Guatemala

Early one morning Frank and I rode out of the city and up hill to an elevation of twelve hundred feet, passing the aqueduct and getting several fine views of the capital,—better in some respects than the view from the Cerro del Carmen; for now the two volcanoes were clear. As the road was excellent, and our animals were in thorough trim, we both got more enjoyment in the saddle than from almost any other mode of sight-seeing. We were leaving the volcanoes of Antigua; but Pacaya was before us, and we had entered a distinctly volcanic region. We passed several small villages, in one of which we breakfasted on honey and tortillas. Cerro Redondo is a small hamlet of perhaps a thousand inhabitants, whose chief occupation is coffee-culture. The “round hill” which gives the name is a small, very regular volcanic cone,—one of a number less regular extending towards the Pacific coast. Here in the road-cut were black volcanic sands and plenty of vesicular lava. As the daylight waned, we met men, women, and children coming from their day’s work in the cafétal, and a contented, happy company they were. We did not arrive at the chief town of the Department of Santa Rosa, Cuajinicuilapa,—or Cuilapa, as it is often abbreviated,—until nine o’clock. Here we found a wretched posada, where we shared our room with an enormous cockroach an inch wide and two and three quarter inches long. Although we had a letter to the Jefe from the Department of State, we did not care to wait in the morning for him to get up; so after climbing into the church-tower and over the roof, we rode on to the fine old bridge over the Rio de los Esclavos. This, consisting of ten masonry arches spanning a rocky ravine, bears the dates 1592-1852. Our path followed the valley for some time, and at a convenient place we had a bath in the rapid river, whose waters were agreeably cool. As we left the river our path led up a very steep ascent nearly eighteen hundred feet. On the way we had several fine views of the “Hunapu” volcanoes,—Pacaya, Fuego, Agua, and Acatenango,—clustered together, and in the clear atmosphere seeming to be close at hand. Pacaya seemed to have the largest crater, while Agua had none visible from this side. On the top of this “ladder” we rested our animals on a grassy plain where they could pasture. We had noticed cotton-trees (Bombax) on the way up, and we found some wild pines that the men repairing the road had left, and we tracked the fruit, which is pleasantly acid, to the pines used here for hedging (Bromelia Pinguin). The curious umbrella-ants (Œcodoma) were common on the path, each carrying its bit of leaf wherewith to stock the formicarium. A puff of the breath would overset these heavy sail-bearers, which go in Indian file. We had no time to follow them home on this occasion;[27] for when we came to Azacualpa, still some eight leagues from Jutiapa, we found this large village (twelve hundred inhabitants) had no posada. Indeed, it had nothing but corn and beans, and even water was scarce; so we pushed on into the night through an unknown country. After dark we could buy no maiz for our bestias, though a señora sold us a bottle of excellent honey. We had seen from the hill above, in the fading light, a magnificent valley of great extent, broken by ridges and ravines, and we had hoped to find some decent shelter. But when the moon rose over a volcano, we decided to camp; and picketing our steeds on a fine pasture, we slept on our blankets, undisturbed except by the wind, which was strong at times. Our barometer told us we were 3,152 feet above the sea. I noticed that in the highlands it was apt to be windy at night.

In the morning our honey, a little bread, and some unripe oranges gave us a very unsubstantial meal; nevertheless at daybreak we saddled and rode on. We saw many pigeons, little gray quails that ran along the path, and crows. At La Paz we found a very neat house, where we stopped for almuerzo; but alas for external signs! my bowl of black-bean soup contained a patriarchal cockroach. It was pleasant to see through the open door our animals eating a good breakfast of sacaton. A little farther on was a clear stream; but most of the way was over a dusty plain among espina blancas[28] (Acacia) and calabash-trees, lava streams and blocks. The surface of the ground was cracking open with dry shrinkage, and there was little to interest us. Our Yankee nature asserted itself, and we whittled at some of the little purple-spotted calabashes as we rode along. The rind is very hard, even in young fruit; and the inside is solid and consistent as an unripe squash. The odd-looking, speckled blossoms spring from the trunk of the crabbed-looking tree (Crescentia cujete).

About noon we came to Jutiapa, situated on a plain through which the Rio Salado has cut a deep valley. We entered by a gateway and found the Plaza. This was paved, and in the midst a dribbling fountain indicated a very insufficient water-supply for the town. Before us was the church, behind us the Casa Nacional, and the other sides were occupied by stores and the house of the Jefe. Our anxious inquiries for a posada were met with the too frequent answer that there was no such thing here in this town of some twelve hundred inhabitants. Good fortune directed us to inquire of a person in a shop at a corner just beyond the church; and this resulted in a most hospitable invitation to the house of Señor Alonzo Rozales, a Spanish gentleman whose name will be always a charm to conjure by. He gave us a large room opening to the street as well as into the patio, and we at once felt at home. We had walked many miles, I leading, Frank driving, the poor tired animals. It was fifteen leagues from Cuilapa to Jutiapa, and the road was very hard and maiz very scarce. We were obliged to wait here for our mozos, whom we had sent from Guatemala but had not overtaken on the road; and we were happy enough that the necessary delay came in so comfortable a place. Our host brought us new mats for our bedsteads, and pillows trimmed with lace in Spanish style; then, after killing a very large and crusty scorpion which had established himself over the door, presented us with a bottle of Val de Peña,—a fine red wine from Spain,—and left us to our rest.

Sunday morning came, but no signs of our mozos. The church was closed, as there was no resident padre; we got in, however, while an attendant opened it to do some work on the bells. The roof was apparently arranged for a fortification. Within we saw the skull of an Indio (?) built into the stucco over the agua bendita, and a painting representing a padre offering the consecrated wafer to a kneeling ass,—apparently in the office of the communion, as the padre holds the chalice in his other hand. A figure in the background—perhaps the owner of the ass—has long mustachios, wears a turban, and holds up his hands in astonishment. No explanation of this curious subject could be obtained there; and after rejecting Balaam and his ass, we concluded that this was the ass on which Christ rode to Jerusalem. As volcanoes are baptized into the Church, why not asses?

There was a worn-out, poverty-stricken appearance to the town; not a cultivated plant to be seen, as all the vegetables and fruits are grown at some distance, in the more fertile mountain valleys. Some of the larger houses, indeed, have a few flowers in their patio; but these are quite invisible from the street. No fruit was in the shops or for sale in the streets, and our animals were fed on squashes. Perhaps at the annual fair (November 15) this ancient town, which under the name of Xutiapan existed long before the Conquest, may assume a livelier appearance. Still anxious about our mozos, we walked back several miles on our road, though the high wind made travelling very disagreeable. At last, in the afternoon, Santiago arrived with the mozo we had hired in Guatemala; and to our astonishment the latter brought with him his wife and little daughter. This was more of a caravan than we had bargained for, and I was puzzled; but the woman seemed quiet and inoffensive, and the child, who could hardly walk, and was carried always on her mother’s back, was a good little thing, indeed, the most reasonable child I ever saw. I acquiesced in the arrangement the more readily because I saw that the woman was unwilling to have her husband go away so far from home that he might not return to her. He was a handsome, strong fellow, and proved well worth all the woman’s care.

On Monday we started our mozos and luggage at six in the morning, and left our kind host before seven. We were almost surrounded by small volcanic cones, but Suchitan was the only one we identified. This gave little signs of its fiery origin to unpractised eyes, for the lower slopes were covered with shrubs, and here and there a little house peeped out among the trees, while fields extended to the cloudy summit. So severe was the wind on the plain at the base of this volcano that our animals several times turned from the path to seek shelter. Three leagues out we passed Achuapa, and five leagues farther Horcones,—both small villages. Clematis grew over the bushes and softened the rough appearance of the calabash-trees and espina blancas,—almost the only vegetation on this dry and unpromising upland. We had frequently seen the ocean from our highway during the past few days, and now we saw the volcanoes of Salvador, one of which was smoking, which I supposed to be Izalco. Blocks of lava were scattered all over the plain, as if some bed of lava had been broken up and brought down in fragments by an avalanche. The stone was well suited for the manufacture of metatles, or tortilla-stones, and fragments were scattered all about, as well as several half-finished metatles, spoiled by an unlucky blow. We could not find any one at work, and did not learn with what tools this rather difficult stone-cutting is accomplished. The honey of Suchitan is very good, perhaps made partly from acacia-flowers; its flavor being not unlike that of the famous honey of Auvergne in France,—also, a region of extinct volcanoes.

We arrived at Santa Catarina about three in the afternoon; there, while our animals rested and fed in front of the cabildo, we bespoke a comida at a little cook-shop in the Plaza, and then explored the poor little church, which was dark, windowless, and wholly bespattered with bat-filth,—pictures, crucifix and all. We beat a hasty retreat from this unseemly sanctuary; and after a wash in the public fountain, returned to the cocina, where we were served with tortillas, fried eggs, plantains, frijoles, and coffee,—for which we paid three reals, or thirty-seven and a half cents. As we left the town we passed a noisy trapiche, or sugar-mill, consisting of three vertical wooden rollers turned by four oxen. It sounded very like one of the ancient cider-mills in New England. A good mill could make a fair percentage of sugar out of the crushed cane passing through these rollers.

From the town we found a rather steep descent, and at the bottom a large river to ford, whose bed was full of loose rocks,—making the passage very difficult. We had not gone two leagues from Santa Catarina before darkness came on, and we camped by the roadside. A cheery fire and our blankets made the camp very comfortable, and the little child was quiet all night,—not civilized enough, Frank declared, to cry instead of sleep. The dew-fall was very heavy; it is probably always so at this dry season.

We were up at light, and sent the men to find water while we got the fire burning and made coffee. With honey and wheaten rolls we breakfasted well,—indeed, our out-door life in this good climate made us feel at peace with all men, and satisfied—nay, pleased—with everything that befell us. The morning was cloudy; but we knew the clouds did not mean rain at this season, and we were in the saddle before the dew was quite dried from our blankets. As we went along we several times passed black obsidian chips, some recent, but most of them quite old,—evidently the refuse of the knife-makers, whose work in ancient times was much in demand; the long, slim blades used in circumcision were never used but once, then consecrated in the temples or broken; and those knives used for other purposes were of course brittle, and soon destroyed.

We arrived at Agua Blanca about eight o’clock, and stopped to feed our bestias on cornstalks and squashes. The former were kept high up in the trees, which neither cows nor pigs could climb, while the squashes in endless variety nearly filled a small house, through whose bambu walls the wandering hogs could smell the coveted food. The town is appropriately named “White Water,” for the only supply was very milky in appearance and very clayey in taste. Almost directly over the town, the volcano of Monte Rico, long extinct, is the most striking feature in the landscape. Cultivated to the very edge of the crater, which is said to contain a large lake, the fertility of the fields was greatest at the top,—due, no doubt, to the waters of the crater; while the lower slopes are comparatively dry and barren. Around the base are many smaller cones, which remind one of those which dot the slopes of Ætna and give the Sicilian volcano the name “Mother of Mountains.” Not a league beyond we crossed the only clear stream we saw all day; but even this water was not very pleasing to the taste. Bars across the road made us fear we had missed the path and were no longer in the “camino real;” we were, nevertheless. At Piedras Gordas, in the afternoon, we stopped for food, in hopes of hearing tidings of our guide and mozos, who had started before us. Our frugal meal of plantains, tortillas, and red bananas was constantly interrupted by the pigs who were stealing the sacaton from our hungry animals. For miles there were booths and stone fireplaces marking the camps of the pilgrims who journey to the sacred Sanctuario de Esquipulas. At six o’clock we camped in a fine pine-forest high up in the mountains. No human habitation was near, but a few cattle were seen here and there. The pasturage was good between the scattered trees of this grand park. We built a roaring fire, which cast curious shadows from the trees, pegged our bestias securely, enjoyed a good lomilomi, or Hawaiian massage, and both fell asleep. Suddenly I awoke with the strong impression that something was wrong. There was no noise, not even the cry of a night-bird; only the soft sough of the night-breezes in the pine-tops. Frank was breathing quietly at my side, the fire was out, and the night was cold outside the blankets. As I sat up to look about, a dark object caught my eye in the dim distance, and without much thought or reason I went towards it, simply because I felt impelled to do so. There was no consideration of personal danger, but an overpowering feeling that all was not as it should be. The first thought as I got near the black object, which seemed to move towards me, was amusing,—it looked like the devil; there were the short, straight horns, the hoofs, and I saw the switch of a tail. It was very like a dream. I had seen the “father of lies” in many a human form, but never so undisguised; and I was filled with curiosity. The next moment a joyful hinny discovered our mare Mabel, who recognized me before I could plainly see her. Putting my arm around her neck, I found the remnant of the horse-hair lariat with which Frank had fastened her. I tried to return to camp, more than an eighth of a mile away, but could not orient myself in the dark, and had to call to Frank. Guided by his answer, I retraced my steps, stumbling into a brook I had unconsciously crossed in going out; and we found the peg and again secured Mabel. In this curious way we were saved a long hunt for the next day.

At daylight we were on a very good road, and soon after eight we stopped at a sugar-plantation for some coffee and frijoles negras. Here was a fine stream, together with vats formerly used for indigo-making, now useless. Hill rose above hill, and Esquipulas seemed as far away as ever. By the roadside were the pilgrim fireplaces, frequent and extensive, and we noticed a large deposit of a pink-colored rock, which I supposed might contain manganese (Rhodonite). The specimens I brought away, I regret to say, were afterwards left at one of our camps. The last hill at length climbed, before us lay an extensive valley reaching to the distant mountains of Merendon, the boundary of Spanish Honduras.