Kitabı oku: «On the Mexican Highlands, with a Passing Glimpse of Cuba», sayfa 7

XIII
Some Tropical Financial Morality

Churumuco, Mina el Puerto, On the Rio de las Balsas,

December 6th.

We were up before the day, our horses and mules having been fed with grain a little after midnight. Thus the food is digested before the journey of the day is begun. It was dazzling starlight with a gleaming streak of white moon. Our two pack beasts had been loaded, we had breakfasted and were in the saddles a little after four. A keen wind which cut like a knife-edge blew steadily down from the highlands behind us. I had kept on my warm clothes of the night. We traveled rapidly by the brilliant starlight and passing down the aroyo along which we camped, turned down the San Pedro River toward the south. We crossed the stream frequently, traveling in single file. By seven o’clock the sun was peering over the hills and I began to shed my clothes. By half past eight I retained only my thinnest underwear, my pajama coat, my linen trousers and slippers. By ten o’clock the sun was scorching, our great Mexican sombreros alone saving us from its fierce rays. Our way lay for twenty miles almost due south down the valley of the San Pedro, then turning to our left, we followed a slightly-traveled trail, crossing a succession of low hills, until after four long hours we came to immense plains or llanos stretching flat as a table for twenty miles toward the Balsas River. The streams were dry, the leaves were falling from shrubs and trees. It was the dry season. Mesquit and cactus and mimosa were the only vegetation, except the blistered stalks of the sun-dried grasses. No water was visible anywhere. The ground was parched and cracked. A light breeze which followed us all day and a few highflying clouds, which now and then hid the sun, alone saved us from being almost broiled alive. The watch in my pocket became burning hot, I could scarcely hold it in my hand; the metal buttons on my clothes almost burned themselves loose; only the dryness of the atmosphere made it possible to have made this journey during the day.

The great llanos, stretching south and southwest, were crossed by many well-beaten trails, where the horses and cattle, which roam here in thousands, have worn the paths they take to reach the distant water. It is said that these animals, which wander at large, have schooled themselves to cross the wide plains beneath the stars in the cool of the night.

We reached the mines of El Puerto about half past one o’clock, crossing the plain for several hours toward the mountain on whose side the mines are perched. The only living things we met upon these llanos were the jack rabbits and an occasional roadrunner, which birds were very tame. Although his rabbitship has attained a reputation for lightning leg-velocity upon the sagebrush plains of our own far-west, yet surely his Mexican cousin has him outclassed. A vaquero, followed by a couple of lean and seasoned hounds, had met us on the borders of the llanos and kept with us almost across the plain. The dogs, despite the fact that they must well have known the power of the jack rabbit, would often come upon one crouched in the grass, and so nearly within their reach that they quite forgot their lessons of the past, and started full cry upon his trail. It was almost laughable to see the hounds’ despair, so quickly did the rabbits shoot out of sight, quite beyond all dog power to keep the pace. The pair would regularly return with their tails between their legs, the picture of disorganized defeat.

We have climbed three hundred feet up the side of the mountain to a group of open sheds, thatched with palm leaves, while above us volcanic rock masses tower more than two thousand feet. Across the river Balsas, apparently rising from the water’s edge, are the tremendous heights of the Cordillera, lifting themselves twelve to thirteen thousand feet above the level of the sea.

The Mina el Puerto is an ancient mine, now nearly exhausted; for it has been worked almost two hundred years, all through a single doorway cut into the rock, barred by a great wooden door, fastened by a ponderous lock with a ponderous iron key. Each morning, for many decades, the owner has taken the key from his belt, unlocked the big door and sent fifteen to twenty naked Indians down the “chicken ladders” four hundred feet into the hot mines below. There is no ventilation, there are no pumps, there is no other way to go in or out. Two or three hours is the longest time a man can work at the bottom of this hole; when the Indian can stand it no longer he climbs up bringing on his back the ore which he has been able to dislodge, or a bag of water, if any shall have leaked in. By three or four o’clock in the afternoon, those who went down have all come out again. The ore they have dug is thrown upon a pile beneath the palm-thatched roof; the owner of the mines then locks the door. When the ore pile has been reduced to powder by the hammering of many dusky hands, it is concentrated in the wooden troughs, washed with water from the river Balsas, three miles away, brought up in bullskin sacks upon the backs of mules; and when a sufficient number of two-hundred-pound bags of concentrated ore have been accumulated, forty or fifty mules are tied together neck to tail, loaded with the bags and driven almost one hundred miles up to the plateau. These ores have always been particularly rich, the gold and silver in them having been sufficient to pay the cost of transportation to and charges of the smelter, leaving the copper for net profit.

The Mexican owners have lived well from the fortune of their mines. In fact, to them copper ore in the ground has been equivalent of cash in the bank. When they have wanted money they have dug into their ore bed. They generally smelted it themselves in crude clay furnaces, using charcoal burned near at hand. What of gold and silver there might be was also run into the copper bars and the bars were currency. A pile of bars meant rollicking jaunts and roystering junkets. The family and friends, the servants and retainers were gathered together, muskets and swords, horns and mandolins were assembled, horses and pack animals were loaded and bestridden, and a tour of the surrounding countryside was made. Bullfights, cockfights, balls and fandangoes were gloriously enjoyed, duels were fought, hearts were stormed and the copper ingots were blown in even to the last ounce. Then the company would return, the fast-locked door would again be opened and a new supply of copper extracted from the mine. Like princes lived these Señores de las Minas, so long as the earth yielded up her hidden treasure.

At this particular mine, this sort of thing has been going on for a hundred years. Generations have come and gone and come again, and the ore has not yet given out. But the thrifty ancestors so managed it as to pay only the smallest taxes to the government. Why should they pay good money into the itching palm of the distant despots, who might for the moment hold supreme power in the far-off capital! The first owner had “denounced,” (i. e. taken up), only half an acre. In the middle of this he cut the doorway to the mine. His descendants have always paid taxes on that half acre! The government never asked for more. Even Diaz was content. So the workings went on, and spread and ramified into the many acres surrounding the single so well-guarded entrance. The original half-acre had long years ago been mined out. And no one ever entered the mine or knew of its depth or latitude except the owner, who took the big key from his belt each workday morning and opened the ponderous wooden door. The Indians dug and sweated and smothered in the hot depths, even as their forbears had done. The Castrejon family held fast to the big key and enjoyed their credit for unbounded riches. La Mina el Puerto was a busy place, and its hospitality was equal to its wealth.

Thus it might have continued to this day, but for an accident which happened two or three years ago. One stormy night two travelers sought shelter beneath the Castrejon thatch. In crossing the llanos they lost their way and their horse cast his shoe. They discerned the light on the mountain side and came to it. The courteous lord of the mine gave them true Spanish welcome. “All that he had was theirs!” They slept in his biggest hammocks and ate his fattest poios (chickens). The strangers were gringos (Americans) and “missionaries” and one spoke excellent Spanish and the other smiled. El Señor told them how many years he had worked the mine, he and his ancestors, and he boasted, just a little, of its wealth. In the morning, rested, fed and smiling, they bade their gracious host a parting adios as they followed his superintendente, who rode with them to the main road from which they had strayed. The mine as usual worked on. The incident was forgotten. A few months later, one sultry evening, the gringos returned and with them a mining inspector of the Mexican government and a company of rurales. The Fomento (Department of the Interior) had granted to them all of the mineral rights surrounding and outside of the half acre which contained the big door. Los Señores de Castrejon had never had legal title to any mineral, but what lay under that half acre. If ore had been taken from outside of that half acre, it had been stolen from the government and dire are the penalties for theft in this land of the iron hand. And what ore had been taken from the outside of that half acre now belonged to the two strangers. They might sue in the courts and recover the full value of it and all legal costs. The two Americans were very courteous as they explained these matters to El Señor. The mining inspector was there to examine the mine and the rurales held in their hands repeating rifles of the latest pattern. El Señor was a discreet man. He accepted the courteous offer of the smiling Americans that they would not prosecute, provided he made them a deed for all claim he had to the half acre, the big door and whatever else he might possess. He was pleased to sign the deed. He then mounted his horse – they gave him back his horse – and rode away a beggar. Next morning the Americans put the big key in the door, unlocked it and sent the Indians down to their daily toil. The mining inspector received liberal recompense for his trouble and rode contentedly back to the Tierra Fria. The rurales were induced to remain yet a little while, as a sort of protection against unforeseen mishap.

The new owners remained long enough to place a new native superintendente in charge at increased salary, and then accompanied the rurales upon their return. But los Americanos were themselves gentlemen who had had to leave the States in rather hasty flight, and soon fell into feud among themselves. One, I learn, is now residing in a Mexican penitentiary for robbing a brother missionary, and the other, having sold his own interest as well as that of his partner to uninitiated purchasers in Kansas, has also disappeared. At the time of our visit the mines are in the hands of a receiver of the courts, and the Kansas people are endeavoring to ascertain just “where they are at.” Do you wonder, when I tell you that I find throughout all this ancient mining region a certain suspicion of visiting Americans, even on the part of Mexican owners whose titles are beyond a flaw?

Saturday.

Early this morning Tio and I mounted into our saddles and with an Indian-Mexican guide crossed the llanos to see two quartz veins showing copper. The veins are “undenounced,” open to whosoever may care to take them up. We did the unusual thing of going out in the middle of the day, and before we returned the fierce sun’s heat burned almost like flames of fire. I have never known anything but fire so to scorch. Even in this great heat we passed a hawk poised upon a cactus top watching for his prey and seemingly wholly unmindful of the terror of the sun.

After our siesta, we loaded the two pack beasts, saddled our riding animals and, about four o’clock in the afternoon, set out for the river Balsas, two miles to the south, and to the little town of Churmuco on its banks. From the mountain side we took a last look over the wide expanse of the llanos, extending twenty or thirty miles toward the west, as level as a floor, the blue line of the Cordilleras marking the horizon far beyond.

We passed through several prehistoric, Indian towns. Their streets were laid out with regularity, generally at right angles, the foundations of the ancient houses still plainly showing. In many places, the base walls were intact and constructed of rounded bowlders laid carefully, in a row, upon one another in substantial tiers.

The rich bottom land along the river, wholly uncultivated, much impressed me. The soil, a black and chocolate loam, is capable of bearing any crop, and is twenty to thirty feet in thickness. There was no cultivation anywhere. These lands belong to some mighty hacienda (a hacienda contains often from one hundred thousand to two million acres) owned by some absentee haciendado. It is said to be worth about ten cents (Mexican) per acre!

The river Balsas looks as broad as Elk River in West Virginia, where it enters the Kanawha (four or five hundred feet in width). It is now the dry season, but, nevertheless, the river is swift and deep, a tide of clear blue water too swift and too deep to ford or swim. In the rainy season it must be a boisterous mighty stream, for its fall is rapid. In the dry season it is fed by the melting snow fields of Popocatepetl and Ixtaccihuatl far to the east. The stream is said to afford good fishing, and in it veritable crocodiles (Cayman) abound.

Approaching the river, we found ourselves at a primitive ferry where two wild-looking vaqueros were about to cross. Availing ourselves of this opportunity to voyage upon the Balsas – Mexico’s greatest river – we tied our horses in the shade of a friendly mimosa and climbed aboard the craft used as a ferryboat – a sharp pointed scow which is entered at the stern. The two Indian boatmen pulled each a ponderous blade, but despite their most strenuous efforts, the powerful current carried us down quite half a mile before we landed upon the farther shore – a wide bar of sand and pebbles. Our fellow passengers eyed us in suspicious silence, each holding fast his broncho lest it should jump out, their wild dark glances betokening little friendliness. Reaching the shore each silently swung into his saddle and galloped off toward the not far distant Cordillera. These silent, untamed men traverse this desolate country everywhere, keeping constant track of the thousands of cattle and horses which roam their wastes; and the Indians of Guerrero bear the name of being the most turbulent and treacherous of all Mexico.

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!