COPAN.
[Illustration: SQUARE ALTAR, COPAN VILLAGE.]
It only needed one night's experience to convince me that the cross
draughts of our airy residence were not suited to our constitutions,
and when on rising to make my toilet in the morning, the transparent
nature of my dressing-room was borne in on me, my mind was made up, and
I ordered the tent to be pitched without delay. Thenceforward we had a
thoroughly comfortable bedroom. One end of the tent was left open for
ventilation, but we were well sheltered from draughts, and furnished
with good thick blankets as a protection against the sharp fall of
temperature in the early morning. I only wish one could always secure
the same conditions of climate, temperature, and fresh air, for it
seemed to me ideal.
We had come to Copan to work, and, as the early morning hours are
precious in these tropical climes, dawn always found the camp astir.
Fires were soon lighted. As the sun rose Gorgonio would appear at the
tent-door with two big bowls of hot coffee, pan-dulce, and bananas, and
by 7 o'clock all were off to work: my husband provided with note-books,
tape-measures, and drawing-board, followed by the mozos with machetes
and scrubbing-brushes, ready for any labour--from clearing bush to
scrubbing moss and lichens from the sculptures, preparatory to the
moulding-operations, which Gorgonio carried out with such skill and
patience. My duties lay mostly in the camp, and were purely housewifely
in character, for, as no woman could be found in the neighbourhood who
had any knowledge of housework or cooking, I had to do the work myself.
The cooking was, of course, the most arduous part of the performance,
but the housework occupied at least an hour in the morning. First,
the blankets must be hung in the sun to keep them dry and free from
insects, then the tent had to be swept out and cleaned of ants and
occasional scorpions. Every few days we sent mozos into the hills
around to bring in huge bundles of fresh sweet-smelling pine-needles,
which were spread over the floor of the house as a carpet, and every
morning this carpet had to be attended to. Then came the preparation
of breakfast for three hungry persons, for our party was increased
by the arrival from Coban of Mr. Erwin Dieseldorff, an enthusiastic
archæologist who had come to us on a visit, and had brought with him
Gorgonio's brother Carlos Lopez (an old assistant of my husband) and
three Indian mozos.
The tiny kitchen and larder stood beneath the shade of a wide-spreading
Ficus tree, and for convenience of serving the food, as well as to save
me many steps, we placed the table close beside it. It was a charming
dining-room in such a climate, for during the four weeks of our stay
not a drop of rain fell to mar the comfort of our _al fresco_ meals.
The great Ficus gave us friendly shade from the noonday sun, and at
supper-time the moon played hide-and-seek between its branches as they
were gently swayed by a soft and balmy breeze.
We shared our dining-room with the birds, who came in flocks to feed
on the Ficus and other fruit-bearing trees, and we were never weary
of watching them at play amongst the branches overhead. At first the
parrots and parroquets vastly outnumbered all the others, and appeared
to have formed a settlement in the tree above our tent. These parrots
were a boisterous family, who woke at dawn and began screaming and
chattering whilst they performed round the branches all those gymnastic
feats which I have thought were only devised in captivity to vary the
monotony of cage-life; but the parroquets, who lived in the same tree,
appeared to be quiet little creatures who nestled near to one another,
whispering and cooing gently, until some sudden impulse would seize
both parties, and they would dash off in the air, flashing circles of
gold and red and green as the sun caught the glint of their plumage,
and then return as suddenly to the shelter of the trees to chatter
loudly over their exploits. An hour or so after sunrise the noise
of the parrots ceased, but whether they flew away or hid themselves
amongst the thick foliage I could never make out; certain it is that
they disappeared until evening, when they again woke the echoes with
their cries before settling for the night.
About a week after our arrival, as the fruit ripened upon other trees,
the birds greatly increased in numbers, and the air was filled with
song and chattering throughout all but the noonday hours. The grey
jays perched quite close to us when we were at work, turned their
heads knowingly from side to side, and indulged in ribald remarks
at our expense; and big toucans, with bright yellow breasts, flew
clumsily from tree to tree, as though over-weighted by their great
green-and-yellow bills. Sometimes an aurora, or yellow-breasted trogon,
honoured us with a visit; less gorgeous in plumage than his relation
the quetzal, he nevertheless possesses a fair share of beauty, and
his dignity of deportment was imposing as for hours together he sat,
almost motionless, solemnly contemplating us and our doings. Now and
then the gurgling note of an oropendula rang through the grove, and
this large cinnamon-coloured oriole, with yellow tail-feathers, would
spend half an hour with us, flying from tree to tree and uttering his
strange musical cry. The natives told me that there had been numbers of
them about the ruins the previous year, as they then had a settlement
close by in a tree overhanging the river, where their hanging nests
had numbered over two hundred; but some ardent collector had cut off
a branch with three or four nests attached to it, to carry home as a
specimen, and the whole colony of birds had at once forsaken the tree
and formed a new settlement some distance away. Our occasional visitor
was doubtless one of the migrants who had ventured to come back to feed
on the fruit-trees he had known of old.
I deeply regretted the disappearance of the colony, as it would
have been delightful to watch the birds at one's leisure. Only once
during our journey did I get the chance of watching them, and that
only for a short time. As a precaution against attack, the birds
always select for their home a tree with a long clean stem standing
out from the surrounding vegetation, and a certain smooth red-barked
tree with rather thin foliage seems to be an especial favourite. The
long bag-shaped nests, with an entrance at the top, are attached to
the spreading branches, and swing freely in the breeze. During the
nesting-season such a tree-top is a scene of much animation. The birds
are continually flying off in all directions in search of food for
their mates or families and returning home with their prizes. They
seldom hover round the tree, but go straight away as though each had
his own well-known hunting-ground. Some few of them will perch for a
while on the branches near their nests, and one old bird always stands
sentinel on the topmost branch, uttering every few moments his
queer musical cry; but should any sign of danger be discerned--and they
seem to be of a somewhat nervous temperament--the cry at once changes
to a short sharp note, which quickly brings all the birds who are out
foraging back to their homes. The sentinels are relieved from time to
time, and one can often tell by a slight change in the voice when a new
sentry has come on guard.
[Illustration: COPAN. STELA B.]
[Illustration: COPAN, PLAN OF THE PRINCIPAL RUINED STRUCTURES.]
Flocks of noisy blackbirds we had always with us, and the "tap, tap,
tap" of the red-headed woodpecker--"carpintero," as the Spaniards call
him--could be heard through the grove almost all day long. Now and
then one could espy amongst the branches a beautiful mot-mot. It was a
long time before I could be brought to believe that these birds really
trimmed their two long tail-feathers with their own beaks into the
fashionable shape, clearing the midrib for an inch or so bare of all
plumes, and leaving the characteristic spatula-shaped expanse at the
end; but since my return home I have had a good look at the interesting
case in the hall of the Natural History Museum, and the untrimmed
tail-feathers of the poor mot-mot who had injured his beak and could
not cut his tail properly is quite convincing. How his neighbours must
have laughed at him for being out of the fashion!
There was one bird whom I never caught sight of, and knew only by his
sweet but unsatisfactory song. This song is charmingly musical as far
as it goes, but then he never finishes it: just as it is becoming most
interesting, he hesitates and stops about a third short of the keynote,
waits a moment as though to consider what is wrong, then begins over
again, only to stop with the same half-apologetic note, leaving one
with the impression that he would like to finish his song, but has
forgotten how it goes.
A pair of hoary-headed, disreputable-looking zopilotes hovered
about the kitchen all day long, waiting for scraps and clamouring
vociferously when a chicken lost his head. When night came the owls
hooted at us from the lofty branches of the great ceiba trees, and the
cry of the night-jar (or "Puhuyak," as the natives call him) sounded
through the wood. According to the Indian legend, the Puhuyak is
one of the birds appointed to guard the gates of Xibalba, the place
of departed spirits, which is thought to be situated somewhere near
the banks of the Usumacinta. His fellow guardian is his relation the
Whip-poor-Will, and sometimes they watch together, and at others take
turn and turn about. Oddly enough, the cry of the Puhuyak sounds
exactly like "Who are you?" and, chancing to awake in the stillness
of the night, one would hear this question reiterated about every
half-minute, without the ghost of an answer, until I used to think
that if anything could add to the terror of finding one's self at the
gate of Xibalba it would be to hear the Puhuyak ask that irritating
question with his casual unsympathetic manner and harsh voice.
What strikes one most in riding or walking through a tropical forest
of Central America is the mixed nature of the vegetation. Between the
low fringe of sea-coast, where the mangroves have full sway, and the
lofty hill-tops, where the pines and oaks abound, one can nowhere give
a name to the forest from the predominance of any particular tree.
There are no mahogany forests and no cedar forests, although both
species have many representatives. Perhaps the lightness or feathery
nature of the seeds helps in their distribution; certainly I never saw
a native forest tree with a number of seedlings growing up round it,
as one may see in the case of a sycamore or horse-chestnut at home.
This characteristic applies even to the small grove round the ruins
at Copan; and although I had learnt to identify a few of the most
noticeable trees, I could only find a few examples of each amongst
the many trees around us, and to my untrained eye all the remainder
appeared to differ from one another. The monarchs of the grove were two
giant Ceibas, to whose beauty and grandeur I can do no justice with
words. A tent might be pitched between the buttresses from which the
mighty shaft of such a giant springs, and a regiment might camp beneath
its branches. As the month of April is the middle of the dry season
many of the trees were changing their leaves, and the process was most
interesting to watch, and often very rapid in accomplishment. Some of
the trees which were fully clothed, and showed no sign of change when
we arrived, dropped all their leaves, stood for a few days bare, and
then completely reclothed themselves during the few weeks we remained
at the ruins. Others went through the process in distinct sections, and
it gave a very odd appearance to a tree when some of its branches were
covered with old foliage, some branches quite bare, and others bright
with the fresh green or pink of newly unfolded leaves.
In one respect we were fortunate during our stay--there were no
mosquitos; but garrapatas (ticks), coloradillos (minute harvest-bugs),
fleas, and ants tried their best to spoil our tempers. The fleas in
the house could be subdued by a plentiful supply of fresh pine-needles
spread over the floor; garrapatas and coloradillos nothing can subdue.
Personally, as a housekeeper, if I must award the palm for capacity to
irritate, it shall go to the ants: they invaded every nook and corner,
disputed the possession of every eatable thing, and bit or stung me
violently whenever they got the chance. One night they besieged me in
the tent, and attacked me so savagely that I was forced to cry for
help. A "marching army," as it is called, was making its way through
the wood, and as our home lay in its path the soldiers had, in true
military fashion, "occupied" it. My husband was at work developing
photographs in the little dark room at the end of the house; he brushed
the first few intruders away, but finally had to beat a retreat before
the thousands which poured in on him, when he heard my cries and came
to my assistance. Fortunately only a few stragglers and camp-followers
troubled us in the tent, and as they had entered only by the guy-ropes
which were made fast to the house-posts, we were able to close the
path by dropping a little kerosene-oil on the cords. The main body of
the army marched over and under and through the house. The dry thatch
of the roof crackled and rustled as if on fire under the feet of this
mighty host of minute crawling creatures, and its approach spread
consternation through the rest of the insect world, and everything fled
before the invaders. Our candles burnt without a flicker in the still
night air, so that standing clear of the flank of the army we were
able to watch its doings without any discomfort. I saw big beetles and
cockroaches so bewildered with fright that they knew not which way to
turn, and, as though paralysed, made no attempt to fly, but retreated
backwards to the ends of the leaves of the thatch, their eyes glaring
and their antennæ stiff with horror at the fate which must overtake
them. In half an hour the army had passed on and disappeared, leaving
nothing eatable in the house, not even the films of the two newly
developed photographs which had been left in the rack to dry. The
natives, I am told, hail with joy the passage through their houses
of a marching army, as it means a clean sweep of all centipedes,
cockroaches, spiders, and scorpions.
Poisonous snakes are said to abound at Copan, but we were little
troubled by them, as during the dry season they hide themselves away
under stones and fallen trees. I saw one "tamagás" turned out of its
cosy nest, which was lined with bits of dry moulding paper left by the
Americans who were at work here last year. I also witnessed the death
of a rattlesnake which had crossed the path just in front of me.
We saw no wild animals. Gorgonio, indeed, always insisted that there
were "tigres en el monte"; and perhaps there were, but I was not likely
to meet them, for my expeditions into the "monte" (more out of fear
of ticks than of tigers) were limited to the paths which had been cut
to the different monuments, and, so far as I know, our camp was never
invaded by any animals more formidable than our own mules, who wandered
as they liked over the whole enclosure, and of a night often browsed
round the tent and woke us by kicking against the tent-ropes.
Our arrival at the ruins caused quite a flutter of excitement amongst
the Copaneros, who seemed glad to vary the monotony of their lives
by a stroll through the woods, to chat with Gorgonio and Carlos, and
take a peep at our occupations. So it happened that hardly a day
passed without bringing us visitors. Even the more distant villages
sent contingents of sightseers; but these were more formal occasions,
and our visitors, headed by the Alcalde of their village, entered
the house in somewhat stately fashion, and seating themselves on the
floor--chairs being scarce--would make polite speeches and ask what
progress Don Alfredo was making with his work. These conversations
would promise to be of interest, as our visitors always professed
to know much about the monuments, and to appreciate the reason why
foreigners took so much interest in them, until some stray remark
showed that our minds were travelling on totally different planes of
thought--theirs, I fear, being weighed down with an unmovable belief
in buried treasure. Then the conversation would flag, and the pauses
become longer, until we produced a brandy-bottle, when they all stood
up and solemnly drank our health, and, that ceremony over, took leave
of us with the same formal politeness and filed out of the door. But
the greater number of our visitors were, I am sorry to say, ill and
suffering persons who came seeking "remedios" for their complaints. We
did what we could to help them, although most of their troubles were
far beyond the reach of our simple remedies, but the belief in our
skill was flattering and often really pathetic. They were genuinely
grateful for the smallest relief we could afford them, and would always
return to thank us, bringing gifts of chickens, eggs, or cigars. One
poor woman told me that for nine years she had eagerly scanned the
faces of visitors to the ruins, hoping that Don Alfredo might again
be amongst them, for he had given her the only medicine which had
ever done her any good. It seems that he had dosed her with calomel,
which gave her temporary relief, and now, alas! we had not a grain of
calomel with us. However, no remedy would have availed in her case--her
malady had clearly passed beyond all hope of cure. As she was very
poor, I engaged her nominally to do odd day's work in the kitchen, but
really to give her the benefit of our surplus food. She was curiously
ignorant, even of such a simple matter as how to clean a saucepan; but
her's was such an uncomplaining gentle nature that I grew quite fond of
her, and in return she showed me every little attention in her power,
and never came without a few fresh eggs or a bundle of cigarettes or
some other little present which she thought would give me pleasure.
I had one patient, a Coban Indian, who had come with Mr. Dieseldorff,
who rewarded my efforts on his behalf not only by getting well of a bad
wound in his foot, the result of a blow from a pickaxe, but also by
resisting the temptation to apply a chili-pepper to the wound, which
he assured me was a splendid remedy, as you could feel its effects
at once. At first he was exceedingly cynical about my treatment, and
regarded the carbolic acid lotion disdainfully, but to his credit be
it said that as soon as he realized that his foot was really healing,
although he did not feel the remedy, he became overwhelmingly grateful.
Ever afterwards I was his "nanita," or little mother, and he expressed
his willingness to leave his wife and family and follow me to the end
of the world.
Some men in the village relieved the monotony of their lives and added
to our list of patients by quarrelling over a local beauty, and a
messenger was sent in hot haste to the ruins to implore my husband
to come and extract a bullet from the body of a man, as otherwise
they despaired of saving his life. He found the house closely packed
with the friends and relations of the wounded man, who crowded round
his rough bed and sprawled over it, weeping and wailing and passing
a bottle of aguardiente from hand to hand and giving frequent doses
of the fiery spirit to the sufferer himself to keep up his courage.
It was no easy work to turn all the relations out of the house and
get rid of the rum-bottle; but at last it was accomplished, and then
an examination showed that the bullet had passed round the ribs and
lodged below the shoulder-blade, so that there was no immediate danger.
My husband was able to raise the hopes of his patient, who had been
driven to the depths of despair by the wailings and leave-takings of
his friends, and left him for the night in charge of the Alcalde with
assurances of a very speedy recovery, qualified by dire prophecies
of his certain death if further recourse were had to the rum-bottle.
Within a week, with the help of proper food and such care as we could
ensure him, the fever and swelling had been reduced so that the
position of the bullet could be easily detected, and the man was so
comparatively well that he could be mounted on a quiet mule and sent
off in charge of a friend to the doctor at Chiquimula, who successfully
extracted the bullet. I was most thankful when the man was safely on
his way, as I credited my husband with a secret desire to do a little
amateur surgery.
I found the women of Copan really interesting; they are above the
average in good looks, and, in spite of their want of cleanliness and
their slovenly dress, their soft cooing voices and caressing manners
make them personally attractive. The men look rather more tidy than the
women, which is not to be wondered at, as they seem to spend most of
the day lounging in hammocks, whilst the women do all the work of the
village, fetch the water, and wash the clothes. The washing of clothes,
indeed, goes on interminably, yet, except on a feast day, one never
sees anyone in a clean garment; this is, perhaps, hardly to be wondered
at when one considers the nature of their surroundings, for it must be
difficult to keep one's clothes clean for five minutes amid the dust
and dirt of a native house. The Copaneros, like all Central-American
half-castes, have a singular dread of bathing, although they look
longingly at the cool stream running past their home; and, as general
medical adviser, I was continually being asked, "Would bathing do me
any harm?"
It was always a delightful moment for me when my household duties were
over and I could join the workers in the great Plaza, where my husband,
with a patience I never ceased to marvel at, was comparing the drawings
made for the 'Biologia' with the original inscriptions, Mr. Dieseldorff
would be clearing the debris from a stairway or tracing the line of
a fallen wall, whilst Gorgonio, Carlos, and Caralampio were at work
making paper moulds of the sculptured monoliths or heaping up great
log-fires to dry the moulds already made.
I wish I could do justice to these imposing plazas, studded with
strangely carved monuments and surrounded by lofty mounds and great
stone stairways, moss-grown and hoary with age, broken by the twisted
roots of giant trees, but very solemn and imposing in their decay.
The huge mass of squared and faced building-stones, the profusion of
sculptured ornament, boldly-carved human figures, strangely grotesque
imps--half human and half animal,--elaborate scrolls, graceful and
beautiful feather-work, the latter especially crisp and delicate in
execution, all combined to make it difficult to believe that no metal
tools were used by the ancient Indian workmen. Yet the fact remains
that no implements other than stone axes and obsidian flakes have ever
been found amongst the ruins, and this adds to the wonder and mystery
which enshrouds them, so that one almost fears even to guess at the
numbers of centuries or the thousands of busy hands and brains which,
under such conditions, must have gone to the accomplishment of the work.
I was always conscious of a longing desire to witness some great
ceremony at Copan, such as one's imagination conjures up amid such
surroundings, and the thought constantly recurred to me that possibly
in the half-Christian, half-heathen rites of the Indian pilgrims and
the strange dances they indulge in on certain festal occasions some
echo might yet be caught of the ancient ceremonial.
The novelist has already tried his hand both on Ancient Mexico and
Yucatan, and that class of theorizer who wants as little data as
possible to interfere with his pet schemes has too long occupied the
field. Surely here there is scope for the more chastened scientific
imagination, and the time has come for the scientific world, the
folk-lorists, palæographers, and archæologists, who have done so much
to recover for us the ancient civilizations of the East, to turn their
attention to these wonders of the Western world.
[Illustration: IN THE GREAT PLAZA, COPAN.]