A Gringo In Mañana-Land - free ebook by Harry L. (Harry La Tourette) Foster

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A Gringo In Mañana-Land

Harry L. (Harry La Tourette) Foster

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A GRINGO IN MAÑANA-LAND

A GRINGO IN MAÑANA-LAND

BY HARRY L. FOSTER Author of “The Adventures of a Tropical Tramp,” “A Beachcomber in the Orient,” etc. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS TAKEN BY THE AUTHOR Seal of publisher; woman's face with two open books, surrounded by garland NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 1924 Copyright, 1924, By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc. PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY The Quinn &amp; Boden Company BOOK MANUFACTURERS RAHWAY NEW JERSEY A CHIEFTAIN DRESSED FOR THE EASTER CEREMONY OF THE YAQUI INDIANS A CHIEFTAIN DRESS

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FOREWORD

FOREWORD

The term “ gringo ”—a word of vague origin, once applied with contempt to the American in Mexico—is now used throughout Latin America, without its former opprobrium, to describe any foreigner. The Spanish “ mañana ”—literally “to-morrow”—is extremely popular south of the Rio Grande, where, in phrases suggesting postponement, it enables the inhabitant to solve many of life’s most perplexing problems. This book covers various random wanderings in Mexico, Guatemala, Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, a

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I

I

It was my original plan to ride from Arizona to Panama by automobile. In fact, I even went so far as to purchase the automobile. It had been newly painted, and the second-hand dealer assured me that no car in all the border country had a greater reputation. This proved to be the truth. The first stranger I met grinned at my new prize with an air of pleased recognition. “Well! Well!” he exclaimed. “Do you own it now?” So did the second stranger, and the third. I had acquired not only an automobil

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II

II

I suspected that there was an element of insincerity in this encouragement. I was rather young, however, at the time of that first venture at foreign travel. It was only a few months after the Armistice, and I felt disinclined to return to cub-reporting on a daily newspaper. I elected myself to the loftier-sounding profession of Free-Lance Newspaper Correspondent. I purchased a palm-beach suit and an automatic pistol. I was going south into the land of romance—of tropical moons glimpsed through

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III

III

My departure was very dramatic. Men shook hands with an air of finality. Two or three girls kissed me good-by with conventional little pecks that seemed to say, “I’ll never see the poor devil again, so I may as well waste some osculation on him.” I had made the entire circuit, until there remained only a couple of village school-marms, who happened—most unfortunately—to live on top of the highest hill in town. Half-way to the summit, I perceived that my car was never destined to climb that hill.

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I

I

I crossed the border at daybreak. In the manner of a Gringo who first passes the Mexican frontier, I walked cautiously, glancing behind me from time to time, anticipating hostility, if not actual violence. In the dusk of early morning the low, flat-roofed adobe city of Nogales assumed all the forbidding qualities of the fictional Mexico. But the leisurely immigration official was polite. The customs’ inspector waved me through all formalities with one graceful gesture. No one knifed me in the ba

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II

II

Somewhat surprised, I made a rush for the ticket window. A native gentleman was there before me. He also was buying passage, but since he was personally acquainted with the agent, it behooved him—according to the dictates of Spanish etiquette—to converse pleasantly for the next half hour. “And your señora ?” “ Gracias! Gracias! She enjoys the perfect health! And your own most estimable señora ?” “Also salubrious, thanks to God!” “I am gratified! Profoundly gratified! And the little ones? When la

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III

III

On his first day in Mexico, the American froths over each delay. In time he learns to accept it with fatalistic calm. As it happened, the dialogue ceased at the right moment. Every one caught the train. Another polite Mexican gentleman cleared a seat for me, and I settled myself just as Nogales disappeared in a cloud of dust, wondering why any train should start at such an unearthly hour of the morning. The reason soon became obvious. The time-table had been so arranged in order that the enginee

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IV

IV

In an instant all was confusion. Whether or not the shooting came from the Carranzista escort or from some gang of bandits hidden in the brush, no one waited to ascertain. Not a person screamed. Yet, as though trained by previous experience, every one ducked beneath the level of the windows, the women sheltering their children, the men whipping out their long, pearl-handled revolvers. The only man who showed any sign of agitation was my portly friend. His immense purple sombrero had tumbled over

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V

V

The passengers sat up again, laughing at one another, talking with excited gestures as they described their sensations, enjoying one another’s chagrin, all of them as noisy and happy as children upon a picnic. They bought more frijoles , and the feast recommenced, lasting until mid-afternoon, when we pulled into Hermosillo, the capital of Sonora. A swarm of porters rushed upon us, holding up tin license-tags as they screamed for our patronage. Hotel runners leaped aboard the car and scrambled al

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I

I

A little brown cochero pounced upon me and took me aboard a dilapidated hack drawn by two mournful-looking quadrupeds. “ Hotel Americano? ” he inquired. “ No. Hotel distinctly Mejicano .” He whipped up his horses, and we jogged away through narrow streets lined with the massive, fortress-like walls of Moorish dwellings, past a tiny palm-grown plaza fronted by an old white cathedral, to stop finally before a one-story structure whose stucco was cracked and scarred, and dented with the bullet hole

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II

II

After the dusty railway journey I craved a bath. From a doorway across the patio a legend beckoned with the inscription of “ Baños .” I called an Indian servant-maid, pointed at the legend, struggled with Spanish, and finally secured a towel. The bath-room door, like that of my room, had long ago lost its lock. Searching among the several tin cans which littered one corner, I found a stick which evidently was used for propping against the door by such bathers as desired privacy. Having undressed

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III

III

But Hermosillo possessed a charm which even a Mexican bath could not destroy. It was a sleepy little city, typically Mexican, basking beneath a warm blue sky. It stood in a fertile oasis of the desert, and all about it were groves of orange trees. Its massive-walled buildings had once been painted a violent red or green or yellow, but time and weather had softened the barbaric colors until now they suggested the tints of some old Italian masterpiece. And although ancient bullet holes scarred its

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IV

IV

In an instant Eustace and I were at his elbow. Ours was the newspaperman’s unsentimental eagerness, which might have hailed the burning of an orphan asylum with its four hundred helpless inmates as splendid front-page copy. Here was murder! This was Mexico! Viva Mexico! Here was our first story! “No time to talk!” snapped Laughlin. “I’ll send John Luy for you in the morning. He’ll take you to La Colorada, in the Yaqui country itself. You’ll get the dope there!” And he vanished down the street. W

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I

I

John Luy met us in an elderly Buick early the next morning. He was a stocky man in khaki and corduroy, a man of fifty or sixty, with slightly gray hair, and the keen, friendly eyes of the Westerner. He was a trifle deaf from listening to so many revolutions, and questions had to be repeated. “Heh? Oh, the holes in the wind-shield? They’re only bullet holes.” He motioned us into the back seat, grasped the wheel, and drove us out through the suburbs of Hermosillo into the open desert. The road was

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II

II

I breathed more freely half an hour later, when we climbed the farther bank of the river-course, and rattled on again, through ever-thickening forests of cactus, to the low adobe city of La Colorada. John showed us a nondescript mud dwelling that passed for a hotel, and we presently sallied therefrom, with paper and pencil, fully convinced that the pleasantest method of securing copy would be that of sitting on the village hitching post and listening to the experiences of some one else. There we

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III

III

Since he put it that way, we sought out MacFarlane. He was a tall, lean-faced man—one of the quiet, self-possessed, determined-looking mine superintendents usually encountered in Mexico. He was about to make a week’s trip to El Progresso mine, sixty miles farther in the interior. He would be glad to take us along. And at dawn the following day, we rode out of La Colorada in one of MacFarlane’s trucks. We sat upon a miscellaneous assortment of machinery, provisions, and blasting powder, with a cr

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IV

IV

The trucks were to continue, with the guard, by the longer road to the mine. MacFarlane and ourselves, with two of the gunmen, were to ride over the mountains. The bridle trail led through questionable territory, but it was shorter. Neither Eustace nor I had ever ridden a mule before. Both of us had read Western fiction, and had noted that the hero not only loved his steed, but left nearly everything to the animal’s good judgment, and that the noble beast, appreciating and reciprocating his mast

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V

V

In the morning, before continuing the journey, I set out to secure a few photographs. “Ask permission before you snap a native,” the mining man warned me. “Some of them are superstitious—have an idea that they’ll die within a year if you take their picture. They killed the last photographer that tried it.” So I took special pains to ask permission. Invariably they said, “No!” Some appeared to regard the camera as a new species of machine-gun. Even those who knew what it was were reticent about p

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VI

VI

It was but a few hours’ ride from Suaqui to El Progresso Mine. It lay in the center of a ragged, bowl-shaped valley in the heart of the mountains, some ninety miles from the railroad—a group of gaping shafts beside a stone blockhouse, with a village of thatched laborers’ quarters straggling along a sandy, cactus-hedged street. Some half dozen American bosses occupied the blockhouse. The native workmen numbered about two hundred, most of them Pimas and mestizos , or mixed-breeds. “Don’t shoot at

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VII

VII

I had witnessed the Easter ceremony of the Yaqui Indians before leaving the border. Strange as it may sound, the Yaqui is a Christian. Years ago the Spanish missionaries, the greatest adventurers in all history, penetrated the Sonora desert where warriors feared to tread, and finding themselves unable to converse with the Indians, enacted their message in sign language. To-day, at Easter time, the Yaquis reënact the same story, distorted by their own barbaric conception of it until it is but a s

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VIII

VIII

The same ceremony is practiced, with variations in ritual, by the bravos in the hills. Frequently, as the miner had suggested, it serves as a get-together for the Spring raiding season. Spring is harvest-time in southern Sonora, and an ideal time for the Yaquis to sweep down from the mountains and pillage the valleys which the Mexicans have taken from them. In the days of Carranza, the Indians not only invaded the rural districts, but carried their raids to the very outskirts of Guaymas and Herm

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IX

IX

We left at sunset, a little party of five. As we rode silently toward the vague mountains ahead, their peaks became a magic crimson that deepened slowly to purple against a silver sky. We passed Suaqui, where the rivers gleamed like shining ribbons in the last faint twilight. Then the swift desert night was upon us, and we were riding into a deep pass, where the air grew strangely chill. I can recall every minute of that long night. Perhaps the mule could see the path. I couldn’t. Now and then,

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X

X

We rode into Matape at dawn, and a truck carried us back to La Colorada. Dugan offered his hand. “I done you an injustice, pardners. I thought you’d be scared.” Eustace and I, exchanging confidences in private, agreed that Dugan had done neither of us an injustice, but we kept this to ourselves. John Luy, driving us back to Hermosillo in his Buick, seemed highly amused about the whole affair. He chuckled to himself for a long time before he spoke: “It’s funny! Mack don’t usually make that ride a

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I

I

On the train that carried me southward from Hermosillo I met “The General.” He was young—scarcely out of his teens—slender, mild-mannered, almost feminine in voice and appearance. His large, dark eyes were shaded with long, girlish lashes. One felt startled when, upon more intimate acquaintance, he confided that he was an ex-bandit. His rank, in reality, was only that of teniente , than which one could not be much lower in a Mexican army, but it pleased him so much when I first addressed him as

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II

II

The young teniente was typical in many ways not only of the Mexicans, but of most of the Latin-Americans. He lived completely in the present, with scarcely a thought of the morrow. For him tempus did not fugit , save very rarely, and even then there was sure to be more tempus afterward. He had unlimited time for friendliness and politeness. In his friendliness he was prone to those professions of love which to the Anglo-Saxon mind savor of hypocrisy; in his politeness he was inclined toward phra

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III

III

The Mexican is by nature impractical. When he makes a promise, he usually means it. Afterwards he discovers that he has promised something which he can not fulfill. “To-night,” said the General, “I shall arrange a dance in your honor.” And this time, he did meet us at the appointed hour—or soon thereafter. He had with him the musicians, two barefooted peons with mandolin and guitar, and we started again for his uncle’s residence. Everything was ready for the dance except that the uncle had not b

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IV

IV

As I came to know the Mexicans better, I discovered that such an evening, although it impressed a Gringo as a trifle boresome, was quite an event in middle-class Mexican existence. The Latin-American had an amazing knack of not being bored. This, too, was a product of his mental habit of living wholly in the present. He never suffered from the Anglo-Saxon sense of a waste of time; he was never afflicted with reflections about countless other ways of spending his evening. He could sit every night

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V

V

If at first impression, the elaborate Spanish politeness seems boresome, it gradually seeps its way into the soul of the average visitor so insidiously that within two weeks he finds himself resenting the rudeness of Americans more recently arrived than himself. I met one on the train that took me out of Guaymas. He was trying to tell the conductor that this passenger coach would have been condemned long ago in the good old U.S.A. Since the official did not understand English, even when shouted,

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VI

VI

As he walked away, we feared that he had no further use for gringos, but on the following morning, as we sat in the plaza , the General came up to embrace us with more than his usual ardor. He was feeling “very lively” himself. He announced that he had been up all night, and that he was now ready to wander over to the shady side of town to call upon a few of the “girls.” When we suggested that it was too early in the day, and advocated rest rather than recreation, he was agreeable, as always. He

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VII

VII

I was inclined to doubt the General’s story. He was manifestly a poseur. He possessed, among other qualities, an inordinate desire to attract attention. He knew, for instance, that he was handsome, and would spend hours combing his dark hair, or powdering his face. He loved to be stared at by the young girls in the plaza . He basked in admiration and reveled in adulation or flattery. His vanity manifested itself also in a desire to be photographed. If I wished to snap a landscape or a street sce

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VIII

VIII

Strangely enough, the more hypocrisy one discovered in the little General, the more one liked him. It was a hypocrisy leavened by kindliness and humor. And to him, as to other Latin-Americans, it was not hypocrisy at all, for his was a code of life wherein our Anglo-Saxon standards were completely inverted. Each race has developed its own ideas as to what is important in human conduct. The Anglo-Saxon, being by nature blunt and frank, regards truth as a supreme virtue. When he discovers somethin

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IX

IX

He was still with us when Eustace and I set out upon the last stage of our railway journey to Mazatlán. So, incidentally, was the soap-salesman. The train brought us to the end of the long stretch of desert that extended from Sonora far down into Sinaloa. An occasional palm tree rose among the cactus. Adobe huts gave way to structures of cane and thatch. A delicious balminess in the air heralded the approach of the tropics. A tang of salt came from the Pacific breezes, and the sea itself loomed

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X

X

There was no investigation. The soldiers cast a noose about his neck, and threw the other end over the limb of a tree. A horseman made it fast to his saddle. For the moment, so unbelievable was the proceeding, I was stunned. Then, my heart pounding as though the noose were about my own neck, I hurried with Eustace to the scene, protesting. The General smiled at us. “You are good friends,” he said. “I am grateful. But you can not help me, and you may invite trouble for yourselves. If in Mazatlán

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XI

XI

As the smoke cleared away, the train crawled slowly onward toward Mazatlán. For a long time, no one spoke. When Eustace finally broke the silence, it was in a futile effort to turn our minds to another subject. “We’ll get there just in time to catch the boat south.” The soap-salesman came out of his reverie with a start. “I don’t know as I’ll go south. I think I’ll catch a boat north to Frisco. You can’t do business with these spi—with these Mexicans.”...

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I

I

It was evening when the train brought Eustace and myself into Mazatlán. Since the fortnightly steamer was scheduled to sail for the south at eight o’clock, we leaped into a cab, and ordered the cochero to drive like fury. He whipped up his slumbering nags, and we rattled toward the wharf, through conventional narrow streets lined with the traditional fortress-like houses of Latin America. But—although it may have been the effect of the tropical climate—it seemed that each balcony or window was o

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II

II

We had just acquired the mental attitude requisite to appreciation of Mexico—a state of unworried and unhurried tranquillity such as enables the Mexican himself to sit all day on a plaza bench, enjoying the balmy southern breezes, smoking innumerable cigarettes, discussing nothing in particular, watching the other idlers, and admiring the beauties—both animate and inanimate—of the whole pleasant scene. Mazatlán had been designed for people with such a mental attitude. The climate was balmy. The

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III

III

On my first morning, fortunately a Sunday morning, while I still retained a slight vestige of Anglo-Saxon energy, I was there at daybreak, determined to observe minutely what transpired. At 6.30, the only other occupants of the benches were several ragged beggars. At 7.00, the Mazatlán Street Cleaning Department, both members barefoot, appeared upon the scene, dragging a long hose, whereupon the beggars cautiously adjourned to the steps of the municipal building. At 7.29, the first bootblack sto

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IV

IV

As I recall that first conversation with Herminia and Lolita, it ran somewhat as follows: Were we from the United States? Ay , what a wonderful country must be the United States! How they would love to go to a land where women enjoyed such freedom! And American men respected women more than did the Mexicans. But how long were we remaining in Mazatlán? So short a time! Why did we not stay longer? Did we not think Mexican girls as attractive as American girls? Ay , but we were very polite to say s

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V

V

The plaza became a very definite habit to Eustace and myself. At home, we could never have loitered day after day in a park, doing nothing, but in Mexico one could. The other idlers were always interesting. Some amusing little incident was always happening. Yet nothing ever seemed to disturb the prevailing restful calm. Herminia and Lolita were always there at eight. They were slender little girls, with the delicately molded features and the immense dark eyes characteristic of their race. They w

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VI

VI

At that time, Eustace and I knew very little about Spanish custom. We looked upon our mild flirtation as a pleasant and instructive way of spending the evening while waiting for another boat. Herminia and Lolita would pass us two or three times, always with that promising flash of eyes, and a murmured “ Adios .” Presently they would stop at a bench beyond, and glance back. Thereupon we would rise, stroll around the park as we had seen Mexican youths do, and stop casually, as though by accident,

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VII

VII

Our steamer finally whistled from the harbor. We had already purchased our tickets, and were on our way to bid the señoritas farewell, when Werner intercepted us, waving a newspaper. “Congratulations, boys! You’ve picked out mighty nice girls!” Papa, it seems, had announced our engagement without consulting us. It was in the daily journal of Mazatlán! “Why, good Heavens! Look here, Werner, we haven’t said a word to them! We called at the house every night, and we walked along the Olas Altas, wit

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VIII

VIII

At 7.49 p.m., having recovered the last vestiges of my Anglo-Saxon energy, I drove with Eustace to the house, and bade the family farewell. The girls appeared a trifle distressed, but not so much as we felt they ought to be. The family knew intuitively that we were fleeing, but with true Mexican politeness they accepted our explanations as though they believed. At 7.52, we leaped back into the cab and ordered the cochero to drive like fury. At 7.56, we passed the plaza , but paused not in the in

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I

I

The steamer plowed southward through a dazzling blue sea to Manzanillo, the port of disembarkation for Mexico City. Despite its commercial importance, this is one of the several places on the Pacific Coast where a traveler, upon leaving his ship, takes one hasty glance at the dirty black beach and the cluster of driftwood shacks, grasps his nose firmly between thumb and forefinger, and makes a dash for the daily train that will carry him somewhere else. As soon as a boatman had rowed us ashore,

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II

II

By sheer coincidence, our message to Werner had been seemingly confirmed. Following the news dispatch of this hold-up, which undoubtedly would reach Mazatlán, the notice of our murder would carry conviction. For the moment, we were delighted. Then the agent added: “There may be no train for several weeks.” And we found ourselves stranded in the filthiest hole in Mexico. Manzanillo’s streets were of thick sand, inadequately paved in spots with refuse or garbage, over which hovered millions of fli

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III

III

The bandit attack upon the train had occurred so close to the city that the Carranzista garrison threw up temporary barricades on the approaches to town. Instead of sallying forth to pursue the bandits, however, the soldiers contented themselves with a daily parade across the plaza , led by a wheezy band of four pieces, intended presumably to reassure the civilian population. The local commandante had suddenly assumed an air of great importance. He was a tall man with broad but extremely thin sh

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IV

IV

This was a common enough spectacle in those days to the residents of Mexico. For years the republic had been in the throes of civil war—ever since the downfall of the great Dictator, Porfirio Diaz. Diaz had built up his country by encouraging the foreign capitalist and the foreign promoter. It had become one of the leading nations of the world. But Mexican pride had been wounded at the admission that foreigners were essential to Mexico’s development and prosperity. Mexican jealousy had resented

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V

V

Each evening in Manzanillo, when the beer had lost its mid-day warmth, two or three Old-Timers, stranded like ourselves, would gather at the bar to discuss conditions. The Old-Timer in Mexico is very much of a type. He is usually a quiet, unassuming man, with grizzly gray hair, and friendly blue eyes. He came from somewhere in the West or Middle West, so long ago that he has forgotten just when. He owns a mine that has ceased operation pending the arrival of better times. He is easy-going and fa

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VI

VI

So worthless were the federal troops that many Americans whom I met during my trip professed a preference for bandits. SO WORTHLESS WERE THE FEDERAL TROOPS THAT MANY AMERICANS PROFESSED A PREFERENCE FOR BANDITS SO WORTHLESS WERE THE FEDERAL TROOPS THAT MANY AMERICANS PROFESSED A PREFERENCE FOR BANDITS One, operating a mine in Hidalgo in a town that had never contained a Carranza garrison, had experienced no difficulty at all. Twice he had been visited by members of Pelaez’s gang, and on both occ

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VII

VII

Everywhere in those days Carranzista generals could be seen disporting themselves in the plaza . “If they’d get busy, couldn’t they clean up the bandits?” I asked an Old-Timer in Manzanillo. “Quite likely. But that’s hard work. And they don’t really want to. If they licked all the bandits, the need for so many generals would cease. A general has a pretty good job, you know. Even though he doesn’t get so much salary, he pads his expense account with fodder that the horses never smell, and his pay

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VIII

VIII

Eustace and I occupied our enforced sojourn at Manzanillo by writing up the many stories we had gleaned from the Old-Timers, and mailing them home to newspaper editors. If the American government still insisted most stubbornly in giving Carranza a chance to make good, the American public was waking up. Newspapers were beginning to publish accounts of Mexican outrages upon American citizens and their property. The American press was commencing to expose the Carranza régime. So many were the stori

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I

I

It was another four days’ journey to Mexico City—a journey directly eastward and a trifle skyward. Mexico is a mountainous country—so loftily mountainous that one has only to travel upward to pass in turn through every variety of climate and every type of landscape. The road led from Manzanillo through the hot coastal plain—through palm-land and swamp-land where sweating, semi-naked peons waded knee-deep in pools formed overnight by the first downpour of a tropic rainy season—to Colima, a conven

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II

II

The haunting melancholy of the high altitude seemed to have affected the natives. Below, on the coast, the poverty-stricken Indians had appeared contented and happy. On the tableland they were very solemn. A peon marching behind his little burro wore the same stolid, pack-animal expression as the beast itself. There was no animation in the faces. The greater part of the masculine population sat upon the station platforms, wrapped in blankets and meditation, waiting only for another day to pass.

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III

III

After two days upon that plateau, Mexico City was a shock. The train roared into a crowded station. Vociferous hotel runners burst into the car and fought up and down the aisles. Cargadores clamored outside the windows. Mexican friends met Mexican friends with loud cries of joy. All screamed noisily to make themselves heard above the din of claxons from riotous streets outside. Some runner, having driven rivals away from Eustace and myself, handed our suit-cases through the window to a waiting d

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IV

IV

In the morning Eustace and I wrote President Carranza a friendly little note, requesting an interview. Then we set out to see the town. It proved surprisingly attractive by daylight—one of the most ornate in the Western Hemisphere outside of Argentina or Brazil. If it lacked the impressive solidity of an American city, and failed to startle with giant sky-scrapers, it undoubtedly surpassed New York or any other Yankee metropolis—including Washington—in the beauty of its parks and boulevards. MEX

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V

V

It proved a cool city, however, both in climate and manners. Of the two, the former seemed the more kindly. If the air were chilly at morning or evening—either in summer or winter, wherein there is little variation—it was hot enough at mid-day to bring out the perspiration. But the manners remained constantly those of all large cities, even in Mexico. There was no reason that they should be otherwise. After traveling, nevertheless, through smaller towns, where natives looked upon a newcomer with

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VI

VI

We waited for the interview. The chances were that nothing we had written would ever be published. If it were, Carranza would never know it. And there was more of Mexico City to be seen. If it bore a superficial resemblance to Paris, its population remained distinctly Mexican. In the early morning, upon the Avenida Francisco I. Madero, the Mexican Fifth Avenue, the boulevardiers were mostly Indians in blankets, and shop girls hurrying to work with black shawls over their heads. Gradually they ga

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VII

VII

Carranza not proving very prompt in answering his correspondence, we amused ourselves with a visit to the ancient pyramids of San Juan Teotihuacán—remnants of what had been a mighty empire before the Conquest—distant some twenty-eight miles from the Capital. A leisurely train carried us there in something over an hour and a half. We descended at the station, expecting to be pounced upon by a dozen professional guides, but none molested us. Little barefoot children with spurious relics were our o

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VIII

VIII

A week drifted past, and Sunday arrived. On that, of all days, Mexico City was most typically Mexican. The aristocrats paraded themselves in the parks; the middle-classes went picnicking; the peons went to church. We strolled out along the Avenida Madero, past the National Opera House—said to be the handsomest building of its kind on the continent, but still with an unfinished dome because one administration had started it, and others had neglected to provide funds for its completion. Beyond it

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IX

IX

To avoid religion as a delicate subject, as most writers do, is to ignore a most important phase of Mexican life. In Mexico, even more than in most parts of Latin America, the Church has been obliged, to the regret of many of its own clergymen, to sacrifice much of its dignity. It came originally to a land which already possessed a religion consisting solely of barbaric rites. It was adopted by a people whose conception of things ecclesiastic was limited to the meaningless observance of pagan ce

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X

X

We came back from Guadalupe to find a uniformed Staff-Officer awaiting us. Old Barlow was entertaining him in our absence. The officer was a young man, in neat-fitting blue uniform, and he had keen, sharp features. He wore a little black mustache, like that of the villain from a melodrama. He was suavely polite. MEXICAN POLICEMEN IN WHITE SPATS MEXICAN POLICEMEN IN WHITE SPATS “Mario Sanchez, aide to his excellency, Venustiano Carranza, President of the Republic of Mexico, at your service, señor

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I

I

There was nothing thrilling about my escape from Mexico. I simply rode down the railway to Vera Cruz, boarded a steamer without molestation, and sailed away. The reflection that I was now a fugitive gave me a sense of international importance. It did seem a trifle uncomplimentary on the part of the Mexican government that no one sought to interfere with my departure. Still, there are some little slights that one is willing to overlook, especially if one be a fugitive....

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II

II

Fellow travelers were always interested in my story. Occasionally I ran across persons who had heard of my thrilling escape from the bandit camp of Pedro Zamorra. They demanded details. They were so insistent that it would have been a shame to disappoint them. I licked bandit after bandit for their benefit until completely fatigued. Then, having begun to lose my original pride at the fictitious exploit, I adopted a policy of modest silence. Or I admitted, “That was all bunk!” This seemed to make

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III

III

Inspired by this success, I decided to quit free-lancing and become a fiction writer. I set out to roam the world in search of material. Since editors seldom bought the fiction I wrote, I roamed mostly on foot. In various odd corners of the globe, I found other people who once had lived in Mexico. Most of them had fled the country during the long series of revolutions. Their property had been destroyed. In some cases their loved ones had been murdered. Yet I discovered—at first to my amazement—t

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IV

IV

My return was as uneventful as my flight. I rather expected each Mexican I met to exclaim, “So you’re the fellow that wrote all those dastardly things about my country!” Apparently a few had forgotten my articles. The others had not heard of them. I landed at Vera Cruz, and went up to the capital over the same railway—up through gorges luxuriant with forests of banana, past the snow-capped peak of Orizaba looming mistily out of the clouds, through tunnels and over bridges, along mountain sides w

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I

I

The railway southward into the Isthmus of Tehuantepec was the worst in Mexico. It had been constructed back in the days of Diaz, and apparently had not been repaired since that time. A rusty engine that wheezed with asthma dragged behind it a long succession of splintered freight cars, followed by an aged wooden passenger coach whose walls groaned and protested at every jolt, and swayed sidewise until the roof threatened to fall. From Córdoba, on the main line, the track squirmed away with snake

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II

II

In the days of Diaz, the Mexican railways had been built by Americans, and were under American management. They had now become a political football, however, operated by the government not because they were thus more profitable or efficient, but because they thus offered employment to deserving voters. The railway men, of course, knew something of railroading, and the Vera-Cruz-Mexico-City road—as well as the other more important roads—was kept in repair. But the Obregon government, although an

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III

III

It was quiet, and peaceful, and sunny, however, as always. This southern Mexico was a paradise of tropic luxuriance. On the infrequent banana plantations the foliage was so thick that the tunnels beneath the trees were black as night. The jungle not only slapped the face of any passenger who poked his head from the window; it even scratched along the sides of the car, seeking an opportunity to reach inside and stick a thorn into the passenger’s eye. The air was hot and moist. Inhabitants had red

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IV

IV

The noon train carried me over a better road, across a range of mountains, and down the sandy slopes of the Pacific coast, into an oasis of waving coco-palms, and dropped me in the city of the far-famed Indian vamps. The entire female population was lined up at the station, each with a basket of cocoanuts. I had already heard much about their attractiveness, for every travel writer makes it a point to rave about them. They are described always as “sloe-eyed queens of the tropics, with the figure

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V

V

A barefoot youth came to my rescue, shouldered my suit-case, and led the way to Tehuantepec’s one hotel. Tehuantepec, although the largest city in population on the Isthmus, is merely a big Indian village. Its streets are sometimes rudely cobbled, but usually of sand. It lies in a wide, fertile valley, straddling a shallow river. In the center its buildings are of heavy white stucco roofed with red tile. Elsewhere its dwellings are of thatch, and straggle up the surrounding mountain cliffs or ou

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VI

VI

Tehuantepec was hot. One was always thirsty. The water supply was of doubtful quality. So I spent most of my time walking home from market with another armful of cocoanuts. The saleswomen opened them with one deft chop from a huge machete, cleaving off the heavy rind, and leaving just a tiny round hole covered by a thin peeling of the white coco-meat. When one craved a drink, one had only to poke a thumb through the thin white peeling. I consumed cocoanut-milk like a toper, until my room in the

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VII

VII

The more I saw of the Tehuana women, the more I marveled. Writers had overrated their beauty, but not their character. Beside them, the girls of Spanish ancestry appeared doll-like. The señoritas were pretty, sweet, shy, modest creatures, but devoid of personality. These Indian maidens had never been sheltered behind moorish walls; from infancy they had faced the world, and met their own problems; they had developed character, and their faces were clean-cut, with individuality in every feature.

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VIII

VIII

Romance was not altogether lacking in Tehuantepec, even for the casual traveler. As I was about to depart, the little hotel proprietor stopped me. “You really should stay longer, señor . In time, I believe you could win Guadalupe, my little servant. Young men are scarce here, and she has taken quite a fancy to you. These girls do not throw themselves away upon one who flits from flower to flower, as does the tourist. If you were to wait, quien sabe, señor ? She is small, of course, but eventuall

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I

I

It was another long day’s journey to the southern border, through a warm sunny country of jungle and blue lagoon. An air of peace and tranquillity pervaded the land. The engineer, as though infected with the lethargy of the tropics, loafed along from one tiny village to another, stopping at every high-peaked hut of thatch that arose from the low forests of wild cane. Indians came aboard in merry, chattering groups. They were clad in brilliant rags, invariably tattered to shreds, yet blazing with

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II

II

This railway was a link in the much-discussed Pan-American road, which dreamers hope may some day carry passengers from New York to Buenos Aires in a week. How soon the vision will ever become a reality is problematical. The existing links are few. European merchants, resenting the commercial advantages it would offer to Americans, are uniformly opposed to the project. And native governments, always suspicious of one another, particularly in Central America, fear its military possibilities....

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III

III

Nightfall brought us to Tapachula, a pleasant little city in a rich plantation district. A diminutive trolley, operated by a Ford engine, awaited us at the station. The motorman climbed out to crank it. The passengers crowded aboard. A host of hotel runners and porters attached themselves to roof, sides, and platform, until the car itself was invisible beneath its coating of humanity. It rattled away upon wobbly tracks through a low-built plaster city—a city almost overpowering in its scent of c

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IV

IV

The De la Huerta revolt of 1924 was but a comparatively small incident in Mexican history. It will probably be forgotten by the time this book appears in print. Yet it is fairly typical of such affairs. And it is rather significant of current political tendencies which are likely to continue long into the future. To understand it, as to understand everything that happens in Mexico to-day, one must glance into the past. This originally was the land of an empire which combined savagery with civili

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V

V

In Tapachula, the insurrection was marked principally by much blowing of bugles on the part of the Obregon garrison. The civilian population remained unperturbed. The soldiery hailed the affair as another good excuse for drinking. Possibly their officers had paid them as a first step toward insuring their loyalty in the campaign to follow. They promptly filled the local bar-rooms, and swaggered about the streets with the air of increased importance which comes to a military man in time of war. A

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VI

VI

One must not assume that a Mexican revolution is a comic opera affair. The least conspicuous uprising sows something of death, destruction, and a loss of feminine virtue in its wake. But Mexico is large and sparsely populated, and can stage a dozen revolutions at once without disturbance of its general calm. The De la Huerta revolt raged principally in central Mexico. For a few months the republic was aflame from Vera Cruz to Manzanillo. But Obregon had the best generals. The United States, taki

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VII

VII

When one travels through Mexico one is amazed to discover that the Mexicans do not appear a cut-throat lot. The great masses of Indian and semi-Indian population appear quiet, simple, peaceable folk. Now and then, after the tequila has flowed freely, some of them may beat their wives or cut their neighbors’ throats, but this is not their regular pastime. In fact, most Old-Timers in the country deny that crime is any more frequent there than at home. Why then, the traveler always asks himself, ca

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VIII

VIII

Yet Mexico always weathers her storms. Even in revolution, unless one chances to be caught at the particular scene of the disturbance, this land is supremely tranquil. In Tapachula the only evidence of the turmoil was an ever-lengthening line of brown-faced prisoners sitting crossed-legged on the street before the commandancia , picking with their machetes at the rank weeds that grew up among the cobblestones. As in Hermosillo a moon smiled down over the low flat roofs. The lilting song of the m

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I

I

From Tapachula to the Guatemalan border, there was a train every two or three days, provided traffic warranted so much service. It took me through a bamboo forest, and dropped me at Suchiate, a straggling village of thatched huts beside a muddy river, where I had my first experience with the formalities attendant upon the crossing of a Central-American frontier. First one had to secure permission from the Mexican authorities to leave their country. In a whitewashed shed three leisurely gentlemen

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II

II

From Ayutla, the Guatemalan frontier station, to Guatemala City was another day’s ride. The railway coaches, if possible, were just a trifle more dilapidated than those of Mexico, but the train made better time. The way led through a continuation of the bamboo forests, but it soon rose to the cooler highlands, where volcanic cones towered into the clouds. One or two of the craters were smoking, filling the sky with dense masses of white vapor, and sprinkling the earth with a fine lava dust. To a

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III

III

To the American at home, all Central America is a heat-stricken jungle. He invariably greets the returned traveler with, “I’ll bet you’re glad to get back to God’s country!” As a matter of fact, Guatemala City—like Tegucigalpa, in Honduras, and San José in Costa Rica, and some several other cities in all these countries—has a climate which no city in the United States can equal. It is pleasantly warm at mid-day, and delightfully cool at night. The traveler in these parts always pities the Americ

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IV

IV

The Guatemalan capital is a pleasant city, but not handsome. Built low and massively, it gives one the impression that it is patiently awaiting another earthquake. In its past it has been moved about from time to time in the hope that it might find a resting place free from nature’s assaults, but another tremor always finds it and shakes it to pieces. It was destroyed in 1917 and again in 1918. A writer never dares use the phrase, “The last earthquake,” since another is apt to occur before his b

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V

V

By chance, on my first evening in Guatemala City, I was held up by a highwayman. I was rambling about unaccustomed streets, when a polite little brown gentleman stepped out of a doorway, poked a revolver into my ribs, and said courteously: “Pardon, señor . Please to raise both the hands above the head, and to tell me in which pocket I shall find your watch and your money.” My watch was one of those cheap things which the traveler always carries for such an emergency. My money formed a large wad,

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VI

VI

In any Central-American republic, one notices a “homey” quality lacking in the larger territory of Mexico. In these smaller nations, every one of any prominence knows every one else. The capital is something of a Latinized Main Street. This is more true of the little countries to the south, but Guatemala is not completely an exception. Its provincialism manifests itself particularly in the newspaper, which savors always of the local country weekly, although a flowery verbosity gives it a unique

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VII

VII

Guatemala contained a large colony of foreigners. There were many Germans engaged in the coffee business on the Pacific slopes, many Americans from the banana plantations of the Caribbean Coast, a few exiled European noblemen who had come with the remnants of their former fortunes to live as long as possible without working in a country where living was cheap, and several Old-Timers, all with the rank of General, who had fought in the various past revolutions of Central America, and were now res

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VIII

VIII

Guatemala has had its revolutions from time to time, yet its history—as compared with that of its immediate neighbors—has been fairly peaceful. If it has not had a succession of good rulers, it has at least had a succession of strong rulers. Its Indians are a docile race, a race much more easily conquered by the Spaniards than were the Indians of Mexico, and much more easily dominated by the white landlords of to-day. And the army, if not impressive when on dress parade, is one of the most depen

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IX

IX

The two principal products of Central America are coffee and bananas. The Central-American remains in the cool highlands of the Pacific coast, and raises the coffee. To the invading foreigner he cedes the lowlands of the Caribbean for the culture of the bananas. In Guatemala, it was a day’s railway journey from coffee country to banana country—first through a stretch of magnificent scenery, of forested mountains , and of rugged gorges spanned by several of the world’s highest railway bridges—the

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X

X

Every visitor to Guatemala makes the trip to Quiriguá, not to see the plantation, but to observe the famous Maya ruins hidden in the neighboring jungles. Like most famous sights which every one travels far to see, they prove extremely disappointing. Their only beauty is that one has to ride horseback through a swamp to reach them, and that they are so completely surrounded with tropical forest, which forms an ideal setting. The ruins themselves, although interesting, are not impressive. There ar

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XI

XI

On the train that carried me back from Quiriguá—through swamp, and desert and mountain—from banana-land to coffee-country—I met an Old-Timer. He had been so long in the tropics that the mosquitoes refused to bite him. Like many another, he had the rank of General, earned in some long-past revolution. “These countries are changing,” he said regretfully. “I can remember the time when there was nothing down here but thatched huts. All the white men in those days were tropical tramps, drifting from

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I

I

A mule trail leads overland from Guatemala to Salvador—a rugged, bowlder-strewn path that curls along mountain sides, and fords rivers, and scales precipitous cliffs—a road such as only a mule could travel with security and comfort. I crossed it in an automobile. The chauffeur—evidently a revolutionist keeping in practice at risking his life—drove out of Guatemala City with myself and another gringo passenger, at four in the morning, and raced through the black night with the shrieking claxon ch

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II

II

Salvador is the smallest nation in Central America, but with the exception of Costa Rica the most progressive. The railway train which carried me to the capital the next day was neat and clean, and the coaches freshly painted by an artist who had covered the interior with bright colors, and had traced designs of lilies and tulips wherever there was sufficient woodwork to permit of ornamentation. As in Guatemala, the way led through a land of volcanoes, wherewith Salvador is so abundantly supplie

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III

III

If Salvador sometimes indulges in what the people of larger nations describe as “comic opera,” it is normally peaceful. It appeared so tranquil at the time of my visit that I was surprised to learn of its being under martial law. “Oh, that’s easily explained,” said the gentleman who shared my seat. “Our president, Alfonso Quiñonez Molina, is a very excellent man, but he has his enemies. Under martial law, he can draft any one into the army. As soon as an opponent criticizes him, he makes him a G

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IV

IV

A few hours of leisurely travel brought me to San Salvador, the capital of El Salvador. It was a warm, sunny capital, only a trifle over two thousand feet in altitude, extremely low for a Central-American city. Its population numbered only some fifty or sixty thousand. Its people, being of mestizo composition, did not affect the barbaric raiment of the Guatemalan Indians. The half-breed maidens wrapped themselves in filmy shawls of pink or blue, but after the blazing serapes of the previous coun

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V

V

Deciding to stay for a while, I took lodgings at a cheap hotel opposite the Presidential Palace. In all of these countries the homes of the wealthy and influential citizens—even of the president—are quite apt to be located between business offices, or stores, or even among slums. Because of the local habit which wealth frequently manifests of shrinking into concealment behind a plain exterior, the magnificent homes are apt to be no more striking in outward appearance than their inglorious surrou

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VI

VI

The Central-American, like the Mexican, is both an idealist and a materialist. He sees no inconsistency in being both devoutly religious and frankly immoral. He is quite apt to use the name of his favorite saint as a fitting title for his gin mill. He employs it as a harmless ejaculation. He may even resort to it for emphasis, as in the case of an advertisement I recall, which endorsed a Charlie Chaplin moving picture with the phrases: “Is it funny? Jesus, Joseph, and Mary!” And, among the lower

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VII

VII

These people, of whatever class, are naturally tolerant toward one another. A man may be strictly moral, and many of them are, even in aristocratic circles, yet he never takes it upon himself to enforce a similar morality on his neighbor. There are no organizations in Mexico or Central America for minding other people’s business. The only society engaged in uplifting the fellow of different viewpoint in these parts is one with offices at Albany, New York, which sends out propaganda to combat the

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VIII

VIII

If these people seldom criticize harshly, however, they are very fond of gossip. The women especially have few interests to discuss, and infinite leisure for the discussion. There were some fifteen señoras and señoritas at my hotel in San Salvador, the wives or daughters of guests, all of them built to resist earthquake, who spent the entire day sitting in a chair upon the patio veranda, without amusement or occupation. Anglo-Saxon girls, with nothing to do except to wait for a husband to come h

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IX

IX

In all of these women one observed a strangely child-like quality. When better conversational subjects were exhausted, several of them requested that I guess their ages. Oddly enough, in this land where frankness is seldom encountered, women make no effort to hide the number of their years. Perhaps it is because their personal vanity, so very manifest in younger girls, practically ceases after marriage has been achieved. One of them I judged to be fifty. To please her I guessed forty. She proved

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X

X

Salvador has the smallest foreign colony of any Central-American country. Since it is entirely a coffee country, and since Central-Americans are essentially coffee planters, it has little need for outsiders. It judges the gringo largely by the occasional deluges of tourists who make the brief automobile journey up from the port of La Libertad during their “Go-from-New-York-to-Frisco-through-the-Panama-Canal” trip. As this is the only capital hereabouts that can be reached within a couple of hour

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XI

XI

The sort of American who brings us all into disrepute is, in reality, a much over-damned specimen. He is a comparative rarity. Most travelers, and most permanent residents in Latin America, go out of their way to show themselves congenial and sympathetic to the natives. We travel-writers love to picture the gruff, impolite American because he shows the reading public by contrast that we are cultured, considerate persons, with an international breadth of mind that enables us to appreciate foreign

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I

I

I started in haste for Honduras, but haste achieved nothing in these lands. One of the eccentricities of the average Central-American republic is that the traveler has little difficulty in entering the country, yet having entered, finds his departure balked by countless formalities. Apparently the government is eager to welcome any one, but if it can discover that the visitor is a rapscallion, is determined to add him to the permanent population. Slipping into Salvador through the back yard, I w

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II

II

As a matter of fact, the boat did not leave for several days. La Unión was the usual type of Central-American port town—a colorless, uninteresting little city, with numerous buzzards hopping about its mud-flats, as hot as blazes, and devoid of entertainment. I was welcomed at a small hotel with an inquiry as to whether I possessed a watch. No one knew the time. But since it was growing dark, the proprietor assumed that it was nearing the hour for supper. A slatternly maid brought out some tablew

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III

III

When the launch did leave for Honduras, there was further formality. It was scheduled to depart a las nueve en punto —at nine o’clock sharp—with much verbal emphasis on the sharp . A squad of Salvadorean soldiers manned the dock, and halted me at my approach. My baggage was placed in the office, and the door locked, and I was motioned to a bench. Stevedores were loading the diminutive vessel with a set of dilapidated furniture, which did not appear worth transporting from one place to another, b

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IV

IV

It was a brief voyage, through island-dotted waters alive with pelicans and seagulls, to Amapala, the one Honduranean port of entry on the Pacific, situated upon a volcanic island. Another official glanced idly at my passport, and waved aside my baggage without examining it. Several weeks later, when I departed, the same official was to raise as much rumpus as the Salvadorean authorities had raised, but to-day he offered no difficulties. Within a few minutes, we were all back in the launch, chug

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V

V

I was awakened at 4 a.m. by a great pounding upon my door. Bill, a husky American truck-driver, was going up to Tegucigalpa, the Honduran capital, and desired company. The business-like Chinese were already on the job with breakfast. We ate it in grouchy early-morning silence, and drove off toward the mountains through an inky-black fog. “I know every inch of the way,” consoled Bill. “There’ll be no trouble unless somebody takes a shot at us, or blows up a bridge. They haven’t started yet, but t

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VI

VI

No one having shot at us from the hills or blown up a bridge, we raced into Tegucigalpa in the early afternoon. Every one in the Capital was awaiting the revolution, but the city remained unperturbed. It was an old, weatherbeaten town. A river wandered through it, bordered by high cement walls, and spanned by an aged stone bridge of many arches. The streets were hilly. Sidewalks might be level, but after one had followed them for a certain distance, one was apt to find himself ten feet above the

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VII

VII

The current political controversy was but a typical incident in the history of Honduras. The term of President Rafael López Gutiérres had come to an end. During his two and a half years of office, he had weathered thirty-three insurrections. He was ready to retire. But his fellow politicians, although they had already prospered to the extent of three million pesos, demanded that he follow the Central-American custom of turning over his office to one of their own group, in order that their prospe

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VIII

VIII

I settled at a small hotel, where one enjoyed the advantage of intimate association with a native family. There were only two other guests, but the family was multitudinous. A young man had fallen in love with the landlady’s daughter, and married her, and had brought so many relatives of his own to live at his mother-in-law’s expense, that they filled all the rooms, until there was space only for three boarders. Just how they all managed to exist on the trifling income of the establishment was a

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IX

IX

A week passed, and nothing happened. Rumors flew thick and fast, however. Every one discussed the forthcoming revolution as a certainty. Now and then a peon would drop casually into the hotel to inquire in whispers whether the guests had any ammunition to sell. He never used the word “ammunition,” but resorted to harmless-sounding synonyms unintelligible except to the born conspirator. One noticed that the men of the upper classes were more democratic than usual. Men of distinguished appearance

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X

X

Christmas having provided no thrills, Tegucigalpa looked forward to New Year’s. On that day Congress was to convene to choose a president. Whoever was chosen would probably be obliged to fight the other two candidates. In the meantime, I hired a mule and rode out to see the American-owned Rosario mines at San Juancito, forty kilometers from the capital. The trail was rugged, but it led through magnificent scenery, among pine-clad mountains, ascending a ridge seven thousand feet high, where the c

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XI

XI

The real mainstay of the Honduran treasury is the East Coast, where several American fruit companies own extensive banana plantations. It has little connection with the rest of the country. A newly instituted service by airplane now enables one to reach it from Tegucigalpa in a couple of days, but unless one can afford this method of travel, one must go by mule, and the journey takes about two weeks. The several gringo concerns have so developed the formerly worthless, fever-stricken swamps of t

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XII

XII

January first arrived, and Congress met. I went to the Capitol with Mario Ribas, who was the Associated Press Correspondent and the editor of Tegucigalpa’s leading magazine. He was a Spaniard and a neutral in politics. “If any one starts shooting,” he advised, “the quickest way out of the building is that of sliding down the shed, running across the patio , and climbing over the roof.” The legislators met in a long, narrow room filled with plain wooden benches. On the wall were the pictures of f

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XIII

XIII

But nothing happened on the morrow, or the day after that. Congress was still indulging in oratory. From time to time some one suggested a vote on the presidential question, but whenever it appeared that Árias might have enough supporters present to elect him, the adherents of Carías and Bonilla hastily seized their high silk hats and rushed outside so that there would be no quorum. By this time most of the deputies were wearing two guns. Rumor stated that one Congressman had also added to his e

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XIV

XIV

Tegucigalpa was quiet again. The American Minister drove past my hotel in a big automobile filled with American naval officers in gold braid and cocked hats. The warship Rochester , flag-ship of the Panama squadron, was now anchored off Amapala. Admiral Dayton had come up to the Capital with his staff on what was described officially as “nothing more than a courtesy visit.” But it was reported that American gunboats were now lying off the east coast ports, ready to protect American property at t

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I

I

To journey from one Central-American republic to another, the traveler should equip himself with a private yacht. Having neglected this precaution, he must resort to patience. There is a steamship service along the Pacific Coast which advertises regular sailing dates. But since its vessels are quite apt to be ahead of their schedules, one usually repairs to the seaport a day or two in advance. And since they are far more apt to be behind their schedules, one usually waits there for a period vary

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II

II

Not possessing the private yacht, I left Tegucigalpa for Amapala one day in advance. Bill, the hard-boiled, took me down the mountain road to San Lorenzo, where a launch was already waiting. There a member of the crew undertook to facilitate my voyage. He greeted me with a smile as I reached the end of the wharf. “I’m the man who carried your suit-case, señor .” “I carried it myself.” “Did you really? Then I’ll put it on board for you.” Since a squad of Honduran soldiers held all passengers on t

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III

III

I stopped at the leading hotel, operated—like most hotels on this coast—by a Chinaman. It was the usual type of seaport hostelry, less comfortable and more expensive than those of the interior cities, but well stocked with fleas, bugs, liquor, and flirtatious servant maids. “What does one do in this town for amusement?” I asked a native. “Amusement?” He seemed a little surprised. “Why, señor , there are plenty of women.” For occupation, the male population carried the baggage of passing traveler

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IV

IV

The one break in the day’s monotony came at mid-afternoon. Then a shore-party from the Rochester , still lingering far out in the harbor, would shoot past the waterfront in a trim white launch, and come rolling up the long wharf to see the sights of town. Whenever the Chinaman saw them coming, he would shout for all his servants to man the bar. The sailors, seeming to know the local geography instinctively, headed straight for the hotel. While their Ship’s Police scattered out through town with

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V

V

Our steamer finally came. After our two weeks of waiting, it picked us up and landed us within eight hours at the Nicaraguan port of Corinto. For years Nicaragua had been the especial protégé of the United States government, financed by American bankers, and policed by American marines. Having traveled for several months in republics not blessed with such attentions, a gringo naturally looked forward to the progressiveness and modernity of Nicaragua. No difference was evident. We landed at a fai

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VI

VI

The story of the American coöperation—which the Nicaraguans themselves describe by a less pleasant word—dates back to 1909. At that time Nicaragua had a Dictator. José Santos Zelaya had been reëlecting himself president for seventeen years. He had commenced his reign, stern though it was, with fairness and justice toward his countrymen and friendliness toward foreigners. In his later years, overwhelmed with conceit at his success, he came to regard his Dictatorship as a right that carried with i

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VII

VII

There are always two sides to a question. Nicaragua, under American supervision, has made progress, but it is a progress which, both to the permanent resident and the casual tourist, is altogether invisible. Outwardly, since the coming of the bankers, the republic has marked time. No large industries have been introduced. No railways have been built. The greater part of the country is without means of communication or development. The cities are in worse repair than those of Honduras. And, altho

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VIII

VIII

Nicaragua is a lowland of tropical heat. It has the least invigorating climate in Central America. The natives are not particularly blessed with energy or industry, and are consequently rather eager to blame their lack of initiative to the stifling effect of their subserviency to the United States. Individually they are quite ready to be friendly to any American. Collectively they love to damn the gringos . And the newspapers of Managua and León cater regularly to their taste by soaking every Ya

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IX

IX

At the time of my sojourn in Managua, there was a temporary lull in such attacks, for the city was indulging in its semi-annual outburst of culture. The aristocrats of Central America are very fond of theatrical entertainment, and some of the republics have built national theaters, but such is the expense of bringing artistes from Europe that performances are rare, and usually subsidized by the government. Frijolita, who had danced before all the crowned heads of Europe, had recently been perfor

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X

X

Managua, of late, has gone in for sports. The marines have taught the natives to box and to play baseball. In the latter game, the Nicaraguan boys invariably defeat their mentors. In boxing, they still have much to learn, but they are promising. The newspapers write up the events with a Latin-American flavor. In the advertisement of a baseball match, the public is advised not to miss: “A wonderful sporting event! Colossal stealing of bases! Lightning-light flight of ball from pitcher to catcher!

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XI

XI

The one American resident that the Managua newspapers do not occasionally attack is the Marine. Some years ago one periodical published an editorial accusing the Legation Guard of general misconduct, whereupon the soldiers promptly wrecked its plant. No such accusations have been repeated. There are about a hundred and fifty marines in Managua. They were the cleanest-cut body of young men that I had ever seen anywhere. There was no drunkenness among them, no rough-house, no swaggering or bullyin

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XII

XII

It is natural that the Nicaraguan resents American intervention. There exists in the Latin-American’s character a combination of inefficiency and pride which induces the inferiority complex. His inefficiency sometimes leads him into a muddle from which he is unable to extricate himself. He invites the foreigner to help him out. Then his pride asserts itself. He resents the fact that he has been obliged to call upon the foreigner. He proceeds thereupon to damn him. During my stay in Managua, the

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XIII

XIII

Like most persons with the inferiority complex, the Latin-American is extremely sensitive. He resents, even more than the humiliation of gringo assistance, the assumption of loftier worth which usually characterizes the Anglo-Saxon. This assumption, to us, is often quite unconscious. If we are aware of our national self-satisfaction, most of us try to hide it when traveling in the southern republics. Our diplomats and business men seek valiantly to proclaim our great admiration of our neighbors.

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XIV

XIV

That they are so friendly, despite their fancied grievances, is a tribute to the natural kindliness of these people. Even in Nicaragua, although the press may attack the gringo , the people as a whole are cordial to any individual American who will meet them half-way. “I went home last year,” said one of the Old-Timers. “I’d been here for ten years, but no one in my own town seemed to make much of a fuss over me. They just shook hands and remarked, ‘Let’s see; you’ve been away, haven’t you?’ But

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I

I

I set out overland—through the Nicaraguan Canal—for Costa Rica. From Managua the railway carried me to Granada, on the shores of the largest lake between Michigan and Titicaca. At the end of a long wharf the weekly steamer was balancing itself upon its prow and waving its stern in the air, lashed by a gale that piled the combers one upon another until the pond resembled a young ocean. It was a squatty vessel, condemned back in the days of Zelaya, but still running. It contained several bullet ho

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II

II

I landed the next morning at San Carlos, at the mouth of the San Juan River. There was nothing of interest here except an ancient Spanish fortress and J. C. Kennedy. “They built the fortress back in 1600-and-something, or maybe it was 1700-and-something,” explained the latter. “I know it was just before I came here.” Mr. Kennedy, a little white-haired Irish-American, who now owned a shoe-shop and pegged away himself for exercise, had twice been chased out of Nicaragua by the old tyrant, Zelaya.

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III

III

From San Carlos the San Juan River led eastward toward the Caribbean. Once seriously considered by the American government as a possible site for the canal finally constructed at Panama, it was at present so shallow that only small launches could navigate it. One was now waiting, with a scow lashed to its side. I sailed with it at midnight, along with some forty other passengers, mostly women and children, all of us tightly packed into whatever spaces remained among the bags, boxes, and bales of

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IV

IV

It was a relief when, after three days of it, we turned aside into a narrow channel, and pushed our way through lily-pads to the weather-stained city of San Juan del Norte, otherwise known as Greytown, our Caribbean terminus. It was merely the typical East coast town, however—low, swampy, stinking, and generally unattractive—with black complexions prevailing. The Nicaraguan commandante was Spanish. All other officials were negroes. A customs’ inspector of West Indian descent, as immaculate in wh

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V

V

A motor-schooner was about to leave for Costa Rica. Its skipper was a Cayman Islander—a hard-faced ruffian with a whiskey-shaded mustache, who might have passed for a white man were it not for his Jamaican speech. Its crew was composed of semi-naked blacks. But all of them understood seamanship, which was fortunate, for the passing of the Red Bar, at the mouth of the San Juan, is fraught with danger. We crept out through a winding channel. Giant combers, sweeping across the low sandspit, caught

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VI

VI

Five years earlier I had visited Costa Rica—after my flight from Mexico—and it was good to see it again. We threaded our way among the reefs of Limón harbor, toward a sickle of white beach fringed with graceful coco-palms. In the distance rose lofty mountains, verdant with forest and jungle, towering up and up toward the filmy white clouds. Over it all was the bluest of skies. This was the land which admiring Spaniards, years ago, christened “Rich Coast,” and no country has ever been more aptly

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VII

VII

Costa Rica is not only the most charming country in Central America, but usually the best-behaved. So stable is its government that land upon the Costa Rican side of the San Juan River is far more valuable than the same sort of property on the Nicaraguan side. It is one of the few countries south of the Rio Grande which can elect a new president without shooting the old one. Its leading families are so interrelated that the chief executiveship is largely a household affair. As a general rule, th

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VIII

VIII

This story, it should be emphasized again, is not typical of Costa Rica. Although the second smallest of the Central-American republics, it is the most progressive. Fortune favored it in the beginning by giving it few gold mines to attract to its shores the swashbuckling adventurer whose blood to-day keeps so many of the neighboring countries in turmoil. It is essentially a country of coffee and bananas, and so fertile that wooden railway ties and telegraph poles are popularly reputed to take ro

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IX

IX

To be fair to these countries, no story of revolution is altogether typical of any of them. Life even in Mexico or Honduras is normally tranquil. Bloodshed and comic opera are not the rule, but the exception. If all of these republics have their turbulent moments, they quickly recover . After the flight of Tinoco, Costa Rica settled quickly into its accustomed routine. Through the narrow Moorish streets the oxen plodded slowly behind the driver’s goad-pole, their noses to the ground, their massi

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I

I

A fruit steamer carried me back to New Orleans. After several months of travel in Mexico and Central America—travel marked by many delays, by many postponements until mañana , by many controversies with petty officials, and by many struggles with the pompous formality of diminutive republics—one looked forward to landing again in an Anglo-Saxon country. The steamer docked at eight in the evening. The immigration inspector had gone home. “How soon may we land?” the passengers inquired. “To-morrow

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II

II

On the Pullman that carried me northward to New York, a traveling man engaged me in conversation. “I see you’ve been to South America. I noticed the Nicaragua label on your suit-case. How’s things down there? Pretty wild bunch, ain’t they?” And he laid aside his newspaper, which contained accounts of one lynching, one fist fight on the floor of Congress, four fashionable divorce scandals, one Ku Klux Klan outrage, sixteen robberies, two incendiary fires, seven murders, and the innumerable charge

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III

III

Perhaps, since in my first chapter my destination was Panama, I ought to mention it. I stopped there for several weeks after my first flight from Mexico. The Canal Zone, regarded as an example of what Anglo-Saxon efficiency can do to the tropics, was quite astounding. The once fever-stricken swamp had become a well-ordered garden of palm-shaded walks lined with neat cottages. The screening which inclosed each dwelling was no longer necessary. The malaria-bearing mosquito had departed. In the big

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IV

IV

Among the many letters awaiting me at home, there was one with a Mexican postmark. It was from the long-lost Eustace. It said: “I suppose you’ll wonder why I haven’t written you before. The fact is, I’ve fallen into the swing of things down here, and keep putting everything off until mañana . “After I left you in Mexico City that day, ever so long ago, I reached Manzanillo without difficulty. There was nothing thrilling about my escape. I simply boarded a steamer and sailed away. “For a couple o

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