of patriarchal trees, stately and venerable, draped with long moss and
slender vines that look like the rigging of a ship. Their limbs are
covered with wonderful orchids as bright and radiant as the plumage of
the birds, the Espiritu Santo and other rare plants being as plentiful
as the daisies in a New England meadow. There is another flower,
elsewhere unknown, called the “turn-sol,” which in the morning is white
and wax-like, resembling the camellia, but at noon has turned to the
most vivid scarlet, and at sunset drops off its stem. This picture is
seen from shipboard through a veil of mist--miasmatic vapor--in which
the lungs of men find poison, but the air plants food. It reaches from
the breasts of the mountains to the foam-fringed shore, broken only by
the fleecy clouds that hang low and motionless in the atmosphere, as if
they, with all the rest of nature, had sniffed the fragrance of the
poppy and sunk to sleep.
But in the mornings and the evenings, when the air is cool, Limon is a
busy place. Dwarfish engines with long trains of cars wind down from the
interior, laden with coffee and bananas. Half-naked roustabouts file
back and forth across the gangplanks, loading steamers for Liverpool,
New York, and New Orleans. The coffee is allowed to accumulate in the
warehouses until the vessels come, but the bananas must not be picked
till the last moment, at telegraphic notice, the morning the steamer
sails. Trains of cars are sent to the side-tracks of every plantation,
and are loaded with the half-ripe fruit still glistening with the dew.
There are often as many as fifty thousand bunches on a single steamer,
representing six million bananas, but they are so perishable that more
than half the cargo goes overboard before its destination is reached.
The shipments of bananas from Costa Rica are something new in trade.
Only a few years since all our supply came from Honduras and the West
Indies, but the development of the plantations around Limon has given
that port almost a monopoly. This is due to the construction of a
railway seventy miles into the interior, intended to connect the capital
of the country and its populous valley with the Atlantic Ocean. The road
was begun by the Government, but before its completion passed into the
hands of Minor C. Keith, of Brooklyn, who has a perpetual lease, and is
attempting to extend it to San José, from and to which freight is
transported in ox-carts, a distance of thirty miles.
[Illustration: RUBBER-TREES.]
Along the track many plantations have been opened in the jungle, and
produce prolifically. Numbers of the settlers are from the United
States, from the South particularly, and it being the fashion to
christen the plantations, the traveller finds over the entrances
sign-boards that bear familiar names. Over the gate-way to one of the
finest haciendas, as they are called, is the inscription “Johnny Reb’s
Last Ditch,” a forlorn and almost hopeless ex-Confederate having drifted
there, after much buffeting by fortune, and taken up Government land, on
which he now is in a fair way to make a fortune.
From the terminus of the railway the ride to the capital is over
picturesque mountain passes and through deep gorges and cañons whose
mighty walls never admit the sun. There are no coaches, but the ride
must be made on mule-back, starting before sunrise so as to reach the
city by dark. San José is found in a pretty valley between the two
ranges of the Cordilleras, and surrounded by an entertaining group of
volcanoes, not less than eight being in sight from any of the housetops.
Ordinarily they behave very well, and sleep as quietly as the prophets,
but now and then their slumbers are disturbed by indigestion, when they
get restless, yawn a little, breathe forth fire and smoke, and vomit
sulphur, lava, and ashes. One would think that people living continually
in the midst of danger from earthquakes and eruptions would soon become
accustomed to them; but it is not so. The interval since the last
calamity, when the city of Cartago was destroyed, has been forty
years--so long that the next entertainment is expected to be one of
unusual interest; and as no announcements are made in the newspapers,
the people are always in a solemn state of uncertainty whether they will
awake in a pile of brimstone and ashes or under their ponchos as usual.
This gives life a zest the superstitious do not enjoy.
It is the theory of the local scientists that there is a subterranean
connection between the group of volcanoes, and that prodigious fires are
constantly burning beneath. Therefore it is necessary for at least one
of them to be always doing business, to permit the smoke and gases to
escape through its crater, for if all should suspend operations the
gases would gather in the vaults below, and when they reached the fires
[Illustration: THE ROAD FROM PORT LIMON TO SAN JOSÉ.]
would shake the earth by their explosion. It is said to be a fact that
the total cessation of all the volcanoes is followed by an earthquake,
and if Tierra Alba, which is active now, should cease to show its cloud
of smoke by day and its pillar of fire by night, the people would leave
their houses and take to the fields in anticipation of the impending
calamity. All the buildings in the country are built for earthquake
service, being seldom more than one story in elevation, and never more
than two, of thick adobe walls, which are light and elastic.
[Illustration: A PEON.]
The city has about thirty thousand inhabitants--nearly one-seventh of
the entire population of the republic--and seems quaint and queer to
the North American traveller because of its unlikeness to anything he
has seen at home. The climate is a perpetual spring. The flowers are
perennial; the foliage fades and falls in autumn, dying from exhaustion,
but never from frost. The days are always warm and delightful, and the
nights cool and favorable to sweet rest. Winter is not so agreeable as
summer, for when it is not raining the winds blow dust in your eyes, and
you miss the foliage and fruits. There is not such a thing as an
overcoat in the place--the storekeepers do not sell them--and the
natives never heard of stoves. One can look over the roofs of the town
from the tower of the cathedral and not see a chimney anywhere. The
mercury seldom goes above eighty, and never below sixty, Fahrenheit. The
thick walls of the houses make an even temperature within, scarcely
varying five degrees from one year to another, and it never rains long
enough for the dampness to penetrate them. There is no architectural
taste displayed, and a never-ending sameness marks the streets. It is
only in the country that picturesque dwellings are found, and usually
Nature, not man, has made them so. The shops differ from the residences
only in having wider doors and larger rooms, while the warehouses are
usually abandoned monasteries or discarded dwellings.
The merchants are mostly foreigners--Frenchmen or Germans; the
professional men and laborers are natives. The people are more peaceful
and industrious than in the other Central American States, and have the
reputation for greater honesty, but less ingenuity, than their
neighbors. They take no interest in politics, seldom vote, and do not
seem to care who governs them. There has not been a revolution in Costa
Rica since 1872, and that grew out of the rivalry of two English banking
houses in securing a government loan. The prisons are empty; the doors
of the houses are seldom locked; the people are temperate and amiable,
and live at peace with one another. The national vice is
indolence--_mañana_ (pronounced manyannah), a word that is spoken
oftener than any other in the language, and means “some other time.” It
is a proverb that the Costa-Rican is “always lying under the
mañana-tree,” and that is why the people are poor and the nation
bankrupt. The resources of the country, agricultural, mineral, pastoral,
and timber, are immense, but have not even been explored. Ninety per
cent. of the natives have never been outside the little valley in which
they were born; while the Government has done little to invite
immigration and encourage development. There are two railroads, both
unfinished, and the money that was borrowed to build them was wasted in
the most ludicrous way.
In 1872 it was decided that the future prosperity of the country
demanded the construction of railways connecting the one inhabited
valley with the two oceans, and the Congress ordered a survey. It was
made by English engineers, who submitted profiles of the most
practicable routes and estimates of the cost of construction. There
being no wealth in the country, a loan was necessary, and the two
banking houses, both operated by Englishmen upon English capital, sought
the privilege of negotiating it. The President made his selection. The
disappointed banker decided to overthrow the Government and set up a new
one that would cancel the contract and recognize his claims. Down on the
plains of Guanacasta was a cow-boy, Tomas Guardia by name, who had won
reputation as the commander of a squad of cavalry in a war with
Nicaragua, and was known over all Central America for his native
ability, soldierly qualities, and desperate valor.
The banker who had failed to get his spoon into the pudding called into
the conspiracy a number of disappointed politicians and discontented
adherents of the existing Government, and it was decided to send for
Guardia to come to the capital and lead the revolution. By offering him
pecuniary inducements and a promise of being made commander-in-chief of
the Federal army if the revolution was a success, the services of the
cow-boy were secured. He called together about one hundred men of his
own class, made a rendezvous at a plantation just outside of the city
limits, and one moonlight
[Illustration: A BANANA PLANTATION.]
night rode into town, surprised the guard at the military garrison,
captured the commander of the army and all his troops, took possession
of the Government offices, and proclaimed martial law. As the
Costa-Rican army consisted of but two hundred and fifty men, accustomed
only to police duty and parades, this was not a difficult or a daring
undertaking. Those of the officials who were captured were locked up,
and those who escaped fled to the woods and then left the country.
Among the latter class was the “Constitutional President,” as the
regularly elected rulers in Spanish America are always called, to
distinguish them from the frequent “Pronunciamento Presidents” and
“Jefes de Militar,” or military dictators.
Having thus dethroned the legitimate ruler, Guardia proclaimed himself
Military Dictator, and called a Junta, composed of the men who had
employed him to overthrow the Government. They met, with great
formality, and solemnly issued a proclamation, reciting that the
Constitutional President having absented himself from the country
without designating any one to act in his place, it became necessary to
choose a new Chief Magistrate. In the mean time the Junta declared
Guardia Provisional President until an election could be held. The
latter took possession of the Executive Mansion, called all the people
into the plaza, swore them to support him, reorganized the bureaus of
the Government and the army, placing the cow-boys who had come up from
Guanacasta with him in charge. The father-in-law of the English banker
who suggested the revolution was announced as the candidate for the
Presidency, and it was expected that he would be chosen without
opposition. But General Guardia, having had a taste of power, thought
more of the same would be agreeable, and passed the word quietly around
among his officers that he was a candidate himself. As they constituted
the judges of election and the returning board, this hint was
sufficient, and when the returns began to come in after ejection day,
the banker and his co-conspirators found, to their surprise and chagrin,
that their tool had become their master, and General Guardia was
declared Constitutional President by a unanimous vote, only two thousand
ballots having been cast by a population of two hundred thousand.
This cow-boy, when he took his seat, could neither read nor write. He
was, however, a man of extraordinary natural ability, gifted with brains
and a laudable ambition. He sprang from a mixture of the Spanish and
native races, had energy, shrewdness, a cool head, and a fair idea of
government: in all respects the most remarkable, and in many respects
the greatest man the little republic ever produced. He learned rapidly,
and selected the wisest and ablest men in the country for his advisers.
Under his administration the nation showed greater development than it
has enjoyed before or since, and, so far as lay in his power, he
introduced and encouraged a spirit of moral, intellectual, and
commercial advancement, established free schools and a university,
overthrew the domination of the priests, sent young men abroad to study
the science of government, and preserved the peace as he aided the
progress of the people. If he had been as wise as he was progressive,
Costa Rica would have made rapid strides towards the standard of modern
civilization, but in his mistaken zeal for the development of the
country he left it bankrupt.
The two railroads were commenced by him. Under the estimates of the
engineers the cost of construction and equipment for two narrow-gauge
lines, from San José to Port Limon, on the Atlantic coast, and Punta
Arenas, on the Pacific, a total distance of one hundred and sixty miles,
was placed at $6,000,000--$37,500 per mile. The line from Port Limon was
constructed under the direction of a brother of Henry Meiggs, the famous
fugitive from California (who fled to Peru, and lived there like a
second Monte Cristo), but the shorter line, from San José to Punta
Arenas, was attempted under the personal supervision of the President
himself, who went at it in a very queer way.
All the necessary material and supplies to build and equip the road were
purchased in England, sent by sailing-vessels around the Horn, and
landed at Punta Arenas. But instead of commencing work there, the
President, who had never seen a locomotive in his life, repudiated all
advice, rejected all suggestions, and ordered the whole outfit to be
carried seventy-five miles over the mountains on carts and mule-back, so
as to begin at the other end. This undertaking was more difficult and
expensive than the construction of the road. But
[Illustration: PICKING COFFEE.]
Guardia’s extraordinary departure from the conventional was not without
reason. It was based upon a mixture of motives, not only ignorance and
inexperience, but pride and precaution. The conservative element of the
population, the Bourbon hidalgos, and the ignorant and the superstitious
peons, were opposed to all departures from the past, and saw in every
improvement and innovation a dangerous disturbance of existing
conditions. The methods their fathers used were good enough for them.
There was also a large amount of capital and labor engaged in
transporting freight by ox-carts, which had always been the “common
carriers” of the republic, and those interested recognized that the
construction of the railway would make their cattle useless, and leave
the peon carters unemployed. To resist the construction of the railroad
they organized a revolution, threatening to tear up the tracks and
destroy the machinery. To mollify this sentiment, and furnish employment
for the cartmen to keep them out of mischief, was the controlling idea
in Guardia’s mind, so with great labor and difficulty, and at an
enormous expense, the locomotives and cars were taken to pieces and
hauled over the mountains to San José. The first rails were laid at the
capital by the President himself, with a great demonstration, and the
work continued until the money was exhausted; and the Government, having
destroyed its credit by this remarkable proceeding, was unable to borrow
more. The loan, which under ordinary circumstances would have been
sufficient to complete the enterprise, was all expended before forty
miles of track were laid, ten miles of which extend between Punta
Arenas, the Pacific seaport, and Esparza, the next town, and thirty
miles between San José and Alajuela, at the western end of the valley.
This road is now operated by the Government, under the direction of a
native engineer, who was never outside the boundaries of the republic,
and never saw any railway but this. He is, however, a man of genius and
practical ability, and if he were allowed to have his way the road might
be a paying enterprise. But the Government uses it as a political
machine, employs a great many superfluous and incompetent men--mostly
the relatives and dependents of influential politicians--carries freight
and passengers on credit, and does many other foolish things that make
profits impossible, and cause a large deficiency to be made up by
taxation each year. On every train of three cars--one for baggage and
two for passengers--are thirteen men. First a manager or conductor who
has general supervision, a locomotive engineer and stoker, two ticket
takers, two brakemen for each car, and two men to handle baggage and
express packages--all of them being arrayed in the most resplendent
uniforms, the conductor having the appearance of a major-general on
dress parade. Freight trains are run upon the same system and at a
similar expense. Shippers are allowed thirty and sixty days after the
goods are delivered to pay their freight charges, and passengers who are
known to the station agents can get tickets on credit and have the bill
sent them upon their return--a concession to a public sentiment that
justifies the postponement of everything until to-morrow--the mañana
policy that keeps the nation poor.
Thousands of ox-carts are still employed between the towns of Esparza
and Alajuela, the termini of the railway, carrying freight over the
mountains; and it usually takes a week for them to make the journey of
thirty-five miles, often longer, for on religious festivals, which occur
with surprising frequency, all the transportation business is suspended.
A traveller who intends to take a steamer at Punta Arenas must send his
baggage on a week in advance. He leaves the train at Alajuela, mounts a
mule, rides over the mountain to the town of Atenas, where he spends the
night. The next morning at daybreak he resumes his journey, and rides
fifteen miles to San Mateo, breakfasts at eleven, takes his siesta in a
hammock until four or five in the afternoon, then mounting his mule
again, covers the ten miles to Esparza by sunset, where he dines and
spends the night, usually remaining there, to avoid the heat of Punta
Arenas, until a few hours before the steamer leaves; and then, if the
ox-carts have come with his baggage, makes the rest of his trip by
rail.
The journey is not an unpleasant one. The scenery is wild and
picturesque. The roads are usually good, except in the dry season, when
they become very dusty, and after heavy rains, when the mud is deep. But
under the tropic sun and in the dry air moisture evaporates rapidly, and
in six hours after a rainfall the roads are hard and good. The
uncertainty as to whether his trunks will arrive in time makes the
inexperienced traveller nervous.
The Costa-Rican cartmen are the most irresponsible and indifferent
beings on earth. They travel in long caravans or processions, often with
two or three hundred teams in a line. When one chooses to stop, or meets
with an accident, all the rest wait for him if it wastes a week. None
will start until each of his companions is ready, and sometimes the road
is blocked for miles, awaiting the repair of some damage. The oxen are
large white patient beasts, and are yoked by the horns, and not by the
neck, as in modern style, lashings of raw cowhide being used to make
them fast. They wear the yokes continually. The union is as permanent as
matrimony in a land where divorce laws are unknown. The cartmen are as
courteous as they are indifferent. They always lift their hats to a
_caballero_ as he passes them, and say, “May the Virgin guard you on
your journey!” Thousands of dollars in gold are often intrusted to them,
and never was a penny lost. A banker of San José told me that he usually
received thirty thousand dollars in coin each week during coffee season
by these ox-carts, and considered it safer than if he carried it
himself, although the caravan stands in the open air by the roadside
every night. Highway robbery is unknown, and the cartmen, with their
wages of thirty cents a day, would not know what use to make of the
money if they should steal it. Nevertheless they always feel at liberty
to rob the traveller of the straps on his trunks, and no piece of
baggage ever arrives at its destination so protected unless the strap is
securely nailed, and then it is usually cut to pieces by the cartmen as
revenge for being deprived of what they consider their perquisite.
At sunset the oxen are released from their burdens at the nearest
_tambo_, or resting-place, upon the way, and are kept overnight in sheds
provided for them. At these places are drinking and gambling booths,
with usually a number of dissolute women to tempt and entertain the
cartmen. The evenings are spent in carousal, in dancing, and singing the
peculiar native songs to the accompaniment of the “marimba,” the
national instrument, which is, I believe, found in no other land.
The marimba is constructed of twenty-one pieces of split bamboo of
graded lengths, strung upon two bars of the same wood according to
harmonic sequence, thus furnishing three octaves. Underneath each strip
of bamboo is a gourd, strung upon a wire, which takes the place of a
sounding-board, and adds strength and sweetness to the tones. The
performer takes the instrument upon his knees and strikes the bamboo
strips with little hammers of padded leather, usually taking two between
the fingers of each hand, so as to strike a chord of four notes, which
he does with great dexterity. I have seen men play with three hammers in
each hand, and use them as rapidly and skilfully as a pianist touches
his keys. The tones of the marimba resemble those of the xylophone,
which has recently become so popular, except that they are louder and
more resonant. The instrument is peculiarly adapted to the native airs,
which are plaintive but melodious. At all of the tambos where the
cartmen stop marimbas are kept, and in every caravan are those who can
handle them skilfully. Tourists generally travel in the cool hours of
the morning and evening to avoid the blistering sun, and it is a welcome
diversion to stop at the _bodegas_ to listen to the songs of the
cartmen, and watch them dancing with darkeyed, barefooted señoritas.
The women of the lower classes do not wear either shoes or sandals, but
go barefooted from infancy to old age; yet their feet are always small
and shapely, and look very pretty under the short skirts that reach just
below the knees. The native girls are comely and coquettish in the
national dress,
[Illustration: THE MARIMBA.]
which consists of nothing but a skirt and a chemise of white cotton,
with a brilliantly colored scarf, or “reboza,” as they call it, thrown
over their heads and shoulders, and serving the double purpose of a
shawl and bonnet. The features of the women are small and even, and
their teeth are perfect. Their forms, untrammelled by skirts and
corsets, are slender and supple in girlhood, and the scanty garments,
sleeveless, and reaching only from the shoulders to the knees, disclose
every outline of their figures, and are worn without a suggestion of
immodesty. Such a costume in the United States would call for police
interference; but one soon becomes accustomed to bare arms and necks and
legs, and learns that these innocent creatures are quite as jealous of
their chastity as their sisters in the land where the standard of
civilization forbids the disclosure of personal charms outside the
ball-room or the bathing beach. The ladies of the aristocracy imitate
the Parisian fashions, except that hats and bonnets are almost unknown.
They seldom leave their homes except to go to mass, and at the entrance
of a church every head must be uncovered.