Rican editor, who said:
“The Americans have a funny saying--‘Time is money’!”
When we turned in last night it was only after a long hunt for a
lizard, which Spinden captured alive on Chinchorro Bank. The creature
escaped from its box yesterday and has been terrorizing the schooner
ever since. The cook found it in the flour barrel yesterday afternoon,
and when McClurg went to his bunk last night the lizard was perched on
his pillow. A lantern, two bottles of beer and the crystal of my watch
were broken in the pursuit, which was vain. Spinden is temporarily very
unpopular.
The sailors seem really afraid of the lizard, although the reptile is
not over a foot long.
At half past nine we saw the long awaited diminutive train enter the
town at a pace a boy could walk. We immediately went ashore. Because
they seemed to be sorry for having kept us waiting the four attractive
young Mexicans who run the train unloaded their bales of chicle with
all speed and were ready to start in an hour.
The chicle is the sap of the _Zapote_ tree, hardened after a boiling
process similar to that by which maple sugar is made from maple sap.
These bales are blocks of chicle wrapped in sacking to make a package
about eighteen inches deep, eighteen inches wide and three feet long.
Chicle is an essential element in the composition of chewing gum, and
has no other commercial use.
The locomotive of the Vigia Chico--Santa Cruz de Bravo Limited is a car
looking not unlike a station wagon with a top over only the driver’s
seat, the rest of the vehicle being a mere flat car. Behind it were two
other wheeled contraptions, one the sort of small flat car the Mexicans
call a _plataforma_, the other a similar body provided with a carriage
top, side curtains and three or four cross benches for passengers.
By hand the “locomotive” was pushed to a small turn table where it was
turned, also by hand.
One of the cars fell off the track; we two passengers assisted the
train crew to lift it back bodily.
Two of the train crew crowded onto the seat beside the driver. One
of them had a gun, not for bandits but for wild turkeys. Yucatan is
sometimes called “The land of the Turkey and the Deer.” The beautiful
bronzy ocellated turkey is perhaps the prize item in the peninsula’s
fauna.
Formerly so many delays in the railroad service were caused by the
pursuit of game on the part of the train crew that an ordinance was
issued forbidding the engineer to stop the train for any chachalacca,
curassow, peccary, deer or even the coveted turkey. It is whispered,
however, that laxity in the observance of the rule is winked at.
Moreover, it is possible for the letter of the law to be observed in
many cases without the loss of game which God has put in the way of
the sporting conductor or brakeman. When the brakeman shoots a bird he
jumps off the engine, which slows down, allowing him to catch the rear
car as it trails by. The law has not been broken, for the train has not
been stopped. Nevertheless, the turkey goes into the pot.
When we had run half a mile and were in the midst of the swamp which
is behind the town it was discovered that a can of gasoline had been
forgotten. The train backed a few feet, stopped, and a boy continued
the quest of the needed fuel on foot. The psychology of this is beyond
me. The train could have backed into town and returned in a quarter of
the time it took the youth to fetch the gasoline. But in Mexico one
soon ceases to wonder about such matters. Spinden and I profited by the
example of the engineer and employed the interlude to eat oranges and
drink coconut milk.
Soon we were out of the marsh and gradually rising over the typical
flat limestone plain of Yucatan, covered with scrubby trees. A space
barely wide enough for the passage of the train had been kept clear,
and we were constantly lowering our heads to avoid branches which
switched into the car in spite of its carriage top.
Perhaps two hundred Indians inhabit the less crumbled of the once
pretentious stone buildings of Santa Cruz de Bravo, which boasted
a population of 4,000 in 1902 when General Bravo was making it his
headquarters in his unsuccessful attempt to reconquer the Indians of
Quintana Roo.
_Señor_ Julio Martin, a handsome and affable chicle broker, and his
hospitable family offered us a room where Spinden put up his folding
cot and I swung my hammock of sisal fiber.
These simple operations were impeded by the unsought attentions of
several intoxicated Indians who had followed us from the train, which
was left for the night on the rails in front of _Señor_ Martin’s house.
For we learned at once that we could not hope to see General May and
return to Vigia this same day. General May was “sick”--in short he was
in the condition of the aforesaid Indians who followed us into our
room--which was in a separate building opposite the stucco dwelling of
the Martins.
Indeed, Santa Cruz de Bravo is the drunkenest town it has ever been
my lot to stay sober in. The retention of our sobriety, by the way,
was something of a feat, for as we walked about the ruined town to
see the sights and record them on film we were followed by a steadily
growing army of inebriates--each man waving a bottle of vicious,
colorless “rum” in our faces and urging--nay almost insisting, that
we partake. Many of them grew angry when we declined, and as all wore
the conventional _machete_--an implement both of agriculture and
murder much like a pirate’s cutlass--our situation rapidly became
uncomfortable. We fled to our room, locked ourselves in, and remained
there until _Señor_ Martin’s charming and cultivated Uncle came to
announce supper. For although we had brought food the Martins insisted
on having us at their board--and right well did we fare there. In fact
I was ashamed of the sustained ferocity of my attack on the delicious
viands the ladies of the family put before us men--for according
to native custom the women did not eat till the favored males had
finished. Mexican cooking has no such extensive range as the culinary
art of the French, for instance. But within that range Mexican cooking
at its best is second to none in the world except the Gallic.
In the morning General May was able to see us. We were received in a
warehouse half full of the chicle which May’s Indians had gathered for
their chief to sell to _Señor_ Martin--who ships it to the great gum
manufacturers of the United States. The price which Martin and other
brokers elsewhere in May’s territory pay for the solidified sap is
divided between the General and his Indians. No doubt the chief keeps
a substantial share, for he is said to be enormously rich according to
native standards, and chicle is virtually his only source of revenue.
[Illustration: Some of the drunken Mayas of Santa Cruz de Bravo]
Francisco May is a well set up chap of perhaps five feet six, which is
rather above the average for the men of his nation. He is well into the
middle years of life, but does not look it. He was in the formal
dress of his people, which is a suit of white cotton, with bell-mouthed
trousers and a frill on each breast. Except for these embellishments
his suit looked like simple white pyjamas. His head and feet were bare.
He sat on a bale of chicle, accepted our English cigarets without any
word but with a friendly bow. When we had seated ourselves on other
bales Spinden put questions in Spanish to _Señor_ Martin who translated
into Maya, the only language the General will permit to be used to him,
although it is said he has a fair understanding of the language of the
Mexicans whom he regards as usurpers.
He said he felt gratitude for our flattering interest in the temples of
his ancestors. He had no objection to our studying any we might find,
but he could not suggest the whereabouts of any for us to visit except
those at Tulum, Chichen Itza and other well known sites.
When Spinden asked how he had won the rank of General he said:
“I was born a General. The title passes from father to oldest son in my
family. But I do not care for war. I prefer the chicle business. It is
better for the stomach.”
In short, the interview was interesting but not very helpful to our
designs. May at least offered no obstacle to our proposed exploration,
but neither did he offer to aid us with information about ruins unknown
to archæologists which are known to him and his people. There can be no
doubt that such ruins exist. When we asked about Chunyaxché May merely
grunted, and seemed bored.
_Señor_ Martin thinks that the General would be glad to help us on his
own part but that he fears the disapproval of a large element in his
nation. This element, knowing less of the outer world than May and
certainly profiting less than he by commercial contact with it, clings
stubbornly to the prejudice against all outsiders which was born under
Spanish tyranny. When General Bravo’s army of occupation was driven
out by Indian guerrillas a treaty was wisely made by Mexico in which
the virtual independence of the Indians was recognized in return for a
promise by their Chief that he would keep the peace, maintain order,
and pay certain Federal taxes.
At lunch _Señor_ Martin recalled that there were one or two mounds
a few kilometers down the railroad which he believed to be of Maya
origin. At his urging we abandoned the idea of returning to the
schooner immediately and set off in the train to look for these mounds
under the guidance of the same youthful railroad men. Three of them
eat at _Señor_ Martin’s table and are his relatives--but the exact
relationships of his large family I have not yet mastered.
At Kilometer Fifty--that is six kilometers toward Vigia Chico from
Santa Cruz--there was in General Bravo’s time a town called Laguna.
Here, on the edge of a pretty pond, we were shown a mound which may
well have been of Indian origin, although probably later built over
by Spaniards or Mexicans. Without excavation we could learn nothing
of value from it as there is no building standing on it today. By the
terms of our agreement with the Mexican Government we are subjected to
Mexico’s blanket prohibition of excavation by foreign archæologists.
(There has been an exception to this rule made in favor of the Carnegie
Institution’s work in the ruins of Chichen Itza.) Hence we did not
linger at this mound when one of the trainmen said he knew a _chiclero_
living down the tracks who had told him of seeing “a stone building in
the bush.”
We found the _chiclero_ boiling chicle in a great black pot. On the
subject of the building he had seen he was most unsatisfactory. First
he denied seeing it. Then, being cornered, he admitted he had told the
young Mexican with us--named Pinto--of having seen it but said that
he could not possibly find it again. A little later he said we could
easily find it if we would go “in there”--pointing vaguely south,
“about two kilometers.”
The truth was that he did not want to leave his chicle. Finally he
said that a neighbor who was weaving a new palm leaf roof on his shack
across the railroad tracks would show us the way. But this Indian was
just as obdurate as the first. I offered each of them five _pesos_
to lead us, but neither would budge. From their description of the
building it was one of those small, low shrines built in the last
period of Maya sway, that is roughly between 1200 A.D. and the coming
of the Spaniards. We were not missing much in all probability, and
yet we should have liked to have seen it. For it would have been a
start--“first blood,” archæologically speaking.
It is possible that in the refusal of these Indians to guide us we had
encountered some taboo, some form of the anti-foreign prejudice which
has made the bush of Quintana Roo inaccessible to archæologists until
recently. Or it may be that their unwillingness to help us was mere
individual stubbornness--the result of temperament, laziness, call what
you will the mood in which Mexican Indians will often refuse to raise a
finger to pick up a few _pesos_ within reach.
In disappointment we returned to Santa Cruz, to be besieged on
the streets by the usual press of Indians intent on pouring down
their throats as quickly as possible the proceeds of a season of
chicle-bleeding. _Señor_ Martin happened along and rescued us. His
method of handling these earnest proffers of vile white rum without
hurting the feelings of the Indians or becoming as intoxicated as they
was to touch each bottle quickly to his lips, which he then wiped on
his hand with a “_gracias_” as profound as if he had drunk deeply.
This seemed to satisfy the bibulous ones. But they were so dirty, and
so many of them had sore lips, that we could not drive ourselves even
to this diplomatic subterfuge. All we could do was to press English
cigarets on them--which they accepted greedily--and plead acute stomach
trouble at each hospitable flourish of their bottles, meanwhile edging
fearfully toward our own quarters. Once near enough for a dash we fled
incontinently and bolted the door behind us.
Again the hospitable Martins insisted that they would feel insulted
if we cooked our own supper on the little raised stone fireplace in
our room. So while _Señora_ Martin was performing the last rites
preliminary to the offering of another excellent meal we sipped _Señor_
Martin’s good _Habanera_ and listened to dramatic stories of his
difficulties on coming to Santa Cruz ten years ago, when his life was
often not worth a _centavo_ to the Indians--which is perhaps why they
spared him.
As the _Fotingo_ was to leave for Vigia Chico before sunrise we did not
linger with the Martins after one round of Don Julio’s excellent Vera
Cruz “_Reina Britannicas_” had been smoked.
I was in my hammock and Spinden was about to blow out our candle when a
thin, weak-looking Indian with a wide, loose-lipped mouth entered our
room without knocking.
Were we interested in “_ruinas de los antiguos_”? (ruins of the ancient
people) he asked.
We certainly were (we had been asking every likely looking native we
had met in Santa Cruz if he knew of ruins, till now without result).
“Well, I am Florencio Camera, mule driver. In the season of chicle I
work for Don Julio. I know where there are some ruins. If you like I
can show you.”
Thus far he had been speaking Spanish. Now he remarked, “I speaks
Eengleesh,” and with obvious pride in his erudition attempted to
continue the conversation in our language. But his English was as poor
as my Spanish, or worse, if possible. We did not get any further for a
minute or two, or until Spinden had persuaded him to return to Spanish.
Then, to condense to thirty words a half hour’s conversation, Camera
said that he knew of ruins at Tabi, on the trail from Santa Cruz to
Peto, which is the end of the railroad in Yucatan and some hundred and
twenty-five miles northwest of General May’s capital. He also knew of
ruins at Taro. But that was further away, almost to Peto, and the ruins
at Tabi were the better ones anyway. He had seen two temples at Tabi,
but thought there were more.
It is a common experience for explorers to be misled by _arrieros_ and
_chicleros_, whose knowledge of architecture is often insufficient to
enable them to distinguish between a Maya building and walls which mark
the early occupation of the Spaniards. But Camera seemed to know what
he was talking about. Of his own accord he said these temples were
on pyramids. That would certainly be Maya. We showed him pictures of
temples in Lothrop’s book about Tulum. Yes, the Tabi buildings were
just like those, said the mule driver.
Excited by the conviction that here was a lead well worth following we
dressed, and took Camera across the street to the Martin house. Don
Julio was finishing a last cigar.
It developed that there were hardly enough mules available for the trip
to Tabi, which Camera had said would take nine days of our time, going,
coming and allowing two or three days for clearing the ruins of brush
and studying them. The _arriero_ is still engaged in bringing chicle
out of the bush for Don Julio. But in two or three weeks the last,
straggling _chiclero_ will be out of the bush, plenty of mules will be
idle, and Camera will be at our service for three and a half _pesos_ a
day and about a similar amount for each mule.
Spinden and I did some quick figuring. We think we can do Chunyaxché,
put Griscom ashore at Cozumel Island for his work and return to Santa
Cruz in about three weeks. So we have engaged Camera and six mules to
be ready for us on February 20. And I have promised the _arriero_ one
hundred _pesos_ as a bonus if Tabi turns out to be all that he says it
is, and further bonuses in proportion for such other ruins as he may
get wind of before our return, and be able then to show us.
The husky young engineer of the Ford train called us before there was
any sign of light in the east. By the time we had finished pretty
_Señora_ Martin’s sugared buns and delicious chocolate the eastern sky
was lemon and saffron and the rising trade was stirring the leaves of
the heavily laden orange trees.
Although the brakeman did get one futile shot at a majestic turkey,
this time the progress of the train was delayed more by domesticated
animals than by creatures of the wild. As we left the gray ruined
walls of dismal, dilapidated Santa Cruz a calf chose to run ahead
of the _Fotingo_. Before we could overtake it both calf and train
had entered the long narrow corridor through the bush outside
“civilization.” It was too late for the calf to leap aside from the
tracks. The thick, thorny bush prevented that. Yet the creature would
not, could not maintain a speed adequate to the train schedule. There
was nothing to do but catch it and deposit it carefully behind us
with its head pointed for Santa Cruz. But the calf had no desire to
be caught. And if it could not run as fast as the _Fotingo_ it could
run faster than any of the train crew. So we had a succession of
ridiculous, vain pursuits. The _Fotingo_ would rush up to the calf’s
heels and stop, while conductor and brakemen would leap off to pursue
the young lady cow on foot. Winded after two or three hundred yards,
they would signal for the train to pick them up, whereupon the absurd
spectacle would be repeated.
After four or five miles of this the beast’s strength began to fail.
With the conductor’s hand all but on its tail the animal leaped
sideways into a natural pit in the limestone beside the tracks--a
perpendicular drop of at least eight feet.
We thought the brute had certainly broken a leg, but not at all. It
was a prisoner in the pit, however, and was promptly caught, dragged up
to the tracks and headed for home.
Later, at Central, a “town” consisting of one tin roofed shed formerly
used as a barracks by soldiers of General Bravo, the dog belonging to
an Indian family sharing the passengers’ car with us jumped off the
train and refused to return. Of course, it would not do to proceed
without the dog, which was the dear pet of the two children in this
family. Half an hour dragged out before the creature was caught.
Four kilometers from Vigia we slowed down to pick up Pedro Moguel. Not
till we had gone another kilometer did he offer the information that
Griscom was back there in the bush, shooting. We would have called
Griscom had Moguel spoken in time, for we were anxious to reach Boca de
Paila before the sun became so low as to make it dangerous for us to
cross the outer bar there.
When I reproached Moguel for this he looked pathetically crestfallen.
Then, as if to make amends, he said swiftly:
“I can show you a ruin across the bay.”
Forgotten Gods of Lost Lagoons, when shall I understand Mexican
character! Here we had been hanging around this desolate stifling bay
for five days, beseeching Moguel and every native we met to tell us
if they knew of any ruins. “_No hay_” they said (“There aren’t any”),
until we have come to loathe that phrase as we have never loathed the
more famous “_Mañana_” or “_Quien sabe?_” And now Moguel offers to
make amends for a slight unthoughtfulness by showing us “a ruin across
the bay.” This is my fifth trip to Mexico, yet the more I see of these
people the less do I pretend to understand their devious natures. Talk
about the “inscrutable Chinee” if you like. Beside the Mexican he is an
openwork stocking.
Of course, Moguel is not a Mexican by birth, but he is one by long
residence, marriage and mental affinity.
It seems the handsome youth, Pinto, who tried to find us a shrine
yesterday, is Moguel’s stepson. Moguel has appointed him to take us
to “the ruin across the bay.” This lad’s whole mellifluous name is
Ambrosio Pinto. McClurg calls him “the Painted Nectar” and Whiting
suggests, “The Venus de Mexico.” His intentions seem excellent, but
his intelligence and energy are perhaps inferior to his beauty. This
combination lends itself to ridicule, particularly when the possessor
of it is as conscious of that pulchritude as “the Ambrosial Boy” seems
to be.
Personally I have not yet had any fault to find with him. I can see
that he wears his neat flannel shirt, khaki trousers and wide-brimmed,
high crowned Mexican straw sombrero with a jauntiness unusual in the
young _chiclero_. And it is obvious that the revolver hung in his
cartridge belt is aimed at the _Señoritas_. But what of it? We were all
young once, even Whiting. And Ambrosio will add a valuable touch of
“color” to our pictures. Indeed, it is amusing how he becomes suddenly
alert when kodak or camera is unlimbered.
We have arranged that Pinto will not only take us to the near ruin but
will pilot us to Chunyaxché, indeed will continue with us at the salary
of three pesos a day as far as Cozumel Island, where Ambrosio’s mother
and small brothers and sisters are living.
Griscom’s absence did not delay us after all, for he was on board the
schooner fifteen minutes before we had untangled a new maze of red
tape presented to us at the last minute by the wizened, sharp faced
Collector of the Customs. It seems his name is Noveles. If this is the
plural of _novela_ (fiction) he is well named, for outside of Russia I
have never met a Government officer more prolific in the creation of
imaginary difficulties.
He could not let us sail until he had received assurance that we
appreciated the delicate situation into which he had placed himself
by allowing us to land here without the proper papers. We must be very
careful not to tell the authorities at Cozumel that we had put in here
or _Señor_ Noveles would find himself in hot water. Did we appreciate
the delicacy of this matter and how he had jeopardized his position for
our benefit?
We assured him that we did. But he continued to hold our papers.
Whereupon Spinden’s intuition, based on his long experience in these
countries, revealed to him that here was a knot best cut with a knife
of gold.
So I hastened to the office of _Señor_ Noveles in a big barn of a
building with a tin roof and begged him to accept an American five
dollar gold piece as a _recuerdo_--a souvenir--of our visit. He
accepted it with dignified thanks and gave up the ship’s papers.
I do not want to appear to cavil at this gentle old official. Fate
has condemned him to live in a town of a few bleak tin-roofed sheds,
a place bare of all diversions but simple food and plentiful sleep,
a parody on a seaport, of whose population at low ebb he constitutes
one half. His salary cannot be much more than a pittance. Can he be
blamed for picking up a little graft when luck throws in his way a
yacht loaded with foreigners who are rolling in money, according to his
standards? Seldom have I parted with a five dollar gold piece more
cheerfully. And if the _recuerdo_ has already been sent to Santa Cruz
de Bravo in exchange for that white _aguardiente_, why I wish you joy
and a stronger stomach than I have, _Señor_ Noveles.
Spinden and I find Griscom something of a hero on the schooner. While
we were exchanging diplomatic phrases with General May, Griscom was
landing a fifteen foot shark which had been hanging around the schooner
to the annoyance of Whiting’s chronic will-to-swim. When the shark was
hooked several men jumped to the line, all shouting at once. One urged
getting a boathook or something, and they all ran off, leaving Griscom
braced as against a racehorse, his gloves smoking with the outgoing
line. He hung on grimly till the others collected their wits. After a
long fight the shark was pulled close enough for McClurg to shoot it
three times through the head.
Griscom found a colony of flamingoes inhabiting the shore northeast
of Vigia, but could not approach near enough to take photographs. The
verification of the existence of this colony is a thing to be proud
of, however, for this is the farthest south record of these birds in
Central America. Last, but not least, our bird man shot near Vigia a
rosy ant tanager of a new species. That’s five new birds!
[Illustration: We hung McClurg’s shark from our bow--a warning to his
kind]
McClurg has not been idle either. He took the schooner some twelve
miles toward the head of the bay from Vigia, and when the shoaling
waters persuaded Gough to anchor McClurg and Whiting and Griscom went
two or three miles further in the _Imp_. At that point even the _Imp_
began to find insufficient water, and the exploring party had to turn
back. My hope that we might find ruins near the unknown head of the bay
is shattered. The old Mayas would hardly have built on the edge of the
maze of mangrove keys and barely covered mud bars which McClurg says
extended as far southwestward as he could see when he had to turn back.
For the great trading canoes of the Mayas probably drew as much water
as the _Imp_.
The schooner has already proved a good sea boat. And on McClurg’s trip
up the bay she proved to be all that he hoped when, with a bottle of
beer at Belize, he christened her “a good mud boat.” A dozen times the
mud clutched her, says McClurg, but she extricated herself each time
without any such elaborate measures as we had to take on Hicks’ Key.
On Pinto’s advice we anchored at the mouth of a narrow bay between the
mainland and Allen Point. Ambrosio confirms the word of the Belize
fisherman that this inlet connects with the ocean at Boca de Paila,
and that Allen Point is not a peninsula at all as our chart indicates,
but is merely the southern extremity of a long thin island, a mere sand
bar supporting some fifteen miles of guano palms and coconut trees.
Pinto said the ruin was near three conspicuous palms about three
kilometers from the position of the _Albert_. But these three coconut
trees were not reached until the _Imp_ had anchored off a pretty
little beach a good ten kilometers from the schooner. Then there was a
delay about finding the ruin. Pinto had chanced upon it when gathering
firewood for a fishing boat two years ago, and he had never returned
till now.
He indicated the general direction to follow, and we spread out at
intervals of twenty feet, Spinden, McClurg, Whiting, Pinto and I. So
thick was the brush that even at such close quarters we often lost
sight of each other. But in pauses between his own attacks on the bush
each man could hear the swish of other _machetes_, and hear the cries
of, “Do you see it yet?”... “Is this another ‘sell’ of Venus’s like
yesterday’s shrine?”
As luck had it I caught the first glimpse of the first Maya ruin found
by the expedition. Through the falling green ahead of me as I raised
_machete_ for another blow I saw a low grayish structure.
“Here it is,” I shouted, “a poor thing, but our own!”
It is a tiny building, only sixteen feet long by eight feet ten
inches wide--outside measurements; only ten feet and a half by four
and a half inside. The door is only three feet five inches high and
the walls four feet. The roof, which has fallen in, was probably of
stone slabs, for we found several of these within the walls. In short,
it is a characteristic example of those curious little shrines much
built during the last period of Maya architecture, those shrines whose
diminutive size led earlier explorers of active imagination like Dr. Le
Plongeon to the erroneous hypothesis that the builders had been dwarfs.
Because of its location between the booming ocean and the placid salt
lagoon we had just left Spinden thinks that perhaps fishermen once
came to this little temple to burn incense to some watery divinity.
Appropriate to this suggestion there are fossil shells imbedded in the
coral rock which is the material of which the building was made. As it
is of late-period Maya architecture it probably is not more than seven
hundred years old.
We have called it “Chenchomac,” using the name which Ambrosio says the
Indians apply to this locality. In Maya Chenchomac means “Well of the
Fox.”
“In Maya?” it may be asked. That is in the language of the modern
Indians of this country, whom scientists agree to call Mayas. It
must always be remembered, however, that these Indians use Spanish
characters when they write their language, or rather, Spanish
characters are used by the learned men who construct Maya grammars and
make other linguistic studies in the hope of finding some connection
between the modern language and the baffling hieroglyphs. For these
Indians of today cannot read a single hieroglyph.
We cast through the bush for an hour, hoping vainly to find more
buildings. Tired of fighting thorns and mosquitoes we sat down on the
ocean beach and watched the waves burst into clouds of white. This
beach of fine creamy sand extended both north and south as far as we
could see. I suppose some day the realtors will find it, and there will
be another Florida boom. But thank God, I shall be as dead as the Mayas
who built that shrine to their Turtle Deity.
Here is yet a place where one may escape the tawdriness, the filth, the
aching confusion of ugliness and noise with which man has seen fit to
ruin the placid green face of the earth.
[Illustration: Spinden and Mason before remains of a fisherman’s
shrine--a small thing but our own]
We took off our boots and wiggled our toes in the sand, in the little
uphill rivers of clean foam and clean green water,--the last fillip
of those ponderous swells which rolled in from Africa. Here I could
never know, thank God, those chaotic fears, those indefinable feelings
of inferiority which an hour in New York or London or Chicago always
awake in me. There was noise enough here, but a simple noise which
did not daze the brain but rather whetted it, the oldest noise in the
world, the shout of the leaping wind and the thunder of the tumbling
sea.
That wind grew and whipped froth around our boat’s stern as she scudded
for the schooner through a gray, angry dusk. But we were well content
with the world and with each other.
It is a small thing, that shrine of Chenchomac. But it is a beginning.
We have discovered something of that which we are seeking, and our
appetite is sharpened for more.
Chunyaxché has been a name, a cross pencilled on a bare map. Yes,
and a living hope. But now it is a conviction, a vivid conviction of
buildings shrouded by brush, buildings gray with weather except where
some falling tree has scraped off the patina of dead centuries and
shown the true white of the limestone.