On the Mexican Highlands, with a Passing Glimpse of Cuba

Recrossing, we traveled for an hour through rich and uncultivated bottom lands along the river’s course, until we came to the primitive town of Churumuco, a hamlet occupied by Indians only, an Indian priest gazing out of the dilapidated church as we rode by. Here we found a fonda (inn) with ample corral. A half-caste Spanish-Indian woman, “Señora Doña Faustina,” cooked us a supper of potatoes, rice, tortillas, and chilis (peppers) stewed in cheese, substantials which were washed down with clear hot coffee. Here, in the intense heat, the burning peppers were vivifying and we ate them greedily.

We slept on native mats set on frames three feet above the adoby floor in the open patio. Pigs, cats, chickens, dogs and children scrambled beneath.

We were just rolling up in our blankets, when Doña Faustina excitedly addressed my companions, Tio and El Padre, and I gathered from her speech that chinchas, as long as your hand, had a habit of crawling along the rafters and dropping upon the unsuspecting sleeper, while, unless your shoes were hung above the floor, tiernanes (scorpions) were likely to camp in them until dislodged. I hung my slippers above the tiernanes stinging reach and lay awake apprehending the chinchas’ descent, but the fatigue and heat of the day, the soporific influences of chilis and cheese, soon wrapped me in a slumber from which only the braying of our white pack mule at last aroused me, as Izus cinched upon him the burden for another day. The night was warm and close, the first dull, heavy air I have known in Mexico. We were now actually in the Tierra Caliente– where, the saying is, “the inhabitants of Churmuco need never go to hell since they already live there.”

It was not yet three o’clock in the morning and still dark. Ros and poios and coffee were already prepared for us. “Adios, Doña Faustina!” “Adios, Señorita!” “Adios, Señores!” “Adios, adios!” and we trotted out of the corral and, turning northward, moved up a deeply-cut baranca over a more generally traveled trail than that by which we had come. The coldness of night no longer chilled us, the air was almost warm, while no sign of day made mark upon the heavens above us; the black spaces of the night were yet ablaze with great white stars. The constellations to the northward I well knew, but to the south there were many wholly new and, supremest of them all, just clinging along the gigantic mountain summits, shone the splendid constellation of the Southern Cross, my first glimpse of it. We reined in our horses, turned and watched the big lustrous stars descend and disappear behind the impenetrable curtain of the Cordillera’s towering chain.

The Balsas River was now behind us. The baranca we ascended widened out. We were upon the well-beaten track of travel from Guerrero, and even Acapulco, to the north. Ere the sun came blazing up, we were many miles on our way. And well for us it was so, for the day’s heat has been the most terrible I have yet endured. The animals did not sweat, nor did we, the air was too dry for that, but my blood boiled, my bones baked, and my skin parched from the fierce hotness of the sun. Even the cowboys we here and there encountered sat silent in their saddles beneath the mimosa’s and mesquit’s thickest shade.

The land was desolate, with no habitations save here and there a solitary rancho or wayside resting place, where passing travelers might find rough lodgment and perhaps food for themselves and beasts. The only sound was the droning whir of millions of cicadas.

It was nearly midday when we reached the grateful shelter of La Mina Noria, there to tarry and revive until we should fare on in the cooler evening hours.

XIV

Wayside Incidents in the Land of Heat

Mina Noria to Patzcuaro,December 8th-10th.

Later in the day we were ascending the San Pedro valley toward the Hacienda Cuyaco. It was just growing dusk when we heard the music of violins. We came upon an Indian habitation of two buildings connected by a wide, thatched veranda. Here, upon the veranda, several dark-faced youths were playing a slow-timed Spanish fandango, and twenty or more young girls, arranged in rows of fours, were taking steps to the music, swaying their bodies and shaking small gourds, filled with pebbles, for castanets. The enthusiasm of the musicians, the soberness and gravity and grace of the dancers, as they stepped and postured, made a charming picture. They were gowned in white, with flowers in their black hair, and they danced with easy dignity. We halted our horses and watched the grave company, no one paying the slightest heed to our presence, otherwise than to acknowledge our “Buenas Dias” and parting “Adios.”

By the time the night came down upon us, we were far upon the road. Just at the moment of the falling darkness, we met a band of Indians with their burros. They had halted. Each Indian had doffed his sombrero. One Indian kneeling, was crossing himself. They were facing a small rough cross rising from a pile of stones. Each threw one more stone upon the pile, crossed himself, bent his knee, and moved on. It was a spot where death has met some traveler. The cross sanctifies the place. The stones permanently mark it and, year by year, the pile grows bigger from the constant contribution of the one stone added by each passing traveler.

The night found us at a primitive Indian shelter; a thatched roof above an earthern clay stove. In the corral several droves of pack mules had already been unburdened for the night. Beneath the thatch the drivers were wrapped in their zerapes and slept profoundly. We unrolled our cots, set them out beneath the stars and fell asleep, even as we were. By two o’clock we were awakened before the others were astir. We made cups of coffee from the hot water on the stove where the smouldering fire lingered through the night, and were in our saddles before the Southern Cross had sunk from view. We were to make a great day’s ride, pressing on even to Ario, if that were possible, twenty-four leagues away (sixty miles) and five thousand feet above us in the air. Should we be able to do it?

By eight o’clock we reached the Rancho Cuyaco and stopped to obtain delicious cups of chocolate and all the oranges and bananas we could eat. The cup of chocolate prepared by the Mexican is a delightful drink. Each cup is made separately. The chocolate bean is pounded in a mortar and just enough of the vanilla bean, which here grows abundantly, is compounded with it to give it an exquisite flavor. The chocolate is thick and creamy, and if you would have your cup replenished, another ten minutes must elapse before you get it. No beverage is so refreshing to the traveler as a cup of this delicious chocolate.

By nine o’clock we crossed again the river La Playa, passed the Rancho of that name and began the great ascent toward the Tierra Fria. I started in slippers and linen trousers and thin pajama coat. Half way up the five thousand feet, I put on my woolen jersey; by noon we were traversing the forests of pine and oak near Rancho Nuevo and shivering from cold. There, heavy shoes and warm corduroys were donned. We forgot that five hours before we were burning and baking in the torrid heats a mile below.

At Rancho Nuevo we found ourselves preceded by an aristocratic company of ladies and gentlemen from the distant region of La Union, near the Pacific, – three señores and two señoras, with a number of Indian attendants. They rode fine horses, and their saddles and trappings were of the most sumptuous Mexican make. The head of the company was an elderly man with white hair and white beard, an haciendado of importance. He wore narrow-pointed, tan-leather shoes; his legs were encased in high leathern leggings reaching above the knees; his trousers were tight-fitting, laced with silver cords and marked with silver buttons along the sides; a soft white linen shirt was fastened loosely at the throat with a black silk scarf, and a short black velvet vest and a velvet jacket with silver buttons and much silver braid, completed the costume. His high felt sombrero, gray in color, bore upon the right side a big silver monogram. About his waist a leathern belt supported pistols, and great spurs clanked at either heel. The other two caballeros were clad and armed in like fashion. The ladies wore long riding habits which they held up with both hands when they walked about. There were some fine rings on the fingers of the elder woman, the younger one wearing large hoop-rings in her ears, while a diamond flashed upon her left hand. Their saddles were like chairs, upon which they sat sidewise, resting both feet upon a wooden rail. I did not make out whether they themselves guided their animals with the reins, or whether these were led by the long halter lines with which the bridles were fitted out. When we arrived, the kitchen was astir preparing dinner for these guests. Meantime, the ladies stretched themselves out upon the wooden benches for their noon siesta and the men stood about in groups watching us with suspicious mien. The truth is, the Mexicans of the better class look upon Americans with great doubt. So many Americans have left their native country, for their country’s good; so many American scoundrels have preyed upon the hospitality of Mexican hosts, that the Mexican of to-day has learned to require letters of introduction before he shows the stranger American the courtesy, which it is racially instinctive for him to bestow.

The company first arrived, ate, repacked, mounted and fared on some time ahead of us, although we hastened our own departure, cutting short the midday interval of rest, in order that we might reach Ario ere night should fall.

During the last few days I have ridden my mule without the incumbrance of the frightful bit and bridle, with which he was at start equipped, guiding him with halter alone, and I have found him all the better pace maker. He is black in color, above the average in size, and of that superior strain for which Spain and Mexico have long been famous, the high-bred riding mule. He has proved worthy of his trust, for during this entire journey he has never once stumbled nor made one false step, however rough the way or precipitous the declivity along which we have passed. To-day, near the journey’s end, he is the superior beast of the whole company, although at the start I was doubtful of my mount. This afternoon I have lent him to Tio, whose heavy bulk has galled the back of his mare. I have exchanged my lighter weight to this unhappy animal, whose sores will never be allowed to heal, and which will be ridden by successive travelers until wearied and harried to its death.

It was barely day-end when the white walls of Ario looked down upon us from the slopes above, and we were welcomed by our host of the Hotel Morelos with the warmth of an old friend. He was particularly cordial toward Tio, and I now witnessed, in all its perfection, the embrace of old acquaintance, which is the particular mark of regard among the Mexicans. Our host and Tio grasped their right hands and shook them cordially, then with hands still clasped each drew toward the other, looked over the other’s left shoulder and clapped him several percussive slaps upon the back. This process was repeated at intervals several times until finally the two fell apart with many bows of profound esteem. I sat one morning on the Plaza Grande, before the great cathedral in Mexico City, and watched two casual acquaintance thus greet each other; first, they shook hands, then they embraced, then they shook hands again, and every few minutes repeated the handshake and embrace during the lengthy conversation, each thereby seeming to assure the other that he was really the friend he made himself out to be.

We had indeed arrived at Ario. We had made a great ride since early dawn, had been more than ten hours in the saddle, traveling some sixty miles and ascending five thousand and four hundred feet! El Padre and myself first entered the narrow streets, a little later came our mozo, Izus, driving before him our pack animals, and half an hour behind him came Tio and my mule. He declared the animal to be almost dead and we feared it might be so, but the next morning, when we made ready to start out again, we found his mule-ship, as also the horses, in perfect fettle, as though no long sweltering journey and monstrous climb had been the toil of the yesterday.

The air of the highlands was fresh and keen. Its tonic was so invigorating that we forgot fatigue, and made the journey to Santa Clara and Patzcuaro as easily as when we first set out.

On these highlands thousands of sheep are raised, and I was interested to note that of the considerable flocks we saw grazing upon the wide pasture lands along our road, the majority were black. This is said to be the result of Mexican neglect. The white sheep is the work of art. Flocks are kept white by weeding out the black, but just as hogs when let run wild will revert to the stronger color, so, too, the flocks of Mexico, inasmuch as they have been wholly neglected from the day when Spanish mastership was destroyed, have reverted to the hardier hue, until to-day the larger percentage are black. To destroy these black sheep now would bring too great a loss.

In a land like this, where the horse and the mule and the burro, as well as man, are the chief means of transport, one is continually surprised at the heavy burdens borne, and the skill and care with which the loads are carried. A piano is taken apart, packed upon a train of mules and taken to a distant village or hacienda. Elegant and fragile furniture, made in France or other continental countries, is thus conveyed. In every community there are expert cabinetmakers, who can repair and put together the most expensive furniture, and who do the work so deftly that it is even stronger than when originally made.

There is no burden that a single Indian, or a couple of Indians, or a dozen Indians, will not bear upon their shoulders to any point or any distance you may name. These loads and burdens are carried with a care and safety that might be a lesson to the baggage-smashers and freight-breakers of our modern railways.

When we drew near Patzcuaro, we overtook multitudes of Indians, men, women and children, all journeying in the same direction as ourselves. Upon inquiry, we learned that they were traveling to Patzcuaro there to take part in the fiesta celebration held in honor of Our Lady of Guadaloupe, the patron-saint of Mexico, the Indian Madonna, whom the swarthy citizens of the republic adore. The nearer we approached the city, the greater the press of peones filling the roadways which lead to it. In the town the streets were thronged with these strange, wild people – Tarascon Indians most of them – many having saved up through all the year for this occasion, and now come here to blow in their scanty hoards in one single week. A thousand games of chance were in full blast. All sorts of schemes were being cried, every one of them calculated to rob the pious Indian of his uttermost centavo. Along the curbs hundreds of little charcoal fires were lit, where food was roasting over braziers. Men were walking through the streets with pigskin sacks of pulque on their backs and a gourd cup in hand, crying “only a centavo for a drink!” Dulce boys were carrying upon their heads large baskets of guava sweetmeats and candied fruits. Bakers went by with rings of bread about their necks and small rings of bread braceleted upon their arms. In the churches a continuous service is kept going all through the day and night, and the pious gambler of the plaza has full opportunity to rob the peon and enrich the church. Along the wayside, groups of Indians are squatting, exchanging gossip; hundreds of men are leaning against the walls, wherever the shade gives refuge from the sun, silent and wrapped in bright-hued zerapes, seeing all, but saying never a word. At the Fonda Diligencia, next the big church, a company of gentlemen of fortune from Mexico City, clad in dress suits and stovepipe hats, have opened handsome games of Caballos and Rouge et Noir, and about these are gathered the Dons and Doñas of the town. I see a priest step to the table, put down his money and make a win; a venturesome Indian, who has eyed the padre questioningly, now reassured, also steps up, puts down a few centavos and loses all!

We rest again at the Hotel Concordia. We find our room where our baggage has been safely stored. We take off our corduroys and put on fresh linen and appear again dressed just as we might be when at home. Izus is sorry to say good-bye. We add one half to his pay for his efficient service, and I present him with my large bowie knife to his delight. I offer him a double price for the fine fighting cock he has brought from Noria, but this he will not give up. He has a neighbor whose chicken killed his own some months ago. He has now found a bird which will give him sweet revenge and as to selling it, money has no value in his eyes!

XV

Morelia – The Capital of the State of Michoacan – Her Streets – Her Parks – Her Churches – Her Music

Morelia, State of Michoacan, Mexico,December 12th.

The Congress of the great State of Michoacan, as big a state as ten West Virginias, with a population of six hundred and fifty thousand, is in session at the State capital, Morelia. It meets three times a week in the Palace. A learned member of the bar and a member of Congress, escorted me to the dignified body, and formally introduced me as “Señor Licénciado Eduardos, del Estado de ‘Quest Verhinia,’ de los Estados Unidos del Norte.” All the members arose to receive me. There is only one chamber. Its fourteen members make all the laws for Michoacan, always subject to the approval of President Diaz in Mexico City. Diaz decides who shall be the fourteen members. He instructs the Governor of the State to have elected the fourteen men whom he names, and those fourteen are always chosen, and no others. President Diaz also says who shall be elected Governors of the different States, and they are always elected.

After this Congress had saluted me and I had bowed in response, we all sat down in the handsome room. The fourteen were mostly small dark men with good heads. The President of the Congress was an old man with white hair, a wrinkled face and long white mustachios. He did most of the talking on all measures. He kept his seat while he talked. The first business before the Congress was “Reports of Committees.” Each member was a whole committee. Each committee made a report, and stood up, facing the President to make it. The chief matter under consideration was a railroad concession to Americans, involving a land grant of thousands of acres. The Congress will grant it because President Diaz says the railroad should have it. After an hour or more of talking, the Congress adjourned. The members came up and were introduced. I shook hands several times with each member and still more often with the President.

Adjoining the hall of Congress were several large rooms, the walls hung with portraits of the great men of Michoacan, who helped to make Mexico free, and who helped to destroy Maximilian. This fine city of thirty-five thousand people was formerly called Valladolid. But when the Spaniards shot the patriot, Morelos, ignominiously in the back, the people changed its name to Morelia, – for Morelos was their fellow-townsman, – and they clanged the church bells and made bonfires and illuminated their houses when the last Spanish Viceroy was driven from the land.

The señor by whom I had the honor of being introduced to the Congress, I afterward had the pleasure of meeting more intimately in his law office, Señor Don Licénciado Vicente Garcia, Senator, Judge, Counselor of State, and Lawyer profoundly versed in the curious learning of Spanish-Mexican law. He is a gentleman of the Old School, a cultivated Mexican of that small class among whom have been continuously preserved scholarship and learning, since the earliest advent of the few Doctors of the Law, who accompanied the first Viceroys to New Spain. Men ripe in mediæval scholarship, apart from the teachings and doctrines of the Canon Law, they have always formed a distinct class in Mexico, even as in Old Spain, and have jealously cherished that seed of intellectual independence from which has successfully developed the opposition of the State to the incessant and covert encroachment of the Roman Church.

In Señor Garcia’s library of well stored shelves I noted many curious and ancient vellum-leaved tomes, containing some of the earliest printed codes of Mexican law, as well as treatises in French upon the Napoleonic Code, and there were some few decisions, in French, of the Courts of Louisiana. There was also a Blackstone in English and a few newly bound law treatises in that tongue, – volumes belonging to his son, he said, who was taking a special course in English in the University of the State.

Don Licénciado Garcia is a short-set man with whitening hair and gray moustache and intellectual face. You at once know him to be the student and the scholar, although with dark glasses screening his eyes, he pathetically informed us that he was fast growing blind. Indeed, he can no longer see to write or read, but employs a reader and trusts to his son for all correspondence, thus conducting his large practice with eyes and hands other than his own. We found him a busy man, for in Mexico the courts are perpetually in session, and a case once on the docket is liable to be called at any time.

There are many such men in the Mexican Republic as Señor Garcia, and to them must really be credited much of the conservative disposition of the government. They are the conservators of scholarly liberalism, and form a community of intelligence and learning upon whom President Diaz can always rely to give assistance and direction in sustaining and preserving the stability of the Republic.

Morelia is a city older than any city of the United States. Its streets were paved before Boston was out of the swamps, and before Richmond was thought of. All Mexican cities are paved, every street, every alley. A great aqueduct, built on immense arches, brings an abundant supply of sweet, fresh water. There are many beautiful parks in these Mexican cities, all kept in perfect order at municipal expense. In them, flowering shrubs, roses, geraniums and heliotropes, grown to veritable trees, are ever in bloom; there are orange and lemon, pomegranate and fig, palm and banana trees; there are statues and flowing fountains, and great carved stone seats, all free to the people.

There is plenty of flowing water on these high tablelands, and already its power, harnessed to the turbine and dynamo, is giving the people free electric lights. The Mexican towns and the city governments are run for the benefit of the people. There are no monopolies. If President Diaz hears that a mayor, a city council, or a Congress is not running things as he judges they should, he just hints to the gentleman to resign. If he does not comply, a polite invitation requests him to come to the Capital and dine with the President. If he is not hungry and fails to come, then a few soldiers (numbering in one case a small army), come down and politely escort the gentleman to the dinner. He may be shot, he may be permitted to live quietly somewhere in the President’s city with a soldier for a life companion, – but he never goes home. An Ex-governor of the State of Guerrero has been living in Mexico City, with a soldier for a chum, these twenty years!

Mexican cities are clean. A man who doesn’t sweep his sidewalk, who disobeys a notice to keep it clean, may wake up in jail. There is no “habeas corpus” in Mexico. Once in jail, a man may stay there a lifetime. And Mexican jails are not pleasant places wherein long to abide.

Each State is divided into Distritos, corresponding to our counties. Each Distrito, instead of having a county court as do our West Virginia counties, has a Jefe Politico (Political Chief) appointed by the Governor. He keeps the peace, he runs the county. If he is a bad man, the Governor with the approval of President Diaz, may have the Jefe removed or shot. The Jefe (“Hefy”) within his Distrito has the power of life and death. If a citizen raises “too much hell” in his precinct, the first thing he knows he is taken out in the woods by a band of rurales– (rural police) – and promptly shot, and he is buried where he falls. A man thus arrested and shot is said to have “tried to escape and been shot while escaping.” No questions are asked. The Jefe rules his Distrito with a hand of steel in a glove of velvet, just as President Diaz rules the nation.