FROM OCEAN TO OCEAN
AFTER a tour of the land of the Aztecs I embarked at Salina Cruz, that
new Pacific port of Mexico whose importance in the commercial world is
just beginning to be felt, and started on a journey to the land of the
Toltecs. Passage was taken on the good ship _Menes_ of the Kosmos Line,
and never were passengers in better hands. There were only five
first-class passengers and they made rather a cosmopolitan gathering in
the cabin each evening. They were an American, a Scotchman, an
Englishman, a Spaniard and a Columbian and these, together with three
members of the crew, the captain, doctor and first officer, all Germans,
made up the personnel of those who gathered around the table at each
meal. I did not mention that there were ten Mexican bulls that had taken
passage on the first cabin deck destined for a bull-fight in Guatemala
City. As these animals were safely boxed up, however, they were not very
sociable on the trip and scarcely made their presence known by even a
bellow.
These coasting vessels are unique in the carrying trade. They have an
extraordinary amount of deck space and carry everything from mail to
fresh lettuce, and perform the functions of a freight steamer and market
gardener. Your beefsteak or mutton of to-morrow stands on the hoof in
the hatchway below, gazing up at you with inquiring eyes, and, on the
upper deck, barnyard fowls blink reproachfully at you through the slats
of their double-decked coops. The roustabout crew are Chilean rotos, who
look as though they might be pleased to stick a knife between one’s
ribs. There are few tourists in the American sense of the word, and the
passengers are mostly German, English or Yankee drummers, or engineers
bound for railroads or mines in Central or South America, with
occasionally a native army officer or merchant travelling from one port
to another.
The harbours all along this coast are open roadsteads and the lack of
harbour accommodations was evident at the first stop, San Benito, the
southernmost port in Mexico, and only a few miles from the Guatemala
boundary. The vessel anchored almost a mile from the shore. Because of a
high surf it was necessary to wait a half-day before the harbour
official could come out, and nothing can be done until this formality is
complied with. At last a lighter, pulled by eight brown oarsmen standing
up on a running-board, flying a tattered Mexican flag at the rear and a
yellow quarantine flag at the fore, approached. San Benito boasts a
lighthouse consisting of a light sustained on two high poles, a signal
station similar to a band-stand in appearance, and a warehouse. A
donkey-engine is employed to pull the boat through the heavy surf by
means of a cable. After unloading a mixed cargo and taking on three
thousand bags of coffee destined for Hamburg, all of which required
three days, the ship steamed to Ocos, the first port in Guatemala. The
massive iron pier at this place was destroyed by the last earthquake in
1902, and it required a day to unload the cargo there and take on a few
hundred bags of coffee, and then we started for Champerico.
[Illustration: LANDING AT CHAMPERICO.]
Guatemala is a corruption of an Indian word meaning “a land covered with
trees.” And so it seemed, for the whole shore was a dense, impenetrable
forest of tropical growth, whose topmost points are the plumes of waving
palms, clear to the background of mountains, from which arise many
volcanic peaks, making a beautiful and impressive sight. We were aroused
in the morning by the snorting and puffing of a little tug which now
enlivens the harbor of Champerico and jerks the lighters around with a
great show of hustle. Because of the shallow water, it is necessary to
anchor out some distance from the shore, and the cargo, as well as
passengers, is carried back and forth in these boats. After such a wait
as the dignity of the occasion demands, the _commandante_ came out rich
in gold embroidered blue coat and yellow-striped red trousers. The
captain escorted him into the cabin where a few samples of bottled goods
were inspected. A couple of hours later the _commandante_ came out
smiling, even if a little less steady on his feet, and we were permitted
to land. Landing at this port is, in itself, quite an undertaking, for
the passenger is seated in a chair which is whisked over the side of the
boat by a steam crane and dropped into a waiting lighter, together with
a medley of boxes, barrels, trunks, personal luggage, and various other
kinds of impedimenta. The lighter was quickly drawn to the great, lofty
pier by the spiteful little tug with which it was connected by a long
hawser. When near the pier the hawser was dropped, but the distance was
well calculated and the lighter calmly floated to the proper place, and
we were lifted up to the pier in another chair by a similar operation.
The process is probably less dangerous than it looks, but the passenger
breathes freer when the operation is over with and he is safely landed
in this land of political disturbances and make-believe money. It cost
me seven dollars to land, but when they exchanged six dollars for one
Mexican peso, it was not so expensive, for the Mexican eagle on a silver
dollar was only worth half as much as the proud bird of Uncle Samuel in
the same place.
The piers at Guatemala ports are all the property of private companies
operating under concessions, that simply receive passengers at a fixed
charge and freight at a given rate for each hundred pounds and transport
it to the custom-house, which is invariably at the end of the pier, so
that there is no chance for escape from the customs officers. Baggage
exceeding one hundred pounds becomes quite a burden as the charges are
excessive for the service rendered. The Aduana, or custom-house, is no
unimportant factor in the scheme of government here as there is very
little that escapes duty, although it is hinted that some of the duties
collected never reach the government coffers. Then, in addition to an
import customs, there is even an export duty on coffee which gives the
little, uniformed officials more to do.
My experience with these officials gave the first insight into the
suspicion with which a stranger is regarded in that country during
troublous times, and nearly all times are more or less unsettled under
the present government. The two officials carefully scrutinized every
article. A number of letters that I had received in Mexico attracted
their attention, both officials carefully scrutinizing each one until
they reached a letter of introduction to “His most Excellent and
Illustrious Señor Don ——,” a member of the President’s Cabinet, when
they carefully placed everything back and politely told me that there
was no duty to be paid. The name of one so close to the President seemed
to remove all suspicion of smuggling at least. I was obliged to give
them my name and destination, as I had already done at the pier, and was
met by an officer at the door who conducted me to the _commandante’s_
office, where my whole pedigree was asked; and again at the station the
same interrogatories had to be answered. All of these experiences were
amusing rather than otherwise, for no discourtesy was shown and all the
soldiers were polite. They simply served to break the monotony of
tedious travel.
“Is there a revolution in Guatemala now?”
This was about the first question I asked after sitting down to
breakfast in the dining-room of a small boarding-house run by a German
woman. The question was prompted by definite reports which had reached
us at San Benito, Mexico, that ex-President Barillas was at Tapachula
with about twenty-five followers “armed to the teeth.” At any time,
however, it would be the proper question to ask at breakfast, or not
later than dinner, for revolutions are the only things that occur in a
hurry down there.
Absolute silence followed the question for some time. Finally, a native
Guatemaltecan (thus it is they write it and not Guatemalan) answered
with “No, there is no revolution.”
After this man had gone out, an American who had been sitting at the
table took up the question and said that there was considerable talk of
a revolution because of dissatisfaction, and the government was very
much alarmed. He added, “We have to be very careful what we say, as
spies are everywhere, and the man who first answered you is one of
them.”
Champerico is a town of perhaps fifteen hundred inhabitants and not a
very attractive place, as a great part of it is made up of the poor,
native quarters. It is usually very hot in the sun, although pleasant in
the shade. The railway promised an early escape, but the prospective
passengers were informed that the train was off the track just outside
the town and it was late in the afternoon before the train finally
started. The train only went as far as Retalhuleu that night, about
twenty miles, as the engineer would not risk running after it became
dark. The country through which the road passed exhibited a rank and
luxuriant growth of tropical foliage, the product of a swampy soil and
moist climate.
That same evening in the Hotel Pantoja, a very good ten dollar a day
hotel, while sitting in the office engaged in conversation with another
American, the landlord, who did not understand English, walked by us
twice with a warning gesture to be careful what was said. He afterwards
explained that there was another American present in the room who was
looked upon as a spy. This alleged spy I met on the train later, and he
proved to be an aide on the staff of President Cabrera. Although a
citizen of the United States by birth, he was a man, who, as I
afterwards learned, from personal observation, stood quite high in
government circles and would scarcely have been a good man to entrust
with any plots against the government of his chief.
We left Retalhuleu the following morning before daylight for the ride to
Guatemala City. The distance is about one hundred and fifty miles, but
it was a fourteen hour journey according to the schedule, which is a
fair illustration of the speed of railroad travel in this country. The
train was a mixed one made up of freight and first and second class
passenger coaches, the latter being continually crowded with Indians.
After a soldier had taken the names and destination of all the
passengers the train was allowed to proceed.
The mail coach on this train consisted of a small corner in one car and
was in charge of one clerk. This fellow got off at a station for some
purpose but lingered a little too long, and the train had started when
he reached it. He was afraid to jump on the train in motion and followed
us as far as we could see him, waving his hands wildly and racing in the
hot sun. The conductor was obdurate and would not stop for him, so the
last half day’s run was made without a mail clerk and I do not know what
the people did for their mail. As a rule, however, that is not very
heavy. The conductor dismissed the matter by saying that “he had no
business to leave the train.”
Through this part of the republic the cochineal used to be cultivated
extensively. The cochineal is a little insect which clings to the leaves
of the _nopal_, a species of the cactus. The insects on the leaves give
it a very peculiar “warty” appearance. Just before the rainy season
begins the leaves of the _nopal_ are cut off and hung in a dry place.
Then they are scraped, the insects being killed by being baked in a hot
oven which gives them a brownish colour and makes a scarlet or crimson
dye; or, they are put into boiling water, when they become black and
furnish a blue or purple dye. When prepared for market they are worth
several dollars per pound, as it is slow and tedious work to separate
the insects from the cactus. It is estimated that there are seventy
thousand insects to the pound. When you consider that more than a
million tons of the cochineal dye were exported in a single year at one
time, a slight idea may be gained of the magnitude of the industry
before the cheaper chemical dyes destroyed the market for the cochineal.
At present the insect is cultivated only for local use, as the natives
prefer it to colour their gayly-hued cotton and woollen fabrics. It can
be said of it that the colour will stand almost any amount of rain and
sunshine and the tints are as beautiful and pure as one could desire.
The greater part of the land along the line of this railway is
cultivated after a fashion, but only in a careless and desultory way.
None of the towns are very large and the villages poor but fairly
numerous. At Escuintla the passengers were obliged to change to the
Central Railroad and take the train which had come up from the coast on
its way to the capital.
After leaving Escuintla the road skirts around the base of Agua and
begins to climb up the mountain range. In the next thirteen miles the
road ascends more than twenty-five hundred feet, which takes it into
another zone. The track crosses numerous large and deep gorges. The
tangled, tropical forests have disappeared and coffee and cane
plantations become numerous. The smooth slopes of Agua and Fuego are
rich in cultivation. At nearly every station women appear with all kinds
of fruits for sale, as well as eggs, cakes, _dulces_ (candies), etc.
Never did I eat more delicious pineapples than those secured right here.
They were great, luscious, toothsome fruits. Oranges cannot compare with
the cultivated and developed fruit of California, but bananas were fine
and much better than the fruit generally sold at our own fruit stands.
Lake Amatitlan is passed and a pretty little body of water it is
nestling in the hollow of the hills. There are many boiling springs near
its shores, which show how near it is to the unsettled forces of nature.
The washwomen take advantage of this water heated by nature, as it saves
them trouble and fuel and is always ready for use. The villages become
more numerous as the city is approached, and factory buildings and the
white walls of the _haciendas_ which dot the landscape here and there
make a pleasing contrast. Some lava beds are passed showing that nature
has created disturbances in the past quite freely. At last the final
ridge is passed, and there, nestling in the valley, is the City of
Guatemala. Its situation is somewhat similar to the valley of Mexico,
though it is not nearly so large; neither are the surrounding barriers
of the mountains so high; nor are the lakes present, which gave the City
of Mexico the name of the New-World Venice.
A couple of years ago it was impossible to travel by rail all the way
from Guatemala City to the Gulf coast, and it was necessary to leave the
city on the back of that sadly-wise, much-neglected creature—the mule,
for there was no carriage road. This method of travel entails hardships,
but I believe that it has its compensations. Byron says:
“Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase,
And marvel men should quit their easy chair,
The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace,
Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air,
And life, that bloated ease can never hope to share.”
[Illustration: THE VOLCANO AGUA.]
Two other Americans, residents of the country, were going and invited me
to join them. The liveries wanted three hundred dollars each from us for
three saddle mules, a cargo mule and mozo (servant). An old Indian in
the country furnished the same for sixty-five dollars each—just about
five dollars in gold—which was cheap enough for a four days’ journey to
the railroad and back.
It was the intention of our party to start at five o’clock in the
morning, as we had to cover forty-eight miles that day in order to reach
a decent stopping-place for the night. The old Indian did not show up
until nearly six, and he then came very much excited for some one had
broken into his stable and stolen a saddle and a couple of bridles. He
was able, however, to fit us out in fairly respectable style, and we
started on our long and—to me—uncomfortable but never-to-be-forgotten
journey. It was just at sunrise and the beauty of the picture as we left
the city and climbed the encircling girdle of hills will ever remain
with me. I could not refrain from looking back several times at the
historic old city with its low buildings and lofty churches which seemed
to have such an unusual height. The bells were ringing out the mass and
all was quiet, for the traffic had not yet begun in the city. In the
distance the great volcano Agua looked down upon the slumbering city
from its stately, cloud-flecked cone.
A few drivers of oxen had started their awkward trains for the day’s
work. The skill with which these drivers guided, turned, stopped, and
started these bulky “critters,” who draw their loads entirely from the
yokes attached to their horns, is remarkable. No goad or whip was
needed, for a long slim stick, and a shrill, sibilant hiss, seemed all
that was necessary to guide them. With heads bowed in submission, these
mild-eyed beasts of burden and faithful friends of man seemed to obey
the _carreteros_ implicitly except when, once in a while, an unruly one
might display a slight perverseness. Then it was a revelation to listen
to the blood-curdling blasphemy that poured forth in an unremitting
stream from the amber-hued driver’s lips.
For about twenty miles there is a rough carriage road, and many
journeyed in vehicles that far in order to avoid as much of the long
ride on mules as possible. The scenery is beautiful as the road winds
along near a stream for a long distance. We caught many glimpses of
domestic scenes in the little huts along the road where the chickens,
pigs and dogs seemed as much at home in the house, which usually
consists of one room, as any of the human members. One writer gives an
account of stopping at one of these huts at night. He says that
[Illustration: OX-CART AND NATIVE DRIVER.]
“ten human beings, twelve chickens, three pigs, and insects innumerable
passed the night in a room not more than twenty feet square.” I can well
believe in the literal truth of this statement from the sights that I
saw all over the country.
The most interesting feature of the journey was the constant stream of
men and women on the road, most of them headed for Guatemala City. The
visitor to this country who confines his journeying to the iron horse
misses these unique experiences and can not get so good an insight into
the country and its people as he who is willing to endure a little
hardship.
After about a seven hours’ continuous journey we reached a place called
Agua Caliente (the warm water) where we were to obtain our dinner. This
was an event anxiously awaited by me, for I was saddle-weary and nearly
exhausted, not being accustomed to the saddle, and especially to
mountain roads. Imagine my disappointment when the “posada” consisted of
a poor cottage where a half dozen naked children were running around,
none of whom would satisfy the modern conception of cleanliness. The
only articles of furniture were some benches and a poor excuse for a
table.
Even tables are dispensed with in some of these houses and meals are
eaten off the shelves. The fewer the articles of furniture, however, the
fewer lurking places are provided for cockroaches, scorpions or
centipedes. The kitchen outfit consisted of a sort of stove made of
plaster and sticks, a pot or two, a tin pan, a few earthen jugs, and a
good _metate_ on which to beat the _tortillas_ into shape.
After some parleying the good housewife prepared for us _tortillas_,
_frijoles negros_ (black beans), some soft boiled eggs, and coffee.
These people make a coffee essence by grinding and roasting, or burning,
the coffee berries, which are then pulverized and boiled for hours. This
essence is placed in bottles which are set on the table along with a jug
of hot water so that you can dilute it to suit yourself. Although it
tastes rather bitter at first, it has the merit of being a great
stimulant, as I can testify from personal experience, and I grew to
rather like it. The tortillas are made of corn which has first been
soaked in lime water until pasty, and is then rolled, patted and tossed,
and made into cakes in appearance about like pancakes. They require more
labour in preparation than almost any other kind of food. Black beans
are one of the staple foods of the country and will be found not only in
the humble cottage of the peon at each meal, but on the table of the
rich man at least twice a day.
I wanted a drink of water and so requested of the man of the house as
soon as we arrived. “In a moment,” he said. In fifteen or twenty minutes
I asked again for the water. The answer was a “_momentita_,” a little
moment. I spoke of it several times, but after an hour and half’s rest
we left and the “_momentita_” had not yet elapsed. It is simply an
instance of the character of the people.
Journeying across country by mule, and over a rough road, is not a very
sociable way to travel. My mule was the slowest gaited one and persisted
in lagging behind about a quarter of a mile until I became too weary to
spur him to greater effort. There was scarcely a mile of level road, but
it was first up hill and then down, and the latter was hardest on the
rider. The path in places was very narrow so that two mules could
scarcely pass. On one side would be a sheer declivity of several hundred
feet at the bottom of which a roaring mountain stream ran with deafening
noise. On the other side was a wall of rock. The mule persisted in
walking almost on the very edge much to my discomfort. I let him have
his own way, however, according to advice, and had no reason to regret
it. A surer footed animal never existed than the little tan mule
allotted to me, for on dangerous paths he never made a misstep. Some of
the descents were so steep that he was obliged to zigzag across the path
to prevent slipping and possible fatality.
As we reached higher altitudes the views became more and more
magnificent. We passed through groves of oaks and pines and encountered
relatives of the thistle and sunflower that, in this land of botanical
exuberance, have attained to the dignity of shrubs and trees.
Olive-green mistletoe, in masses several feet in diameter, hung from
high branches and there were birds so gay of plumage that they seemed
like fragments of a disintegrated rainbow as they floated by us.
[Illustration: Copyright, 1907, by Judge Company, New York. JOURNEYING
ACROSS COUNTRY BY MULE.]
It was four o’clock in the afternoon when we reached the crest of the
mountain. One of my companions pointed out a village in the distance.
“That,” he said, “is Sanarate, where we will stop to-night.” It seemed
to me that we ought to reach it in about an hour. Our little party
started to descend and we were an hour and half in reaching a level
surface. Then we crossed a stream, went up a hill and still on, and
always on, until darkness had fallen. Had I been alone I should have
dropped off under a tree, or at a hut alongside the road, or done
anything but go on. And yet I could not be blind to the magnificence of
the night, for the skies were brilliant with thousands of stars unseen
in these northern latitudes. At times I could forget my troubles and see
only the blazing, radiant firmament. Thus it was that I followed the
leaders, and finally, weary and aching, we entered the courtyard of a
cheery-looking, comfortable hotel where the jolly German host made us
welcome to the best his house afforded. Never did the smell of supper
seem more refreshing, and never did palatable food taste better than it
did that night to me in the _fonda_ of Sanarate.
Here I experienced a sample of a native bed, if such an arrangement of
folding sticks and tight-stretched canvas can be called a bed. It is a
simple cot of canvas without a mattress, a microscopic pillow, and a few
covers. One writer graphically describes his experience with such a cot:
“I have tossed on this cot racked with fever, listening day and night to
the discords of a neighbouring graphophone hoarsely venting grand opera
and negro minstrelsy, my temperature at one hundred and seven, and with
two hundred grains of quinine scattered through my anatomy. I wish my
worst enemy a no more hideous experience.” I was, however, weary enough
to sleep on a stone floor and never slept sounder than I did that night
on that hard, unyielding cot, and awakened in the morning refreshed and
ready for the remaining twenty-four miles of the journey.
Bright and early the next morning our little cavalcade left this
cheerful hostelry and wended its way on toward the Gulf. We were
thankful indeed that our lot had been cast in such a pleasant place.
This hotel was made possible by the number of foreigners engaged in
surveying and grading the new railroad which passed through this
village. Few towns of this size in Guatemala can boast of a hotel, and,
in the absence of such accommodations, the traveller is either obliged
to take refuge at a native hut or in the _cabildo_, the public hall,
which is always free and open to the traveller and is generally anything
but an attractive place, for cleanliness is not one of its attributes,
as it seems to be no one’s particular duty to look after it.
There were no such steep ascents or descents this day as we had on the
first day’s journey through the mountainous region, although we were
constantly going down into a lower altitude. Scarcely had we left the
village until our path was sheltered from the sun by a wonderful curtain
of vegetation that seemed to belong to fairy land. Woven into it were
fantastic ferns, lianes that swung from the tops of lofty trees,
splendid orchids and bromeliads, and the rustling, waving fronds of many
palms. It was such a road as I had never seen before. Reaching the end
of this enchanted road I saw my companions disappear down a
densely-wooded ravine, for my mule was lagging behind as usual. I did
not see them for more than an hour, as the ravine twisted and turned so
much that one’s range of vision was very small, although the scenery was
beautiful. The path crossed and re-crossed the little stream many times.
I grew rather alarmed when the paths forked, but trusted to my
nondescript steed rather from necessity than confidence. We finally left
the ravine and came out upon the first level road we had travelled since
leaving Guatemala City, and there were my companions at just about the
regulation distance in advance.
The number of natives travelling on foot the same way we were going was
unusually large and kept increasing each mile. All the by-paths
contained their quota, who joined those on the main road, like the
little rivulets which made up the great stream. All were dressed in
their best, for that is usually about all they possess; at least their
clothes were freshly washed and looked unusually well. Men, women and
children, all in family groups, moved along at a rapid pace as if drawn
by a powerful magnet.
The number of Indians kept increasing more and more for the next few
miles, each carrying their baskets of food and many stopping along the
road to eat. At last we reached a town where a fiesta was in progress,
and this seemed to be their Mecca. All along the road from the capital
we had noticed decorated arches erected over the road every few miles. A
bishop had come to this village and these arches had been erected in his
honour. It was the first time for nine years that a clergyman had been
in that village. It was the duty of a priest living about thirty miles
away to come here at least once each year to perform marriage
ceremonies, baptisms, and other religious ceremonies. He started each
year, but failed to come because he always got thoroughly saturated with
liquor each time before he had travelled this far.
One incident happened here which rather discomfited an American liquor
salesman whom I met. He had sent several mule cargoes of liquor over for
the train that we were attempting to make in order to ship it to
Honduras. It is necessary for each driver in charge of such merchandise
to have a “guia” showing that all government fees had been paid. The
driver did not have his in proper shape, so the _commandante_ arrested
the whole outfit, mules, driver, and whisky. They extracted a few
gallons of the liquid cheer to aid in the proper celebration of the
priest’s coming, and then let the driver proceed unmolested.
A journey of a few more hours brought us to Rancho San Agustin, or, as
it is generally called, El Rancho, the end of our mule journey, for a
train at that time ran once a week to Puerto Barrios. This train left El
Rancho on Sunday morning at 6.30, taking two days for the one hundred
and twenty-nine miles to the Gulf, and just making connection with the
weekly mail steamer for New Orleans. Although we had travelled
forty-eight miles the first day and twenty-four miles the second day by
one o’clock in the afternoon, our boy _mozo_, who took a different
route, and walked all the way, driving the cargo mule loaded with our
baggage before him, arrived just about one hour later than we did.
Several other passengers for the weekly train were already there, having
started a day earlier than ourselves. Our hotel was a big two-story
frame building—the first frame building that I had seen in the country.
It looked almost colossal by the side of a little thatch cottage in an
adjoining enclosure, and had been built by the railroad company for its
employees and patrons. It cost only twenty dollars a day at this
hostelry in the stage money of the country.
[Illustration: SCENE AT EL RANCHO.]
This unfilled gap in the steel highway between the two great oceans was
a blessing and delight, for a more interesting region would be hard to
find. Across the great Montagua Valley to the north were the beautiful
Sierras de las Minas, whose slopes are kept always bright and verdant by
perpetual, though ever-changing, clouds and mists. Even though they are
not snow-capped and rugged like the Alps, these mountains of Guatemala
have a weirdness and fascination that it is hard to describe. Everywhere
the cacti-like trees reared their thorny, spreading arms. Though the
grasses of the valley were sere and dry, for this was the dry season,
they were not dead, for the first few days of summer rains transform
them into a carpet of vivid green.
The view from El Rancho is magnificent. It is in a valley on the bank of
a stream, while the range of mountains towers above it in the distance.
On the slopes the green fields glistened in the sun. Although the sun
was hot and dry in the village, over on the hills it was raining, and we
could hear peals of thunder and see the bright flashes of lightning
which accompanied the tropical outpour. A small stream that came from
that direction soon became a raging torrent, thus showing the violence
of the storm.
It seemed good to hear the clanging of the bell and the tooting of the
whistle of an American locomotive early the next morning. By the noise
it made one would think that it was the overland limited impatient to be
off. When all was ready we started out and at no time did the train move
faster than eight miles an hour. No one of the passengers, however,
after looking at the track and rails, where there were scarcely two ties
to each rail that would hold a spike in many places, urged the engineer
to greater speed. The necessary water for the engine was supplied on
several occasions by water carried from a stream to the tender by a
bucket-brigade which passed the bucket from hand to hand along to its
destination.
El Rancho is just within the border of the _tierra caliente_, and the
graceful cocoanut palm is to be seen there as well as the tree cacti,
which increase in size and number according to elevation. The presence
of the cacti is a sure indication of a dry season which prevails for
several months each year. The green cocoanut furnishes one of the most
refreshing and delightful drinks of the tropics. The natives take the
cocoanut, chop off the end with a _machete_, and drink the fluid that it
contains directly from the shell. This native weapon shaped somewhat
like an old-fashioned corn cutter is a very useful instrument with these
people. It answers for a shovel, knife, axe, pump-handle, fishing rod,
and weapon of defence as well as offence.
Gualan, fifty-five miles from the starting point, marked the end of the
first day’s journey. It is a small town made up of a few adobe buildings
and many thatch cottages of natives. It is a picturesque place on the
high banks above the Montagua River, which at this point is a very swift
stream. A picturesque ferryman attracted my attention and I waited
almost an hour to get a good picture of him and his dugout canoe. When
he was in position the sun would not shine and when the sun was visible
the boatman was missing from the picture, and it was necessary to use
the very quickest exposure because of the swiftness of the stream.
A loud-voiced American with a big revolver in his holster, looking like
a cheap imitation of the Western desperado, had attracted my attention
on the train, and he proved to be the landlord of the half-caste hotel
in this town. As it was the only stopping-place in Gualan there was no
choice for the traveller. As the evening hours wore away and his stock
of liquors was reduced by his own patronage of the bar, the landlord
became more noisy and quarrelsome until one man took offence and said a
few sharp words which stopped his _braggadocia_ manner. It looked for a
while as though the quarrel would end in a shooting, and would have done
so, if the landlord had not calmed down and retracted some of his
statements.
Many of the Americans scattered down through the tropical countries are
not very representative characters. Alienated from all home influences,
they set up an alliance with some native woman and abandon themselves to
the cheer of the _cantina_, or saloon. Many of these men perhaps would
only drink moderately at home, if at all, but in these tropical climes
they let down every bar to vice and pander to their baser natures. I
will never forget one American railroad man whom I met in Guatemala City
one morning. He had just begun his drinking and was very communicative.
We were at the station and he looked around and said: “They try to keep
a fellow in a perpetual state of intoxication down here. See! there is a
_cantina_, and there is another, and another. You go to the Plaza and it
is _cantina_ everywhere. I have been trying for two years to save enough
money to get back to the States, but they won’t let me. Last month, I
earned $800 (about $60 in gold) and I have only got a few dollars left.”
Later in the day I saw him at the bull-ring throwing paper dollars at a
crowd of boys who followed him about until the police drove them away.
Soon he will join the ever-increasing band of American tramps that one
finds there. Beggars are numerous in the country, but they are not all
natives, nor Indians, and the American can be found among them fully as
abject and degraded as any others of that class.
[Illustration: A VILLAGE NEAR THE COAST.]
There are only a few villages from Gualan to Puerto Barrios and they are
not very populous. They looked almost like African towns with their huts
made of palm and bamboo. The paths in the villages were all narrow, and
grass and weed grown. There were thorns to scratch the bare feet and
hooked seeds of plants that cling to the clothes—but this can be
duplicated almost anywhere. The building of a hut is a simple
proposition, for all the Indian has to do is to go into the forest and
cut some bamboo poles and some palm leaves or banana stalks for a roof,
and he has all the material necessary. A few poles are set into the
ground, establishing the size, and to these, by means of vines, are
attached many horizontal reeds or poles. These may be close together or
several inches apart, and sometimes mortar or stones are used to fill in
the wall. The same style of steep roof is always made. Sometimes the
entrance is closed by a hinged door, but a piece of loosely swinging
cloth answers the same purpose and does just as well.
After an all-day’s journey we at last reached Puerto Barrios. The nearer
we approached the coast the denser became the vegetation and the more
impenetrable the forests, or jungles, which is really a more appropriate
term.
Near Puerto Barrios and a few miles to the west is the port of Santo
Tomas. It is situated on a bay which makes a good harbour and was
established in 1843 by a colony of Belgians. Like many tropical colonies
it proved a failure because of the lack of foresight on the part of the
promoters and an absolute ignorance of tropical conditions and the
precautions necessary for health and success. Several hundred people
comprised the original colony, but it soon dwindled through deaths and
departures until now it is a small village although it is still a port
of entry. The railroad terminus being established at its near-by rival
sealed the doom of its future prospects, although its natural advantages
are probably superior to its more fortunate neighbour. The fate of this
colony is simply another illustration of the care and foresight
necessary on the part of those seeking to establish colonies in a new
country and under conditions so much different from those with which the
prospective colonists are familiar.
[Illustration: PLANTATION HOUSE ON LAKE IZABAL.]
It would be unfair to the reader and an injustice to the country to
leave this coast without a description of Lake Izabal and the river
leading to it, for this river rivals the far-famed Saguenay in beauty
and grandeur of scenery. It is a sail of less than two hours across the
choppy seas of the Gulf of Amatique from Puerto Barrios to Livingston,
which is situated at the mouth of the Rio Dulce (the sweet river), the
entrance to which is through a high wall of cliffs. For the first few
miles after leaving Livingston on the way up the river the shores are
lined with some fine banana plantations and a succession of gently
sloping and verdant hills that reach an altitude of a thousand feet. To
the north are the Sierra de Santa Cruz mountains running parallel to the
river, and to the south and in plain view are the more distant Sierras
de Las Minas, both of these ranges being covered to their very summits
with many shades of rich green foliage. Then after passing a bend in the
river the little steamer enters a narrow canyon with towering cliffs on
either side, and for several miles there is a succession of scenes of
wild beauty.
At one point the rocky walls rise almost perpendicularly from the water
to a height of several hundred feet. Instead of barren cliffs, however,
the sides are almost completely covered with vegetation so that the
rocks are seldom visible. From every foothold springs a dense growth of
tropical vegetation and from every crevice hang vines and shrubbery
swaying like green curtains in the breeze, and dipping their foliage in
the river. Higher up are giant trees, covered with thousands of
beautiful orchids, which cast their shadows in the deep blue waters
underneath. All of this renders the scene one of dazzling beauty when
the overhead skies are clear and the bright sun brings out the contrasts
of sunlight and shadow.
[Illustration: LAKE IZABAL.]
At last the towering walls become broken and finally recede, banana
plantations again appear, and the river broadens out into the Gulf of
Golfete, which is a pretty little body of water about two miles broad
and eight or ten miles in length, and is dotted with a number of pretty
little green islands. Another connecting stream leads into that inland
sea called Lake Izabal. On one bank of this stream stands the old
Spanish fort of San Felipe, which was never very formidable and is now
only a joke as fortifications go. In the olden time Port Izabal on the
lake was the principal port and the approach was protected by this
fortification. It is nearly forty-eight miles from Livingston. The high
walls stand out boldly, but they are partly covered with climbing vines
and mosses. It affords, however, a fine view of Lake Izabal with its
broad expanse of blue waters and its shores a seemingly impenetrable
jungle, except where a cleared space marks the location of a banana
plantation. Its wooded shores are low, but the land rises gently to the
background of mountains many miles away. Occasionally showers of short
duration follow along the mountain slopes, and when the clouds have
passed away the most brilliant of rainbows appears. As there are showers
within view almost every day it might almost be called a land of
rainbows. The waters of the lake are alive with many varieties of fish,
the quiet coves and bays are the haunts of the alligator, while in the
jungle may be found the small deer and bear of the country.
The old town of Izabal, once the port and a prosperous place, but now
dwindled to a straggling, thatch-roofed village, reposes in perpetual
_siesta_ on the southern shore of the lake. Santa Cruz is another
village on the north shore, where there is a sawmill and a small
collection of native huts and a few better buildings which house the
white inhabitant.
A number of small streams pour their waters into Lake Izabal. The
principal stream, however, is the Polochic, which is navigable as far as
Panzos, a distance of about thirty or forty miles, for light-draught
steamers. There is a regular weekly service maintained by a steamer
which brings down the mails, passengers and freight from Coban, the
capital of Alta Verapaz, to make connection with the weekly steamer
sailings for New Orleans. The river is not very wide, the course rather
tortuous and the current swift, especially in the rainy seasons, so that
boating is quite an exciting experience for the novice. This route was
formerly and still is the main trade route for the natives of the Coban
and Peten district who bring their produce down the Polochic and Chocon
rivers in their dugouts, called pitpans, to the lake and then to the
markets of Livingston. It is quite a common sight to pass their boats
loaded with cocoanuts, bananas, plantains or other fruits or fish, with
the brown native and his wife industriously paddling the same.
There are few places in the world where there is such an abundance of
life, both plant and animal, as in the Lake Izabal district. Perennial
moisture reigns in the soil and uninterrupted summer in the air, so that
vegetation luxuriates in ceaseless activity all the year around. To this
genial influence of ever-present moisture and heat must be ascribed the
infinite variety of trees and plants. The trees do not grow in clusters
or groups of single species as in our northern woods, but the different
varieties crowd each other in unsocial rivalry, each trying to overtop
the other. The autumn tints of browns and yellows, crimsons and purples,
are as unknown as the cold sleep of winter. The ceaseless round of
ever-active life might seem to make the forest scenery of the tropics
monotonous, but there is such an untold variety and beauty in it that
the scene never grows tiresome. The beautiful description of spring with
its awakening life by Lowell is applicable every day in the year in this
region:—
“Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
—————
And there’s never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature’s palace.”
The last two verses are especially true, for the insect life is almost
incredibly abundant. Mosquitoes and sandflies there are in great numbers
to annoy the visitor, and beautifully coloured butterflies upon which to
feast one’s eyes. I met three naturalists, who were called “bug hunters”
by the people, one of whom was making a collection of dragon-flies, and
another butterflies, and the third was gathering specimens of ferns. All
of them had visited many parts of tropical America, but they found this
section the most fruitful field in each line of research. Bugs and
beetles, bees and wasps, ants and plant-lice, moths and spiders, and all
the other little crawling and flying forms of life are innumerable in
the number of individuals and a multitude in the variety of species
represented.
The bright sparkling pools are the haunts of myriads of dainty little
humming birds. One naturalist has figured that these little fairy-like
creatures equal in number all of the other birds together. They may be
seen darting in and out among the flowers or, poised on wings, and
clothed in their purple, golden or emerald beauty, hanging suspended in
the air. Then, after a startled look at the intruder upon their haunts,
turning first one eye and then the other, they will suddenly disappear
like a flash of light.
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