CAJABON AND THE NORTHERN FORESTS. (BY A. P. M.)
I had passed the last two months of the year 1886 in an interesting
journey through the Altos, examining the ruins of Indian towns which
were known to have been occupied at the time of the Spanish invasion;
then crossing the main range I found myself, in January 1887, in my
old and comfortable quarters at Coban in the Alta Vera Paz. I had no
settled plan of work before me, but was prepared to do a little amateur
map-making about the headwaters of the Rio de la Pasion, and to examine
into the truth of some rather vague rumours concerning important
Indian ruins which were said to exist in the Northern forests near
the frontier of British Honduras. Carlos Lopez was sent ahead to the
village of Cajabon to engage Indian carriers for the forest journey,
and as it was still early in the season which in these parts is by
courtesy called "dry," I decided to spend a fortnight in mapping the
track between Coban and Cajabon, a distance of about sixty miles, and
fixing the position of the latter village, which I felt sure was placed
too far north on the published maps. I had already spent some days
taking angles and counting my steps in the direction of Cajabon when
we met Carlos Lopez returning to Coban in company with a deputation
of Cajabon Indians who were going to the Jefe Político to protest
against the orders they had received from him to accompany me into the
forests. Carlos told me that he had met with no success whatever in his
mission, and that the reason most frequently given for not accepting
service with the expedition was that it was unsafe to go with me, as
"Los Ingleses comen gente" (the English were cannibals!). I had never
met with this objection before, and as it was urged quite seriously,
I can only suggest that it is a strange survival of the stories told
to the Indians by the Spanish priests and officials in the days when
buccaneers infested the coasts and English smugglers were thorns in the
side of Spanish authorities.
The expected dry weather would not arrive, and owing to the prolonged
rains the track, which threaded its way between innumerable conical
limestone hills from one to two hundred feet in height, was almost
ankle deep in mud and was often broken into great mud holes which I had
no wish to fathom. Now and then we passed a solitary Indian rancho,
and our nightly resting-place was in one of the sheds or "Ermitas"
which are to be met with every four or five leagues, and which if not
peculiar to this part of the country are certainly more noticeable here
than elsewhere.
The Indians have their headquarters in straggling towns, such as Coban,
San Pedro Carchá, and Cajabon, but in order to secure new ground for
their plantations of beans and corn, they spread out all over the
country, moving their ranchos every few years to a new clearing in
the forest, or returning to some old plantation which has long lain
fallow. When they are thus abroad the Ermita becomes the temporary
meeting-place of the families settled round about. It usually consists
of a thatch roof set upon about a dozen posts with little or nothing
in the shape of wall or enclosure. At one end of it, or on one side,
is a rough wooden altar supporting an open wooden box, some times
protected in front by a cracked glass, which holds a crucifix or a
Madonna, or the figure of the Saint after whom the Ermita is named--a
figure which is sure to be tawdry and mean-looking even when one has
grown used to the style of art which the Spaniard has carried with him
to the West. Behind the altar usually stands a collection of wooden
crosses varying in height from one to eight feet--the smaller ones the
individual offerings of the pious, and the larger ones brought there by
the company which assembles on the feast day of the Saint; for it is
in these Ermitas that the Indians hold their fiestas, meet to transact
local business, get drunk, and bury their dead. I had several times
noticed the unevenness of the hard mud floor when I was setting up my
camp bed, but it was not until I was trying to get the bed level above
a more than usually distinct mound, that I asked a question and found
out that I was about to sleep above the last addition to the majority.
The third night out was the worst we experienced; the rain had held off
during the day, and we worked on until sundown. Then, as there were no
Indian houses to be seen, we cooked our supper and prepared to sleep
in a little walless rancho perched on the hillside close by the path,
which could hardly be dignified by the name of Ermita, for it had no
altar in it, although my Indians called it by the name of a Saint. We
stacked our baggage as well as we could on logs and stones, then I set
up my camp-cot, Gorgonio slung his hammock between the posts, and the
Indians, who for some unknown reason had brought no hammocks with them,
rolled themselves up in their blankets, and fitted their bodies into
the depressions in the uneven mud floor, through which protruded knobs
of limestone rock, and were soon snoring. About nine o'clock down came
the rain again--at first it only sprayed through the thatched roof, so
that an open umbrella sufficed to protect my lamp and the book I was
reading; then it began to fall in drops on the rug which covered the
foot of my cot, and I had to rig up a waterproof sheet over it, which
made the heat stifling; then it ran in little streams over the sloping
floor, and the Indians began to shift about in hope of finding dry
spots, but the rancho was very small and we were twelve in number. By
midnight the streams broadened and increased until the whole floor
was a watercourse. Then one by one the Indians rose solemnly from
the ground and squatted on logs or stones or anything that raised
them above the flood, and covered themselves over with their leafy
rain-coats. As they squatted there, looking just like a group of little
haystacks, I wondered whether they were inwardly cursing their folly in
not bringing their hammocks with them; if so, they certainly showed no
outward signs of mental disturbance, but sat solemn and silent all the
night through patiently waiting for the dawn.
To the north and west of Coban the land is fairly level, but it is
dotted over with innumerable more or less conical limestone hills,
usually standing apart from one another, or more rarely clustered
together in groups. As we neared the village of Lanquin a high range
of hills rose to the north of us, and our track lay down a narrowing
valley, through the middle of which one might have looked for a
fair-sized stream; however, it held no more than a small rivulet, which
finally disappeared altogether. Then the track dropped down suddenly
between high mountain walls and we saw the pueblo beneath us, and there
to the left of it was our lost stream bursting out of a cave in the
rock, a full-grown river. A large track of the porous limestone region
to the north and west must be drained, sponge-fashion, to supply this
swift-flowing Rio Lanquin. Just above the cave from which the stream
flows out there is another stalactite cave, much talked about in the
neighbourhood as one of the wonders of the world, but very seldom
explored beyond the first hundred yards.
From Lanquin we rode on to Cajabon without stopping, leaving this part
of the track to be surveyed at our leisure, as we intended to make
Cajabon our headquarters, whilst the mozos were being collected for our
journey to the north. On our way we crossed an affluent of the Cajabon
river by means of a hammock bridge, one of those wonderful structures
of twisted creepers and natural ropes for which the tropical American
Indian has always been famed. From Coban (which stands 4280 feet above
sea-level) the track had made a continuous descent, and at Cajabon we
were again in a hot country only 704 feet above the level of the sea.
[Illustration: A HAMMOCK BRIDGE.]
The Lopez family has long been connected with Cajabon, and although my
companions Gorgonio and Carlos Lopez and other brothers had wandered
away and settled in Coban and Salamá, the eldest, Cornelio, still
remained in his old home and held the office of "secretario" to the
municipality, the officer who is appointed by the Government to counsel
and guide the Indian officials, for, with the exception of the Lopezes
and one other half-caste family, the community is purely Indian. As
we neared the town Gorgonio told me that he did not think I should
be comfortable at his brother's house, as the house was small and his
brother's family numerous, and suggested my seeking a lodging at the
"Convento," where the Padre was known to be hospitable and a good
fellow. So we rode on through the straggling Indian town, winding our
way round the bases of many small hills on which the Indian houses
are perched; and then up the side of the large central hill which
is crowned by the church and the remains of an old convent of the
Dominican monks. Passing through the gate into the great walled square,
where stands a weather-beaten stone cross, I dismounted from my horse
at the foot of the steps leading to the Convento, and was greeted with
"Come in, come in! I very glad to see you. I do speek de Engleesh very
well." Looking up I saw a small, sandy-haired, grey-eyed man dressed
in blue-and-white-striped cotton trousers, a spotted cotton shirt, and
a pair of rough brown native shoes; he ran down the steps, grasped my
hand, patted me on the back, roared with laughter, and kept up a stream
of greetings in the most delicious broken English. I had looked for
the usual sallow-faced, half-baked ladino padre, and here, in this
out-of-the-way Indian village, I chanced on, of all people in the
world--a Dutchman!
"Yes, I speek de Engleesh very well. I go to school at Mill Hill: you
know Mill Hill? Very good place. Cardinal Manning he my friend. Queen
Victoria she one very good woman." And so he rattled on, cracked small
jokes, dug me in the ribs, and laughed continuously. How often during
the next week I wished that some one had been with me to enjoy him. He
was perfectly delicious--always laughing; he let off innumerable little
jokes and told interminable stories, and told them again and again
with the same delightfully quaint phrases. His favourite reminiscence
was of the day when the Prince of Wales went to Saint Paul's to return
thanks after recovery from illness. Apparently the pupils of the Roman
Catholic College of Mill Hill were allowed a holiday, taken to the City
to see the show and given a good dinner afterwards. But this was not
quite the Padre's view of it; he never seemed to tire of telling this
story, and always told it to me with much detail, as though I could
not possibly be expected to know anything about the matter, and always
prefaced it with "Queen Victoria she one very good woman." "Well, I
will tell you her primogenito what they call him, Prince o' Wales,
he very sick; the Queen tink he go die, everyone say he go die; but
Queen Victoria, she one very good woman, she give plenty of money, and
she say everybody must pray very hard; and dey all pray very hard,
everybody; and Prince o' Wales he get well again: it one miracle sabe
Usted? because dey all pray so hard. Queen Victoria, she one very good
woman, she say now we make one gran fiesta; and Queen Victoria and
Prince o' Wales and all de people, oh plenty people! dey all go to
San Pablo, de gran Catedrál in London, and say prayers. And de Queen
she say everybody have pray very hard, very hard: now everybody have
good dinner, everybody, Catholic, Jew, Turk, everybody; and oh! what
good dinner we had." He was always kindly, and I learnt that he was
constant at his duties and at everyone's service; and the Indians had
a great liking and respect for him, although they looked on him as
a being altogether beyond their comprehension. When he laughed and
cracked his jokes and dug them in the ribs they stood round in solemn
and open-mouthed wonder. "Ah!" he turned to me one day from a group who
had come to him on some business, "Indian very good people, and it one
very good ting to be parish priest. Every Indian man he marry, oh very
young!--dat two dollars; den every Indian woman she get baby, want him
baptize--dat one dollar. Oh it very good ting to be parish priest! Den
I make Coffee Finca; Indian very good, he all come and help. Den I keep
plenty cattle: when cow break into Indian plantation, Indian he make
much cry out, he beat cow very hard, he say you pay money for milpa;
but when Padre's cow eat milpa, Indian he say, dis Padre's cow, he lead
him out very quiet. Oh it one very good ting to be parish priest!" And
then he roared with laughter at his own worldly wisdom.
I asked the Padre about his past career, and learnt that he had left
Holland as a young man to take a position as teacher in a college--I
think in San Salvador. Soon after his arrival a revolution broke out,
and during the anarchy which followed there was no money forthcoming
to pay teachers, the college ceased to exist, and he found himself
penniless and destitute. Then someone suggested his taking orders,
which was done without loss of time and apparently without much
difficulty; since then he had found it "One very good ting to be parish
priest." He owned that he had not written home for years; and I fear my
efforts to persuade him to write and regain touch with his friends were
of no avail, for when I asked after him two years later, it was only to
learn that he was dead and that the Consul who had his affairs in hand
could find no trace of his family in Europe.
The Convento was a thick-walled, large-roomed building, in rather a
tumble-down condition, and contained little in the way of furniture.
Two or three women servants lived in an outbuilding at the back, and
cooked the Padre's food for him, brought in the water, and occasionally
swept out the big room, which was all the service he needed. Having
heard something of the ways of native padres, I ventured to ask one of
my men if my host had any "compañera" attached to him: he said, "No,
not one"; and added, with delightful simplicity, "And, you see, that is
so strange, as a padre often has three or four"!
Cornelio and the Padre, as the only "gente de razon" in the place,
generally spent their evenings together. I asked the Padre if they
had any books to read, and he said that he had none, but added, with
some pride, that Cornelio possessed a 'History of the World,' in two
volumes, and that they had often read that. My offer to see if I could
spare him any books did not seem to arouse much interest; apparently
he had never read a novel, and hardly seemed to know what it meant.
However, I looked through my boxes and found a copy of 'El Niño de la
bola' and 'Pepita Jimenes,' and these I handed to him; he thanked me
listlessly and put them aside. That evening I said good night to my
host early, as I had some writing to do, and later on spent an hour or
two shooting stars with a sextant and working out our position. It was
past one o'clock when I was ready to turn in, and to my surprise I saw
a light under the Padre's door and heard the sound of a voice. I called
out, and hearing no reply, pushed at the big wooden door, which swung
open. The feeble rays of light from one small oil-lamp were lost in
the gloom of the far corners of the great bare room; but I could just
make out Cornelio seated on the bench against the wall with his elbows
pushed over the heavy well-worn table, his head resting on his hands,
in rapt attention, whilst the Padre--a candle in one hand and a book in
the other--was pacing up and down in front of the table, reading aloud
from the pages of 'Pepita Jimenes.' "Hush!" he cried, holding up the
book at me and not stopping in his walk, "he is just going to do it";
and I sat quietly on the bench whilst he read page after page of that
delightfully told story. Then I crept quietly off to bed--my departure
unobserved by them, so absorbed were they both in the story,--and fell
asleep to the distant murmur of the Padre's voice. He had taken up the
book casually late in the evening and, once started, read it out loud
from beginning to end.
[Illustration: CAJABON.]
By the 18th of February the work of plotting the traverse from Lanquin
to Cajabon was finished, and, after almost endless bother, the
cargadores for the forest journey had been engaged and their loads
arranged; so, bidding farewell to the Padre and Cornelio, with many
handshakes and mutual expressions of goodwill, we set out on our way.
My party consisted of Gorgonio, Carlos, José Domingo Lopez, and about
twenty Indian cargadores. We had arranged to take with us one horse and
three mules, although many years had passed since anyone had attempted
to take animals over the track we proposed to follow, but we knew how
necessary they would be to us when the dense forest was passed and we
should emerge on the savannah lands of Peten. Until we were clear of
the forest neither corn nor pasture would be met with, and unluckily
neither the horse nor the mules were accustomed to feed on the leaves
of the Ramon tree, which is the food usually given to animals employed
in forest journeys. Ramon is not a fodder which either horses or mules
take to readily, and it is in some cases only after days of starvation
that they will eat it at all; but having once fed on Ramon they seem
to like it as well as any other food, and it keeps them in excellent
condition. These trees are seldom very numerous, and when there is much
traffic along a forest-path they are so systematically stripped of
their branches by the muleteers that it is often difficult to find an
untouched tree within a mile of the track.
The first few days of our journey are pleasanter to think over than
they were to go through. Twenty unwilling overladen Indian carriers in
a damp and mosquito-haunted forest would try the temper of an angel.
They dawdled along and made every sort of excuse to stop and readjust
their packs, and we had to keep a sharp look-out to see that none of
them wandered off to their milpas and gave us the slip altogether.
The loads I had given them to carry were not too heavy, and included
food enough to last a fortnight; moreover, arrangements had been
made for further supplies to overtake us on the road. However, the
men had not been satisfied, and each one had thought it necessary to
bring with him an extra thirty or forty pounds' weight of food on his
own account. As a rule, it is no doubt the better plan to let Indians
cater for themselves, but then there is always the danger that at the
end of a few days they will tell you that all their food is finished,
and propose a halt whilst they send to their homes or hunt round for
supplies; and as time is of no importance to them, the delays may be
endless. On the other hand, if you undertake to cater for them they
never quite believe that you mean to go on doing so, and look on your
supply of food as something to be feasted on at once, and the capacity
of an Indian's stomach for holding totoposte (parched corn cake) is a
marvel to any white man.
Some years ago, when starting on a ten days' journey through the forest
from Coban to the Lake of Peten, I took a large quantity of totoposte
with me, not to be eaten on the way, as each man carried his own food
for the journey, but to enable me, when I reached the lake, to push on
at once to the ruins of Tikál. The loads were most carefully arranged,
and I set out feeling confident that no one was overburdened; but never
in all my experience was there more growling and groaning. I began to
think that in some unaccountable way we must have made a mistake in the
weights, and I felt obliged to pick up some more carriers on the way to
ease my men of part of their burdens; nevertheless the groaning and the
grumbling did not cease. After a long and wearisome march we arrived at
the village of Sacluc, and set about re-arranging our cargoes for the
journey to Tikál. Then only did I find out that the totoposte had been
secretly taken out of the packs and eaten during our march, and that
the bulky burdens under which the mozos had been groaning were half
made up of sticks and dead leaves. So skilfully had the change been
made that even Gorgonio had been deceived, and there was no avoiding
a delay of three or four days whilst a fresh and far more expensive
supply of totoposte was being baked.
I was not going to be taken in by the same trick on this journey, and
made sure that the reserve stores of totoposte should not be tampered
with; but there was no doubt that the mozos had really overburdened
themselves with the extra food they had chosen to bring with them, and
the result was that at first we only crawled along, and the best part
of each day was spent in resting and eating. One mozo in particular,
named Domingo, absolutely appalled me with his prodigious appetite.
I had brought him with me from Coban, because he stated that he knew
of some stone idols in a cave close by the track we were to follow.
His account of the discovery was that, some years previously, whilst
travelling through the forest from San Luis to Cajabon, he had shot at
and wounded one of a herd of wild pigs which had run across the track
in front of him, and that after following the wounded animal through
the bush for half an hour or more he had lost all trace of it, but
found himself in front of a cave in which there stood some great idols
carved out of stone. He told the story in a way that impressed one with
his truthfulness, and I could not help believing that what he called
a cave was the ruin of a temple, and that it would be worth while to
have a good hunt for it. Domingo was more intelligent than the other
mozos, and he spoke Spanish fluently. He had brought a younger brother
with him, apparently to help minister to his voracious appetite, for on
our way from Coban this brother was always disappearing down by-roads,
only to return again an hour later laden with food. As we were then
travelling very slowly and in an open country, I let them do as they
liked, but now that we were on a narrow track in the forest, and it was
necessary to keep the men together, Domingo and his brother gave me
great trouble with their frequent halts and everlasting meals, and they
helped to demoralize the other mozos.
We had risen to a height of over two thousand feet in crossing the
hills to the north of Cajabon, and on the third day we began to
descend again, and crossed the headwaters of the Rio Sarstoon--here a
stream which one could almost jump across. It probably flows for about
thirty miles towards the north-east, and, making a short bend to the
south, reaches the Falls of Gracias á Dios, whence it flows for about
twenty-five miles in an easterly direction to the sea, and forms the
boundary between Guatemala and the colony of British Honduras. We
followed down the course of the stream for some hours, crossing and
recrossing it several times, and then turned again over the limestone
hills, whose rough surface I can only compare to that of a gigantic
fossil bath-sponge with innumerable pits, sharp edges, and projecting
points. We had frequently to use the backs of our axes to break away
the points and edges of the rock before it was possible for our animals
to pass, and many hours were spent in cutting away the great loops
of roots and lianes which formed a dangerous entanglement across the
narrow track; even the sure-footed Indians had much difficulty in
picking their way, and how the horse and mules escaped accident during
the first part of our journey has always been a mystery to me.
About midday on the 21st, after a slight rise and fall, the track
became clearer, and we passed an abandoned raft now high and dry,
which had been used a week earlier, when the flood was higher, by two
Indians whom I had met and talked with at Cajabon. We were now in the
valley of the Chimuchuch, another branch of the Rio Sarstoon, and for
two hours we waded through flood-water from ankle-to knee-deep. At
last the water became so deep that I had to strip off my clothes and
carry them on my head. The mozos managed their cargoes most skilfully,
shifting them up as high as they could go on their backs, and in this
way we crossed a deep backwater, walking along a sort of underwater
bridge which the Indians whom I had sent on the day before had prepared
for us. A few yards beyond this we had to cross the river Chimuchuch
itself, which was still a deep stream, although in the middle of the
dry season I am told it is a mere muddy-banked brook. The Indians, with
great judgment and skill, had felled two trees from opposite sides of
the stream, whose branches interlaced, and along this rough bridge the
cargadores carried their loads in safety, whilst Gorgonio, Carlos, and
I swam the animals across where the stream was clearer of trees and
branches. We were already pretty well wet through with the wading and
splashing, and we fared no better when we were across the stream and
on rising ground, for the rain came down in torrents and completed our
discomfort. We were intending to sleep in a small ermita not far from
the river bank, but here we were met by an Indian who told us he had a
rancho on a hill about a mile distant, where he begged us to come and
pass the night. The rancho was small and dirty, with no partitions in
it, and its human occupants were two women (one of them the wife of the
Indian who had welcomed us) and a dying baby. It was in the hope that I
could do something to recover his child that the poor Indian had been
so insistent on our passing the night beneath his roof; but the little
I could do was of no avail, as the poor little mite was in the last
state of distress and racked by a croupy cough.
The rain and the darkness had come on together, and my long train of
mozos crowded in under the scanty covering of the roof and disputed
with the pigs and chickens for shelter from the storm. It was all I
could do by appeals and threats to keep the men tolerably quiet and
prevent them hustling the poor woman who hung over the rough hide
bedstead which held her dying child; almost every hour she broke
out into fearful shrieks and wails as she thought it had drawn its
last breath. At one time some of the mozos, who seemed absolutely
indifferent to the woman's trouble, began to make the night more
hideous by playing on the wretched toy instruments which they had
brought with them from Cajabon; but I got up and raged at them until
they really seemed scared, and then one by one they rolled themselves
in their blankets and dropped off to sleep. Before dawn the poor child
died, and the wretched mother sobbed and groaned until morning.
The rain was still too heavy for us to make a start, and, strange to
say, our Indian hosts did not show any anxiety to get rid of us, but
seemed rather pleased to have someone to talk to in their trouble.
Their satisfaction was greatly increased when they found out that I
had a saw with me; some rough planks were soon produced, and Gorgonio
and I spent the morning making the child's coffin. In the afternoon the
rain ceased, and the body was carried off to be buried in the small
ermita in the forest. I did not go with the burial party, but could
hear in the distance the report of my gun, which had been borrowed to
fire a last salute over the grave. The Indian told me that he and his
wife belonged to Cajabon, and returned there for a week once or twice
a year, but that they spent all the rest of the year in this rancho,
where they kept their live stock and planted their milpa. However, they
had found the situation to be very unhealthy, and this was the third
child they had lost within a year of its birth.
We were obliged to spend another night in the overcrowded rancho;
then, as the weather had cleared, on the 24th we went on our way, and
this day crossed a small stream flowing to the westward towards the
Usumacinta. This great river, which, after a course of nearly five
hundred miles, eventually pours its waters into the Gulf of Mexico,
rises within the frontier of British Honduras as the Rio Santa Isabel
or Sepusilhá and flows for some distance in a south-westerly direction.
After crossing the boundary-line of the colony it receives the water
of numerous streamlets and becomes known as the Rio Cancuén, and at
the end of its sweep to the south it is joined by the Rio Chajmaic, a
stream which rises in the mountains to the north of Lanquin. After its
junction with the Chajmaic the river is named the Rio de la Pasion; it
then takes a northerly direction and is joined in its course by two
considerable affluents from the east, the Machaquilá, which rises on
the British frontier, and the San Juan. On reaching the latitude of
16° 40Ž N. the Rio de la Pasion makes a sharp bend to the westward,
and about thirty-five miles down stream is joined by the Rio Chixoy,
a large river which drains the northern side of the great backbone of
Guatemala mountains, and is the same stream which under the name of the
Rio Negro we crossed near Uspantan in the year 1894. Below the junction
of the Pasion and Chixoy the river flows in a north-westerly direction
and is known as the Rio Usumacinta, and after a course of about twenty
miles is joined from the south by the Rio Lacandon, which drains a
considerable portion of the State of Chiapas.
Throughout the whole of its length the Rio de la Pasion must be a
very sluggish stream. In its westerly course before its junction
with the Chixoy there are reaches of the river where during the dry
season hardly any current is perceptible, and after heavy rains the
flood-waters extend for so many miles through the forest that one is
almost led to think that this region from the mouth of the Chajmaic
northward may at one time have formed the bed of a great lake. Where we
crossed the Cancuén, at a distance of not more than forty-five miles
from the Gulf of Honduras, and with four hundred miles of its course
still to run, the height of the stream above sea-level did not exceed
600 feet, and it is said to fall considerably before the mouth of the
Chajmaic is reached.
After its junction with the Chixoy the current of the river slightly
increases and it becomes still swifter when joined by the Rio Lacandon.
A few miles below the junction with the latter a low range of hills
almost bars its course, and for a short distance the water with its
surface slowly twisted in great oily-looking swirls, swings through a
narrow pass between cliffs not more than forty feet apart. During the
heavy autumn rains the flood-water rises rapidly above this narrow
passage and tears through it with tremendous force. When I descended
the river in a canoe from the Paso Real to the ruins of Menché Tinamit
in 1884 I saw huge mahogany logs lying stranded thirty or forty feet
up the banks, and my companion Mr. Schulte (who was in the employ of a
large mahogany-cutting firm) told me that during one great flood he had
tied up his canoe to the posts of a deserted rancho, which, at the time
we passed the night in it, stood a good fifty feet above the surface
of the water. Below the barrier of hills the river broadens out again.
In 1883 Mr. Rockstroh followed down its course for a few miles below
Menché; beyond this it is still unmapped, but for some distance it is
known to pass through a deep gorge choked with boulders, where it is
broken into rapids in which no canoe could live. The gorge ends in two
falls a few miles above Tenosique, whence the river is navigable by
small steamers to the sea.
But I must go on with my journey. For two days we travelled on over
low ground drained by small muddy-banked streamlets, affluents of the
Cancuén. The only incident worth recording is that on passing a small
recess in the limestone rock, measuring not more than three feet in
height and depth and in no way remarkable, each one of the mozos took
off his hat as he approached it, crossed himself, and deposited a
small dab of copal on the rock. It was, they told me, the "Mouth of
the Hill." As one may learn from old records of the journeys of the
Dominican monks through this part of the country, the Indians have a
curious reverence for localities, and Gorgonio tells me that in some
places they will not kill snakes because they belong to "the hill," and
"the hill" might do them harm in return.
On the morning of the 27th I sent some of the mozos on ahead to clear
the track towards San Luis, and as we were now at a place called
Chichajác, near to the spot where seven years earlier Domingo had seen
the three Idols in a cave, we determined to camp there, and have a
thorough good search for them. Gorgonio and I set out along the track
under Domingo's guidance, until he came to a spot which he seemed to
recognize as the place where the wild pigs had crossed his path, and
we turned off through the forest in the direction which he supposed
the wounded pig had taken. I took a compass-bearing and then we spent
hour after hour cutting our way with our machetes, making casts across
and across this line without any success, for we saw no trace either
of buildings or caves. After the first two hours of fruitless search
Domingo came to a halt and proposed that we should make an offering,
so we all three squatted down facing one another and solemnly burnt
small pieces of copal so that the scented smoke might rise into the air
and propitiate the spirits of the hills. This offering was made almost
every hour during the rest of our search and seemed to inspire Domingo
with renewed confidence, but he told us that there were times when the
hills were "muy mañosos" (very cunning), and would give up nothing
one desired to find. Once Gorgonio asked him why he did not pray, but
he answered at once that there was no use whatever in saying prayers
when one was in the forest. Possibly he thought prayer to belong to
the Christian side of his faith, for use only in church and in the
neighbourhood of the priest, and that propitiatory offerings alone
were of avail with the ancient hill spirit. Certainly in this case
the Spirit of the hills was more than usually ill-disposed; perhaps
it resented the presence of a doubting stranger, for neither that day
nor the next did it vouchsafe to show us those images of the ancient
gods of which we were in search. On our way back to camp, quite close
to the track, we came upon some "cimientos," rough stone foundations
of ancient Indian dwellings, and Domingo at once said that the cave
had stones round it just like that, so that we felt more than ever
convinced that he had chanced on the ruins of an ancient temple.
It rained nearly all night and we felt the cold much more severely
than I could have imagined, for the thermometer did not go below 60°.
Next day I took Carlos and some of the other mozos with me to clear
and examine the "cimientos" we had found the evening before, whilst
Gorgonio and Domingo and all the rest were employed on a further search
for idols. The search was again fruitless, and, from something in his
manner, I began to think that Domingo was haunted by some superstition
and was unwilling to take us to the idols even if he knew where they
stood. The "cimientos" did not prove to be very interesting. Some of
the stones used in the principal foundation-mound were large, but they
were poorly worked and had been merely flaked off from the quarry. The
front of the mound was formed into three broad steps or terraces, but
I could find no trace of walls or building on the flat top. A trench
dug through the mound showed it to be made of rough pieces broken off
the neighbouring limestone rock, and of small stones mixed with a few
shreds of coarse pottery.
Towards evening I ascended a steep limestone hill about 400 feet
high, rising a quarter of a mile to the west of the camp. Gorgonio
had caught sight of it the day before and mozos had been sent up to
clear the top. We had a splendid view from S.W. to N.W. across the
great forest-covered plain of the Rio de la Pasion and its branches,
and could distinctly see on the far horizon some clear-cut hills which
we took to be the Nueve Cerros (bearing 119°-122°) on the Rio Chixoy.
To the N.W. were the distant hillocks of Peten, and right across the
N.N.E. a long range of abrupt hills, but all very far distant. We
could not have chanced on a better point from which to get a view over
the country, for we were standing on the last of the range of hills
which projected into the plain from the direction in which we had been
travelling.
Isolated black storm-clouds heavily charged with rain were passing over
the country to the north of us, and just as I was putting away the
prismatic compass, a heavy shower struck us and in a moment we were all
drenched; we hastened to make the best of our way back to camp, the
thinly clad mozos shivering with cold. Here bad news awaited us; the
mozos who had been out with Carlos clearing the track were returning
from work in single file, when one who had a load on his back put his
foot out of the track into the low herbage at the side and trod upon
a "tamagás," which bit him in the foot. Luckily the snake was a small
one, but the two little round blue-edged marks left by his poison-fangs
were not to be mistaken, and the mozo's foot and leg were already
greatly swollen.
In the matter of a snake-bite, Indians are best left to their own
devices; they almost always carry a supposed antidote with them or know
where to look in the forest for some medicinal herb in the efficacy
of which they have the firmest belief. In this case the remedy was a
smooth seed like the kernel of a brazil-nut, called Cedron, which is
excessively bitter and astringent and which comes, I believe, from
Mexico. An infusion was made from the scrapings of this seed and given
to the patient to drink, whilst the skin of the foot around the bite
was scarified with a knife and a strong infusion of the seed was rubbed
into it. It is not always on drugs alone that the inhabitants of the
country rely for protection against death by snake-bite; during one of
my earlier journeys, whilst travelling through the forest on the way
to Peten, a Ladino came into camp who had been following on our tracks
for two days. After he had rested and had some supper I told Gorgonio
to find out what he wanted. He was rather mysterious in his replies;
but at last it came out that he had heard that I was the fortunate
possessor of a unicorn's horn, and he wished me to sell him a piece of
it. I was utterly mystified, for at that time I knew nothing of the
virtue of unicorn's horn, and my statement that I could not possess
any, as no such thing existed, was not too well received, and evidently
looked upon as a dodge to raise the price. Later in the evening I
talked the matter over with my men, and learnt that unicorn's horn
was firmly believed in as a charm or protection against snake-bite.
Next morning my visitor returned to the subject. He told me that he
had long been looking out for a piece of horn, that he knew that I had
some, and that he would pay me a good price for it. He added that only
a few months before he had nearly succeeded in buying a piece from an
old negro woman in Belize, but that at the very last she refused to
part with it, as she had made up her mind to keep it for her son who
was then at sea, but who would have need of it when he returned and
went wood-cutting in the forest. Clearly nothing that I said to the
man affected his belief in the charm, and he left me to ride home in a
very ill-humour at his bad luck. This superstition cannot be of Indian
origin, but must have come through European sailors, who thought there
was virtue in a narwhal's tooth. The snake-bitten mozo suffered greatly
during the night, but by the next morning the swelling was somewhat
reduced and the pain seemed to be lessened; however, all chance of our
making a start for San Luis was out of the question, as the man could
not put his foot to the ground.
All this time our mules had been without any proper food, as unluckily
no Ramon trees could be found. The poor beasts had nibbled at all
the green things around them, but there was nothing to satisfy their
hunger. After making many experiments we found that the leaves of
a certain palm were most to their liking, and with these they were
liberally supplied. It had been raining during the night and the day
was dull and cold, so I stayed in camp to write up my notes and compute
some sextant observations, and sent off two parties of men to hunt
through the forest for ruins. About five o'clock the men began to
return and reported that they had met with no game and seen no ruins;
before dark they were all in except Gorgonio, his brother José Domingo,
and four mozos who had parted company with the others early in the
afternoon. As the sun was setting I sent a mozo to fire shots from the
limestone hill to the west of the camp in the hope of guiding their
steps, and continued to fire occasional shots from the camp until an
hour or two after dark, but no answer came to the signals. However, I
knew that the men had matches and some biscuits with them, and that if
they were lost for the night they were bound to strike the track when
the sun rose to guide them. Before noon the next day they all turned up
and owned that they had lost themselves, in spite of the compass which
Gorgonio carried, and had wandered away further than they intended.
They passed a cold and comfortless night in a cave, making their
supper off a monkey which they had shot by the way. We had doubtless
been feeling the effects of a late "norther" in the Gulf of Mexico, for
during all our stay at Chichajác the weather was dull and chilly. In
the evening two Indian hunters on their way to Cajabon came into camp;
this was my opportunity, and I asked them if they would accept payment
to see the injured mozo back to his home, for by this time he had so
far recovered as to be able to put his foot to the ground. We soon came
to terms; I then called the men together round the camp fire and asked
the mozo if he felt well enough to return home, and as he answered
"yes," I then told him what arrangements had been made for him. "Now,"
I added, "we must settle about your wages; you have received payment in
advance for two months and have only done ten days' work for it, the
money must of course be returned to me." The man made no objection, and
one of his companions brought the little pile of dollars and placed
them in front of me. Then, in my best manner, I made an oration, which
Gorgonio translated into Quekchi. They might have already found out,
I said, that Englishmen were not man-eaters, and that the particular
Englishman whom they were serving was anxious to take every care of
them, and pay well for their labour, and I held up my many other
shining virtues to the light of that camp fire. This man, I said, has
met with an accident whilst in my service, therefore in no way that I
can help shall he suffer for it. Let him come forward and take up the
money again--he is thus paid for two months in which to recover his
health; and to this pile of dollars will I now add another pile, so
that during the time of his feebleness he may pay some neighbour to
work in his milpa. The man gathered up the extra dollars without a word
and there was absolute silence in the circle. As this was not broken
for some moments, I asked Gorgonio if anyone had anything to say. This
was translated to them, and at last someone grumbled out, "If Pedro was
fool enough to put his foot on a snake, of course we know that was not
the doing of the Patron." That was all the thanks I got, and perhaps
it was all I deserved, for in truth I was only posing, and had a very
shrewd idea that the man would be all right again in a week's time;
but I had a grumbling, discontented set of mozos with me and could not
afford to miss a chance of showing them that I was ready to treat them
liberally when an opportunity offered. However, time and fair treatment
were already doing their work, and we were on much better terms than
when we started and they had alluded to my probable liking for human
flesh.
My chief difficulty now was with one of the mozos who had declared
himself to be a "brujo," or wizard; he told the others that he could
do anything he pleased with me, and he was of course the leader in all
the grumblings and insubordination. However, I knew that I was getting
on well when I found that I could raise a laugh at the "brujo's"
expense, and I never missed an opportunity of chaffing him about his
mysterious powers, and offered to drink any potion he might prepare for
me, provided he drank half of it himself.
On the 3rd of March we left the injured man in charge of the hunters,
and were all delighted to get out of our damp and gloomy camp and
to make a start again. After five days of slow travelling through
the forest, crossing the numerous streamlets which go to make up the
Santa Isabel or Cancuén branch of the Rio de la Pasion and the muddy
intervals between them, we arrived at the deserted village of San Luis,
where the horse and mules were at last able to find food more to their
liking, as the clearing round the houses afforded some scanty pasture.
Nearly all the houses in the village were empty and fast falling into
decay. About two years before my visit the inhabitants of San Luis,
worried and wearied by the constant interference of the Government
in their concerns, and especially resenting the extra tax which was
levied in support of President Rufino Barrios's pet scheme of a railway
from the capital to the Atlantic coast, determined to abandon their
homes and seek shelter in British territory. In all about one hundred
families fled across the border and founded the village of San Antonio
between the frontier and Punta Gorda. The Colonial Government did not
interfere with them and they lived on in taxless peace; but even so
their happiness was not complete, for had they not left the sacred
images of the saints behind them, and had not their own chosen Alcalde,
fearing the long arm of the President, refused to accompany them? The
loss was intolerable and a council was called to discuss the matter,
when it was settled to make an attempt to recover their saints and
their Alcalde whatever the risks might be. A number of the younger men
then recrossed the frontier, seized the church bells and the images of
the saints, and called to their Alcalde to follow them; but he, wise
man, knew the value of forms, and refused to leave unless they would
first bind him with cords. This was soon done, and then conscience
being satisfied he cheerfully marched off to join his family on the
other side of the frontier.
The fate of the bells of San Luis was very nearly becoming an
international question, but, fortunately for the peace of the world,
after a few despatches had passed between the Governments interested,
the matter was allowed to drop.