A Gringo in Mañana-Land

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 varying from one to three weeks, at a shabby hotel in a blazing hot town whose inhabitants earn their living by overcharging such travelers as fate has thus thrown into their grasp.

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 the wharf until the baggage was aboard, I surrendered it to him, and he placed it on the extreme edge of the stern, precariously balanced on the small end, tying it fast with the rest of the cargo, but with a flimsy piece of cord which threatened at any moment to break and spill the entire load into the Gulf of Fonseca.

“It’s all right,” he assured me. “I have my eye on it!”

Then, as the soldiers finally permitted us to embark—after an official had ascertained that my passport was properly viséd by the Honduran Minister of Foreign Relations—the officious mozo climbed upon the thwarts to offer me an unnecessary hand. “When we arrived at Amapala, señor, I’ll show you to the hotel.”

“I already know one hotel there.”

“Then I’ll show you to the other one.”

I had frequently encountered his type in nearly every port of the world. He believed all traveling Yankees to be simpletons with the one redeeming virtue of lavishness in bestowing tips for useless services. Throughout the four-hour ride across the Gulf, he sat opposite me, smiling sweetly whenever he could catch my attention. And when we drew up beside the wharf at Amapala, he untied my suit-case first. But having untied it, he left it while he assisted the rest of the crew in dragging eight heavy trunks up a slippery flight of wooden steps.

According to local custom, another squad of soldiers herded all passengers ashore to answer another questionnaire, and from the dock I looked down to see my suit-case dancing and rocking unsteadily with each swell that rolled in from the misnamed Pacific. From the opposite end of the launch, the mozo held up his palm in the Latin-American gesture that signifies, “Patience.”

“No hay cuidado, señor. I’m watching it.”

But it was already toppling. And the shadowy figure of a shark, cruising about the murky waters below, suggested the impracticability of recovering it later by diving. Avoiding the guard, I landed back on the launch, and caught the suit-case just as it started to fall. Four ragged urchins, waiting on the dock to carry baggage, leaped after me to struggle for its possession. The mozo joined the fray. We surged back and forth across the deck, while the shark waited below, until our battle was interrupted by a policeman with drawn revolver.

“You are arrested!” he screamed at me.

And he marched me to the commandancia, where a pompous official lectured me, politely but firmly, upon the insult I had paid the government of Honduras. It was a small country, he said, but it possessed high ideals. The authority of its army was a thing to be respected. Considering that I was a foreigner and not acquainted with local customs, I would be forgiven. But in the future, he hoped I should never jump off a dock onto a boat until all cargo was unloaded.

As I walked out of the office, still clinging to my suit-case, the mozo came up to demand his tip for keeping an eye on it. I waited a moment to see how much the policeman would expect for his services in arresting me, but he collected only the customary fee which all passengers paid for the use of the wharf in disembarking.

So I turned toward the steamship office, to learn when I might proceed to Nicaragua.

“Quién sabe? We expected two passenger vessels. But the one, last night at La Unión, went back to La Libertad for six more sacks of coffee. And the other, having filled with coffee at San José de Guatemala, has canceled its schedule entirely.”

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 travelers. The female population took in washing. Rather dark, and not distinguished for beauty, the younger ones called at the hotel for the laundry; the older ones did the work. They took the clothes to the waterfront, laid the garments on flat rocks, and pounded the buttons off with a stout club. Then they left them to bleach, spreading them out on scrubby little bushes whose berries stained them with yellow spots, while they themselves—already stripped to the waist for comfort—retired to the shallow water to immerse themselves through the hot mid-day. In the evening they collected the garments, carried them home, and ripped them into shreds with rusty irons. Finally, having wrapped them into a neat bundle with the least-ruined articles on top, the younger girls brought them back with smiling countenances, and the inquiry:

“Is that all, señor?”

As a town, Amapala was not unpicturesque. Its whitewashed houses, beneath red-tiled roofs, were set amid palms and bougainvillea. If at noon it seemed to wither under the dry white heat of a tropic sun, there was usually a breeze in the evening, with a tang of salt from the ocean. Across the Gulf of Fonseca, if one looked beyond the fleet of scows and lighters in the foreground, one could see myriad islands and the cones of several Salvadorean volcanoes. There was a play of red and gold at sunset, then the purple and silver of twilight, and finally a glorious night with stars twinkling above and fireflies below, and the glare of the volcanoes tracing a crimson path through the waters of the bay.

Its only point of interest, however, was the cliff where occurred a bloody incident in a long-past war between Nicaragua and Honduras. Some many years ago Nicaragua, having confiscated a smuggling schooner, had armed it with a cannon, and feeling rather cocky in its possession of a navy, had dispatched it to fight Honduras. It came up to Amapala and fired one shot. The bloody incident occurred when a Honduranean, standing on the cliff, craned his neck to see where the shot landed, and fell into the Gulf of Fonseca.

From the cone of the extinct volcano that rose above Amapala, one could see Honduras, Salvador, and Nicaragua. Each was but a few hours’ distance from the other, yet the traveler might wait indefinitely for a boat. Shields, my companion on the auto trip from Guatemala to Santa Ana, was now in Amapala, also bound for Nicaragua, and had already been waiting over a week.

He spent most of his time on the hotel veranda, scanning the horizon with a telescope. This operation afforded much entertainment for the village idiot. Each Central-American port seems to contain one weak-minded or defective youth, who sits all day at the hotel to watch the every movement of a visiting foreigner. In Amapala it was “The Dummy.”

He was a harmless, pleasant little brown fellow in ragged breeches and an undershirt salvaged from the rubbish pile. How he lived, no one seemed able to explain. Some one apparently fed him. No one apparently washed him. Occasionally he earned a few pennies by performing tricks for tourists. His chief accomplishment was that of resting his bare toe upon a lighted cigarette. He was always cheerful, and affable, and he would chat with us by the hour in parrot-like squawks made intelligible by a marvelous art of mimicry. He could describe any one in Amapala by a single gesture. For the Commandante he twisted an imaginary mustache. For the Chinaman, he pulled down his cheeks to give his eyes an oblique slant. He became our constant associate and entertainer, guide, counselor and friend.

From time to time, as an alternative amusement, Shields wrote passionate love letters to the daughters of the Commandante—the only two white girls in town—to which missives, I later learned, he usually signed my name. The Dummy would serve as emissary, and upon his return would enact the giggling of the señoritas, and the wrathful explosions of their parents.

Toward evening, the two girls sometimes made their appearance to stroll in the plaza, accompanied by a male relative with a rifle. Occasionally they would stop at the hotel for a glass of lemonade, and would subject Shields and myself to the careful scrutiny to which señoritas invariably subject a strange youth, while their companion sat beside them with the rifle over his knees. Still later the Commandante himself would join them, favoring us with a stern military glance of warning.

The Dummy always sidled away at his approach, for the Commandante had arrested him not long ago. He often told us the story in his own crude language. The trouble had been about a woman. From his ecstatic expression, she must have been beautiful. He would point at his face, then at his black trousers, to suggest her complexion, and a twist of his fingers would indicate kinky hair. He showed us in pantomime the evil intentions of a rival. He seized a rock and planted it with much zest against the villain’s imaginary skull. He whistled shrilly. That was a policeman! He slumped into a heap as the imaginary club descended upon his head. He placed his wrists together. Handcuffed! He held up ten fingers. The Commandante had sentenced him to ten days! Then he gave a series of unintelligible parrot-squawks, and pointed toward La Unión. During his imprisonment, the girl had fled with the rival! He shook his head sadly, and ran a hand across his throat. Was he meditating suicide? Or was he planning revenge? His story always ended in the harsh, mirthless laughter of an imbecile, and he sidled away, for the Commandante, having partaken of his cocktail, was leading his family home.

In the evening the Consular Agent, fat and jovial, would drop in for a glass of beer. His only official duty at present was looking after a Panamanian sailor who had fallen down the hold of the last vessel in port and broken a shoulder bone.

“It might have killed a white man, but you can’t hurt these natives. Down in Nicaragua, I saw one fellow sink a pen-knife two inches into another fellow’s skull. We just pulled it out, and the man went on working.”

And many other yarns would follow, the locale varying from Chile, where they use those little curved blades with an upward thrust, to the Philippines, where the Moros take your head off with one deft swing of a bolo. We would all collaborate, the stories growing more and more astounding until we reached the incident of the Mexican who swam two miles after a shark had bitten off his stomach.

“I believe it,” the Consular Agent would nod. “Down in Costa Rica a shark bit one of my pearl-divers, and took out a chunk as big as a watermelon. We clapped it back on, plastered the edges with a little mud—”

Then we would have another beer, and the Consular Agent would stroll homeward. The street lamps flickered. Five ragged soldiers—the night patrol—glided past us like phantoms through the dark street. A peon girl hurried along the sidewalk, and the Dummy, bidding us good-night, ran after her with shrill parrot-like squawks. Within the hotel the Chinaman sat imperturbable as a Buddha, waiting to close up his establishment, while the town’s three German merchants drowsed at a table.

Shields and I would rise and yawn.

“To-morrow there may be a boat.”

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 swinging clubs, the tars all trooped into the establishment.

“Hello there, buddy! Say, kin you talk this spig language? Tell that Chink we want liquor!”

And presently they were all over the city, bargaining in every shop, contriving somehow despite their ignorance of Spanish to obtain whatever they desired. They purchased native rope bags, and filled them with fresh eggs, live turtles, earthenware jars, Spanish daggers, goat-skulls, fruits, vegetables, and snake skins. They stood on street corners, frowning over handfuls of unfamiliar coins received in exchange, wondering to what extent they had been cheated.

“Hey there, feller. You’re a Yank, ain’t you? Tell me how much I’ve got here in real money.”

One husky tar, with a sailor’s knack of getting acquainted, rolled up the street with a native girl on his arm, amid the cheers of his friends. He had a sandwich in one hand, and a flask in the other. She was a chubby little brown creature, in a tight-fitting red dress, and her short fat legs bulged above the tops of high, tightly-laced boots that appeared newly purchased.

“Wait a minute, sister. We’re goin’ in here an’ get you a hat. You’ll be some swell skoit when I get finished wit’ you.”

They vanished into a shop. When they emerged, the lady wore a green and yellow bonnet trimmed with purple and blue. She was leading her hero toward the village photographer’s to immortalize in tin-type this thrilling event. They came out with the photographer’s parrot. The sailor had purchased it, and was teaching it to say:

“To hell wit’ the marines!”

Gradually, as the hour of departure drew near, all would gravitate toward the saloon at the wharf, where they purchased more flasks of whiskey for the journey to their ship. The little native bartender, overwhelmed at the many orders shouted at him in a strange tongue, became completely paralyzed, whereupon every one helped himself, and tossed greenbacks across the bar. At last the S.P.’s commenced to herd the crowd toward their launch. A delinquent always came running from town at the last moment, his bag of eggs bouncing against his uniform and creating golden havoc. The little native bartender came to life to scream that two flasks had not been paid for. The escort of the lady in the red dress had a fight at the end of the wharf with several of his cronies who considered it their privilege to kiss her farewell.

“Act like gentlemen, you —— —— ——, or I’ll poke you one in the snout!”

Then, packed into their trim white craft, they were gone, leaving Amapala flooded with crisp new American greenbacks.

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 fairly good dock, and sat there for three hours while the American-supervised customs officials finished their siesta. Then we passed into such a town as might have formed the locale of O. Henry’s “Cabbages and Kings.”

The unpaved streets were grown with grass, neatly cropped by grazing herds of livestock. The buildings were mostly flimsy wooden structures sadly in need of paint. There was nothing to distinguish Corinto—the principal seaport of Nicaragua—from any other port along the Central-American coast.

A railway—one of the American-managed institutions—carried me inland through a scraggly jungle. The country was comparatively level; occasional volcanic peaks, rising abruptly from the plain, had rendered it fertile with their lava dust; frequent lakes indicated a plentiful water supply. Yet one observed few of the rich plantations that covered such land in the other Central-American republics; occasionally there was a field of pineapples or sugar-cane; as a rule, the road led through wilderness.

León, the second city of Nicaragua, lay thick in dust. Its streets were unpaved. Its houses, of brilliant green or yellow, with trimmings of blue and red, were resplendent in the blinding tropic sunlight, but upon close inspection, they proved somewhat dilapidated. Its cathedral towers, rising at every corner, were cracked and ridden from earthquake and revolution. The whole town seemed very old and very sleepy, and drowsing in the memories of a past. The American occupation had brought an end to civil strife on a large scale, but it evidently had not brought the prosperity to mend its ravages.

THE AMERICAN INTERVENTION HAD BROUGHT PEACE, BUT MANAGUA’S DUSTY STREETS SUGGESTED NO PROSPERITY

Managua, the capital, was in no better repair. It was situated at an altitude of only 140 feet—by far the lowest altitude of any Central-American capital. It sweltered in heat, relieved somewhat by the breezes from its lakefront, but like Corinto and León it was a city of sand, and the breezes filled the streets with swirling dust. Each lumbering ox-cart left a cloud in its wake. It lay two inches deep on the main avenues. It covered the grassless plaza, and the barren expanse of desert before the old cathedral, where vegetation was sprouting from a fallen spire. It settled upon the low roofs of the drab shops and dwellings. It seeped inside through door or window, and formed a coating upon the tiled floor of the hotel. Now and then a civic employee would turn a hose upon some portion of the Sahara, to convert it momentarily to mud, but no sooner did he cease than the blazing sun reconverted it to sand, and the breezes sent it whirling again.

Nicaragua was a country of many natural advantages. Its people appeared to be of better caliber than those of Honduras. Its area—49,200 square miles—was the greatest in Central America. Its land was all suitable for cultivation. Its potential wealth—in mahogany and hardwoods, in gold and silver and other metals—is estimated by many authorities to exceed that of any of its neighbors. Yet the imports and exports of this largest republic were far below those of Salvador, the smallest. Its cities—although upon closer inspection, they proved to contain better shops and hotels—were outwardly less imposing than those of Honduras. And when I offered a merchant a ten-dollar bill, he threw up his hands with the exclamation:

“You must change your large money at the bank!”

I turned to an Old-Timer, himself an American.

“Hasn’t our country done anything to make this a regular republic?”

“Son,” he said, “this was a regular republic before our country stepped in.”

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 it the privilege to amuse himself as he saw fit. If he needed money, he horsewhipped the wealthier merchants until they offered a “voluntary” contribution. If he saw a woman he desired, he sent for her to come to the palace. Presently he commenced to meddle in his neighbor’s affairs, fomenting revolutions in the adjoining countries, and thumbing his nose at the United States.

In 1909 a revolution started in his own country, over at the isolated port of Bluefields on the Caribbean coast. There are rumors that it had the backing of American capitalists. These rumors arise from the fact that Adolfo Diaz, then the treasurer of the revolution—and later the leading actor in the drama—was an humble employee of an American concern. Diaz denies these rumors. “Every penny,” he told me in Managua, “was contributed by Nicaraguans.” But certain it is that the revolution had the sympathy of the United States government.

President Taft, at the time, frankly described Zelaya in a message to Congress as “an international nuisance.” And when, during the fighting, the Zelayistas executed two American soldiers of fortune caught red-handed attempting to dynamite troopships on the San Juan River, the American government made this trivial incident the pretext for hinting broadly that it was time for Zelaya to resign. Zelaya did resign, leaving the presidency in the hands of an excellent man backed by all the old lieutenants of the Zelayista party. The United States was not satisfied. And when the Zelayistas, having licked the revolutionists to a frazzle, were about to take their stronghold at Bluefields, an American gunboat intervened on the ground that further fighting might destroy American property.

From some mysterious source—which all Latin America believes to be the United States—the revolutionists obtained new ammunition. They sallied out from Bluefields again, thrashed the Zelayistas, and overturned the government. One General Estrada, the leader of the insurrection, became president, but he soon gave way to Adolfo Diaz. Now enters upon the scene the American banker.

President Diaz found the country bankrupt. There is much controversy as to how the debt originated, each party blaming it on the other. The truth is that Zelaya had left several millions in the treasury because he had just negotiated a loan with British bankers and had not had time to spend it. He also left a long list of claims because of his high-handed confiscation of property. The revolutionists had doubled the bill by their own destruction of property during the warfare. Wherefore blame is divided. The important fact is that Don Adolfo found his country in debt to the extent of over thirty-two million dollars, a staggering sum to a small republic. He called upon a firm of New York bankers for a loan of fifteen million.

This transaction was arranged through the American State Department by a treaty which the Senate—newly turned democratic when Wilson replaced Taft—refused to ratify. Nicaragua, however, regarded it as an agreement. As security for the loan, the bankers took over the collection of the customs, and arranged to look after the whole business of the national debt. They never advanced the loan. They did advance a million and a half, followed by comparatively trifling sums, to stabilize the currency and reorganize the national bank, but they also took over the bank. Later, when another million was advanced, they took over the operation of the Nicaraguan railway.

President Diaz, now retired to civil life, assumes full responsibility for these transactions. He is a pleasant little gentleman with graying hair and a frank, boyish smile.

“I asked the bankers to do it. I was taking the only means I had to bring my country out of financial chaos. But I became, as a result, the most hated man in Nicaragua.”

In fact, all Nicaragua called him a traitor, accused him of selling the republic to the American capitalists, and rose to overthrow him. For three days, in 1912, the rest of the country poured cannon balls into Managua, until President Diaz asked the United States for protection. Two thousand American marines were promptly landed. Having suppressed the revolution, they left a “legation guard” in Managua as an intimation that the United States stood ready to suppress any further uprisings.

Indirectly these marines make presidents to-day.

Elections in Nicaragua are as much a farce as in Mexico. Whoever controls the polls wins the verdict. Wherefore the Conservative party, which first invited the American bankers, has remained steadily in power. It can be defeated only by revolution, which the marines prevent.

“You ought to be here at election time,” said an old American resident, “and see them run their voters from one booth to another by the truckload. They number about one-tenth of the population, but they always win.”

If the marines were withdrawn—even the Conservatives themselves admitted to me—the present government would be overthrown within twenty-four hours. Nicaragua, as a whole, never endorsed the invitation to the American capitalists. When the Conservatives invited them, the entire country turned Liberal. If Zelaya were to come to life and return to Managua, he would find the republic waiting with open arms. But while the marines are present, the Liberals are helpless.

IF THE AMERICAN MARINES WERE WITHDRAWN FROM NICARAGUA A REVOLUTION WOULD TRANSPIRE OVER-NIGHT

At the time of my visit another election campaign was starting. Realizing their dependence upon Washington, the Liberals had affected a change of heart, announcing that they would support the bankers as ardently as the Conservatives, and asking for a new election law which would keep their opponents from stuffing the ballot boxes. A new law had been drafted by a New York lawyer. The Liberals were hopeful, but uncertain.

“Who will be your candidate?” I asked one of their leaders.

“We do not know yet,” he said. “We have not heard who will be most acceptable to Washington.”

During my several weeks in Managua, I talked with most of the actors who had played leading rôles in the international drama. I do not believe that the United States was guilty of a deep-laid plot to gain possession of the little republic. I believe that the American government acted for the best interests of the Nicaraguans. But when one reviews the train of events since 1909, one sees at a glance that they can very easily be misinterpreted until they look decidedly nasty. First came a revolution, assisted by an American gunboat, which doubled the already-overwhelming national debt. Then came American bankers, taking charge of the national debt, and exacting as security everything of value in the republic. Then came the American marines, keeping in power the minority party that invited the bankers, against the will of Nicaragua itself. And all Latin America chooses to regard these events as part of a deep-laid program of intrigue.

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, although the bankers deny it, every Nicaraguan—and nearly every foreign resident—proclaims that the country is far less prosperous to-day than in the worst days of Zelaya.

This is largely due to the fact that the bankers administering Nicaragua’s finances are devoting all their attention to clearing up the old national debt.

Colonel Clifford D. Ham, the American collector of customs, has reduced this debt from over thirty-two million dollars to less than nine million. There is no country in the world, except the United States, whose finances are to-day in such flourishing condition as those of Nicaragua. But this means nothing to the average native. No Latin-American is ever roused individually to a high pitch of enthusiasm over the prospect of paying what he owes. Collectively he finds the idea quite objectionable, particularly when the indebtedness was contracted a long time ago. And so he says, “These Americans turn aside at our very gates every penny that would otherwise flow into the country; they are draining the very life-blood from the nation!” He points to the fact that when the American government, a few years ago, purchased the rights to build a Nicaraguan Canal at some time in the future, and paid therefor three million dollars, the money never left New York, but was applied immediately upon that infernal debt.

The national bank has stabilized the currency, so that the Nicaraguan cordoba is on a par with the American dollar. According to the bankers there is more money in circulation to-day in Nicaragua than ever before. But the Nicaraguan insists that prices have risen so that he now can buy only half as much as in the days of Zelaya, forgetting that prices have risen throughout the world. “All the money is in the bank, and I can not obtain credit without giving security!” The Latin is not a hard, cold business man; he resents these business-like methods; he curses the commerciality of the gringo.

The railway, when the Americans took it over, was a total wreck. The employees had not been paid for two weeks, since there was just $2.49 in the cash-drawer. The names of thirty-five dead men were found still on the payroll. Some of the locomotive engineers were barefoot. Most of the workers had to draw their salary in the form of an I.O.U., which could be cashed at a twenty per cent. discount at the office of a local pawnbroker. Every one of any political prominence expected a pass; the more influential were accustomed to private cars, or to the courtesy of having the regular passenger train stop to wait several hours for them while they paid visits along the line. To-day the road is in good shape; it operates systematically as railways should operate; it operates also at a profit instead of a deficit, and is earning money which is steadily rebuying itself back into the hands of the Nicaraguan government. But the Nicaraguan is suspicious. Whenever the American manager buys a new locomotive, the newspapers proclaim that he has done so to run up the bills in order that Nicaragua can not regain control of the road.

Some day in the near future the American capitalist will retire, leaving Nicaragua in excellent shape for progress.

Since the Latin-American lives completely in the present, the Nicaraguan can not appreciate work that builds for future prosperity. He sees no visible result of the American coöperation. He knows only that his country has been at a standstill since the Americans came. He loudly damns the gringo. And all Latin America echoes his accusations against the scheming Colossus of the North. So, unfortunately, does many an American resident in Nicaragua.

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 Yankee who attains prominence in the republic.

These papers, like the dailies of Guatemala, are mostly four-sheet publications with the flavor of rural journalism. They are printed, usually at a loss, by gentlemen of political aspirations who desire an organ for self-expression. The reporters, inspired by the same vanity, editorialize in every news report. In mentioning the arrival of an actress, they felicitate her and wish her success. In describing the arrest of some petty criminal, they express the hope that he may be convicted and hanged and dealt with not too leniently in purgatory. In attacking Americans, however, they reach their highest flights of eloquence. No article on politics or finance is complete without an allusion to “the oppressive hand of the American banker.” And when the banker has been exhausted as a source of indignant outpourings, they give their attention to the other American residents.

On one occasion they flamed out against young René Wallace, the son of a Yankee merchant, because he had organized a league of basket-ball clubs among the young ladies of Nicaraguan society. They proclaimed indignantly that he was trying to deprive the local señoritas of all modesty and gentleness by arraying them in bloomers and teaching them the hoydenish games wherein no self-respecting woman could indulge.

On another occasion they flamed out against Dr. Daniel M. Molloy, of the Rockefeller Foundation, because the name of Rockefeller suggested to them another capitalistic invasion. This Foundation has been active throughout Central America, particularly in combating hook-worm, wherewith nearly all the barefoot inhabitants are infected. It suppressed a yellow fever epidemic which swept throughout these countries in 1918. It has built hospitals, improved water supplies, taught hygiene, and worked in many other ways for the betterment of the various republics. The ignorant peons, indifferent to hygiene, had always regarded sickness and disease as something inevitable, to be accepted with fatalistic patience. In infant mortality, Mexico surpasses all the world’s civilized communities, while its total death-rate is thrice that of the United States, and it is safe to assume that the Central-American republics—in the absence of statistics—keep pace with Mexico. The educated classes have never made much effort to relieve this situation. In Tegucigalpa a recently appointed director of a government hospital had to begin his work by removing forty-two cans of garbage left in the hospital patio by the last director. The Rockefeller Foundation there, in employing a new native physician of high standing in the community, discovered that he had never studied bacteriology and had but a vague idea that any diseases were caused by germs. In lands where such conditions prevail, the Foundation should have been hailed as a God-send, especially since it came largely at its own expense. But a newspaper in León published daily editorials attacking Dr. Molloy, and insisting that Rockefeller would presently be demanding oil concessions. When no such demands were forthcoming, the editor found another argument in the fact that Dr. Molloy was advocating new methods in sewerage disposal.

“Aha!” he shouted on his front page. “We see the nigger in the woodpile. This gringo is a secret representative of a manufacturing firm that hopes to sell us American plumbing devices!”

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 performing in Tegucigalpa. The Honduran government, having paid her expenses to the country, had allowed her to get out as best she could, wherefore she was now about to dance in the neighboring capitals. All Nicaragua felt honored. Every poet in the country tuned his lyre, and prepared to sing her praises.

In Central America nearly every one who can write is a poet. The composition of verses is a universal indoor sport among the young men. On Sunday each newspaper devotes a page to the unremunerated labors of the local bards. Guests at the hotels, seeing me scribbling in a note book, always inquired whether I were writing verses. Every one who can afford the luxury, prints privately his musings, which no one else ever seems to read. When it became known that Frijolita would dance, the editors themselves took a crack at versification, and published their outpourings neatly boxed on the first sheet.

I shared my hotel room with Bosco, the tenor, and Maestro, the orchestra conductor. Frijolita, stopping at the most expensive hotel, had dispatched them to the sort of hostelry where itinerant travel-writers were forced to stay, and they were much incensed. But to our room came the minor devotees of art from the Nicaraguan population to bask in their glory, and both Bosco and Maestro entertained them with stories of Frijolita’s absurd temperament, and with sly comments upon her age, suggesting that she had not really danced before a crowned head since Napoleon Bonaparte went into exile.

Bosco was a cheerful person. He was small and rotund, but he sang divinely, and was not stingy with his accomplishment. In the early morning he poked a bleary countenance from his mosquito-net and greeted the Indian servant-maid with an aria. Then he would stroll out into the patio in his pajamas, carrying his guitar, to serenade the other ladies of the establishment.

Maestro was a withered, elderly person, once famous but fallen into obscurity. He was taciturn and unsociable. His one love was his fiddle. He would stroll away by himself to the back regions of the hotel, where he found inspiration in the banana trees and the rubbish heap, and there he would evoke weird squeals from his instrument in an effort to perfect what he described as a new technique.

Frijolita remained at the more expensive hotel, giving out daily interviews to the press about the many royal scions who had committed suicide because she could not respond to their love. Her husband sometimes came to call upon us. He was a dapper little fellow; his hair was very long; his face was always neatly powdered; his smile was endearing. He would greet us with a gentle wave of the hand or a gesture of his cane; ask after our health; and withdraw gracefully, a vision of dainty, silken-clad ankles, leaving a trail of haunting perfume behind him.

A week elapsed. Maestro devoted it to informing his acquaintances that Frijolita was treating him like a dog. Then came the much-awaited début.

The theater was a shabby structure of European design, its two balconies consisting of boxes and loges, where sat the ladies of society. The unattached men filled the pit, many with their hats on, craning their necks to stare aloft. We waited an hour and a half for the President. He finally arrived. Every one rose. The orchestra played the national anthem. It was greeted with vast applause. Little withered Maestro turned and bowed. Then the orchestra played again—that piece about daybreak or springtime or something wherein the trapdrummer usually toots upon a bird-whistle. Here the trapdrummer had no bird-whistle. But the curtain went up just the same, revealing a conventional backdrop, and a huddled mass of plumes in the foreground which proved to be none other than Frijolita herself, apparently asleep.

More applause! Thunderous applause! It awakened Frijolita. Very slowly she arose from the floor and commenced to undulate. At some time in the distant past, one sensed that she had been a great dancer. Nowadays one felt that she had reached the stage where she ought to interpret only the classics. She was just a bit too heavy to do popular stuff. But she was game. She undulated faster and faster. She flitted and romped and turned somersaults. Applause became a roar of approval. The music ceased. She bowed, leaped behind the curtain, emerged in a Spanish shawl, unwound it and threw it away, leaped back behind the curtain, emerged in another shawl—

There were fourteen shawls to be unwound, while the roar grew to a tumult. Then she was gone. Bosco, who was not singing to-night, came out of the wings, and hurried through the auditorium with a preoccupied air to let the public know he was connected in some way with the troupe, while Maestro acknowledged with grateful genuflections the approval of the spectators. It was an exhibition such as might be seen in any second-rate vaudeville house on Broadway as a curtain-raiser, but it was an event in Managua. Most of the Nicaraguans recognized it as an inferior performance, but outwardly they maintained an air of joyous appreciation largely patriotic.

Frijolita had no supporting troupe. There was a brief intermission; then she broke loose again. This time she displayed an elephantine pair of bare legs, and the roar of approval increased. Again and again she danced, interpreting thereby—according to the program—the latest wiggles of every land from Egypt to Japan. She came finally to her masterpiece, the genuine Hawaiian hula-hula. And then occurred the unexpected climax. Maestro, either by accident or malicious design, stopped his music too soon, leaving her with one foot in the air.

Frijolita flew into a rage. Her far-famed temperament burst all bounds. Rushing to front-stage, she screamed revilement at the musician. All Managua cheered her. Rising in his wrath, Maestro screamed revilement at her. And all Managua cheered him. Frijolita was outraged. She seized such pieces of scenery as were not nailed down, and commenced to hurl them. The President, feeling that the whole affair was beneath his dignity, took his departure. Frijolita’s husband came teetering forward to mediate.

“Qué pasa?” he inquired pleasantly. “What’s the trouble?”

Frijolita glared at him.

“What sort of man are you? Why don’t you defend me?”

He fled before another shower of scenery, and Frijolita fled after him. Managua carried the little Maestro out upon its shoulders, and treated him to champagne, delighted at the unanticipated entertainment he had offered.

But the next day the local papers did not mention the incident. Perhaps the editors felt that they must maintain appearances, and that Managua’s semi-annual outburst of culture should pass off—in the press at least—with éclat. Or perhaps they had already composed their poems, and could not deny themselves the satisfaction of publishing them. For the verses appeared, neatly boxed on the first page, eulogizing the performance of the incomparable artiste, Frijolita.

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! Formidable blows of the bat! Thrilling to the emotions! Do not miss it! Do not miss it! To the field on Sunday at the ten of the morning! To the field!”

Baseball is firmly established. Boxing has long been opposed in Latin America as a brutal amusement suitable only to gringos, but it has gained much popularity since the advent of Firpo.

One Sunday afternoon I drifted out to the field to see the local champions. There was a rickety grand-stand, but the ring stood far away from it in the center of a bare pasture. If one wished a ringside seat, one could take a camp-chair and move it wherever he pleased. Every one started back in the shade of the stand, and edged his seat forward as the shadows lengthened, finally reaching the ring in time for the final bout.

The promoter acted as introducer and referee. He was a prominent local politician—a large, stout gentleman in a big leather sombrero. He commenced with two diminutive urchins, who knew nothing of boxing; they fought so gamely that they were fagged before the end of the first round, but they struggled through three of them, obtaining additional rest while the promoter explained that they must not kick or bite, and then returning to the fray to put both hands together and shove them toward the adversary’s face.

Next came two older boys. Then two full-grown men, one barefoot, one in shoes and silk shirt. The barefoot one, a wild-looking Indian with dark face and long hair, had evidently learned his strategy by watching game-cocks. He kept edging sidewise as though he did not see the other fellow. He would start his swing by winding up like a baseball pitcher. The other could always see it coming and leap aside, but it was an unwieldy swing, and the other invariably jumped into it, until his silk shirt was crimson. The spectators were delighted. They could not appreciate science, but they recognized blood when they saw it, and screamed their approval. The Indian won.

Then came the semi-finals and the finals. Here the participants were trained to some extent, but they were handicapped by Latin vanity. They were constantly posing before the crowd. Between the rounds, instead of resting, they would turn to their admirers to make a speech. “He got me by accident last time, but I’ll show you something when the bell rings.” If one were knocked to the floor, instead of taking his count of nine even when he sadly needed it, he would leap immediately to his feet, determined to redeem himself in the eyes of his followers. Or one of them, having backed the other against the ropes and pummeled him to a pulp, would forgo his advantage to listen to the applause.

But these men were fighters. The old phrase, “the fistless Latin,” is rapidly becoming obsolete. These scrappers never stalled or clinched to save themselves or to gain time. They fought harder than any American pugilist. And they had infinite courage. In the final bout one youth was greatly outweighed; his opponent cut his eye in the very first round so that he was almost blinded; even the Nicaraguan spectators, much as they loved gore, suggested that the battle should stop, but the little fellow insisted on continuing; he was beaten into a bloody mess, knocked down again and again, pounded until it became a torture, but he never wavered; the moment he regained his feet he rushed forward courageously for additional punishment with a fortitude that no Anglo-Saxon could surpass.

In many phases of life these people acquit themselves as poor sportsmen, especially in their politics, but they are learning. Sportsmanship, after all, is not a hereditary virtue, but one acquired through experience. What American can not recall the many squabbles that marked his earliest boyhood ventures into athletics? It is only by training that one learns to abide by the decision of an umpire. I was rather amazed to notice that not one of the Nicaraguan boxers contested the decision of the referee.

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 bullying attitude toward the natives, no tendency to pick a fight with the local police.

“The only difficulty we ever have,” said the American minister, John E. Ramer, “is that now and then one of them falls in love with a Nicaraguan señorita. The lad might be able to support her in her accustomed luxury here, but he couldn’t do it at home. Consequently, for the best interests of both parties, the officers—if they see it coming—try to cheat Cupid by transferring the man to another post.”

The barracks are situated on the outskirts of town. The men are well quartered—with drill-grounds, club, baseball diamond, moving picture theater, and tennis courts—and so completely comfortable that a Nicaraguan president, paying a visit to the camp, once threw up his hands in astonishment with the exclamation:

“Your privates live like generals!”

Adjacent to their cantonment is that of the Nicaraguan soldiers. I strolled over to the native barracks one day with Corporal Landy, the Legation orderly.

“Hello, you bandits!” he greeted them, and all the Nicaraguans grinned. “These devils,” he explained to me in Spanish, that they might hear, “never have any drill or fatigue or anything else to do except to sit around and watch us sweat.” And they all chuckled good-humoredly, as though they liked it. Very casually he took the gun away from a native sentry to show me the rust upon it. “And that cannon they have there, if you were to fire it, would turn a somersault and land on its back.”

They talked together on friendly terms about the night last year when a revolution was expected. Each had the other covered with machine-guns in case of an emergency. They laugh about it now, and each assures the other, “I was aiming straight at you that night.”

I attended an inspection one Saturday morning. The Rochester, previously at Amapala, had reached Corinto, and Admiral Dayton came up to inspect the troops. There was a close-order drill, then extended order, then fire call, and finally the call to arms wherein every man took the post he would take in case of actual fighting in Managua. The bugle rang out. There was a scurrying of machine-gunners to the various emplacements about the barracks. Down by the front entrance the sallying party formed to charge with fixed bayonets through the streets of Managua.

Just across the line, the Nicaraguan troops sat cross-legged on the ground, and grinned appreciatively, as though they felt that this was an exhibition staged for their personal entertainment. They themselves were never called upon to practice for such emergencies. When the marines first did it, some years ago, the native soldiers had all scurried back into the barracks to get their own guns, while an anxious presidential voice came over the telephone wire to the American Legation, demanding:

“What’s the matter in your camp? Your marines are running about like madmen! Are they declaring war upon us?”

They soon assembled again, and marched back to the barracks, while the band played “Dixie,” and the stars and stripes floated in the breeze. This whole occupation, because of its aspect in foreign eyes, was a thing that might be deplored, but what Yankee in a far-away land would not be thrilled at the sight?

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 rumor circulated about—an ever recurrent rumor there—that the marines were to be withdrawn. Inside of an hour the American Legation was filled with diplomats from foreign countries, and merchants who owned property in Nicaragua, all anxious to know if the rumor were true, all fearful of the destructive revolution that would follow overnight, all eager to protest against the withdrawal of the much-abused gringos.

In the crowd were many Nicaraguans who had been loudest in their condemnation of the United States.

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. It has become the fashion in our writing to promote an entente cordiale by flattering the people of these countries. The charming woman writer in particular—who makes a brief trip to the more modern cities of Chile and the Argentine, meets only the aristocracy, and completes her book as a bread-and-butter letter to the delightful people who fed her tea and cakes—is inclined nowadays, in her impulse to jolt out of his complacency the reader at home, to picture all the Latin-Americans as infinitely superior to our own crude selves.

Yet all of us, even though we may have acquired a strong affection for our friends of the southland, still consider ourselves their peers. We know that every gringo is not to be ranked above every Latin-American. But we are confident that man for man—lawyer for lawyer, doctor for doctor, soldier for soldier, farmer for farmer—the Anglo-Saxon usually surpasses his counterpart in physique, intelligence, education, ability and character, if not in refinement. The Latin-American himself is aware of the contrast. He may, and sometimes does, voluntarily admit it. But he is naturally a trifle resentful when the gringo, by word or action, reminds him of it.

We remind him quite frequently. The most considerate traveler will lapse unintentionally at times into an attitude of condescension. Our kindly church-goers at home contribute their pennies to missionary enterprises in order that he may be educated and uplifted. And as though this were not the supreme height of international insult, however much he may actually need education and uplift, we appoint ourselves the policemen of the continent, take him under our paternal wing, and threaten to spank him if he misbehaves.

We assume that he should appreciate our kindliness and love us as the big brother we consider ourselves to be. On the contrary, he not only dislikes us as a nation, but distrusts our motives. He looks upon us—and frequently with good cause—as hypocrites who pat him upon the back as a prelude to selling him American products. In our missionary efforts he sees only a colossal national vanity. In the application of our Monroe Doctrine he scents an ambition for the conquest of his country.

To the average American this last statement may sound ridiculous. When we promulgated that doctrine, we thought only of Europe. It was later, when we realized that European nations might disregard it unless their citizens or property were protected in Latin America that we undertook to supervise the conduct of our neighbors’ wars and revolutions. Our ambitions for conquest at present are purely commercial. But there are several incidents in our past history which these little republics remember with foreboding. They remember, for instance, that we fought with Mexico about Texas, and emerged victorious with Arizona, Utah, Nevada, and California. They feel that there is something a little funny in the way Panama started its revolution against Colombia just about the time we wished to build the Panama Canal. They question our philanthropic motives in Nicaragua. They are always wondering where the lightning may strike next.

So firmly convinced are most of our neighbors that we are what they always describe as “the grasping Colossus of the North,” that when our government exercises forbearance, they merely suspect us of cowardice. When Woodrow Wilson for many years let Mexico literally get away with murder, his idealism was misunderstood. For a time Latin America looked upon the United States as a braggart that never executed its repeated diplomatic threats. Carranza, the special protégé of our State Department, posed before the neighboring presidents as a guardian of Latin-American rights, and had envoys touring the southern continent in an effort to align Guatemala, Nicaragua, Colombia, Chile, Argentina, and other countries, in a secret entente against the United States.

Personally I dislike our meddling in Latin-American affairs. It seems to me that it should be any government’s privilege to run a revolution in its own country if it so chooses. But there are many gringos in all these republics, who came there in accordance with local constitutional guarantees, and sometimes at the invitation of the government itself, who must be protected. If we do not occasionally step in, Europe will. Latin America—with the exception of the few nations which conduct their elections in peace—expects it. The Latin-American resents it, but he despises us when we abstain.

If we are to uphold our prestige, however, we must apply our foreign policies—whatever they may be—to all republics consistently.

“We never know just what to expect from your government,” a Supreme Court justice said to me in Honduras. “You tell us again and again, for instance, that you will recognize only a constitutionally elected president, who gains office without force. Yet to-day you have recognized nine Latin-American presidents who did gain office by force.”

These were the presidents of Peru, Bolivia, Venezuela, Nicaragua, Salvador, Honduras, Guatemala, Santo Domingo, and Mexico.

“And you tell us also,” continued the Justice, “that at all times, we must protect American property. If we of the little countries do not, you immediately send down your gunboats. In Nicaragua, two American filibusters, convicted of murder, are executed, and presently you take over the entire country. In Mexico, during many revolutions, countless Americans are slain, and much property damaged, and you content yourselves with writing notes. To us of the little countries, it all seems very unfair.”

As to the recognition of Latin-American presidents, Heaven help the State Department to apply a consistent rule, when so few are legitimately elected! But as to the protection of American property, there can be but one right course. Either it is not worth protecting, or it is, whether it be in Nicaragua or Mexico. Practically all Central-Americans to-day, although too polite to voice their opinion, look upon us as something of a bully who picks on the weaker republics.

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 when I came back and stepped off the train in Managua, every porter and coachman on the platform recognized me. The bootblacks grinned all over their dirty brown faces. And my neighbors all came hurrying to my house to hug me, and slap me on the back, and make those funny gurgling noises. That was my real homecoming.”