Part 7 (2/2)
[Ill.u.s.tration: VAQUEROS CROSSING THE RIO DE LAS BALSAS]
After our _siesta_, we loaded the two pack beasts, saddled our riding animals and, about four o'clock in the afternoon, set out for the river Balsas, two miles to the south, and to the little town of Churmuco on its banks. From the mountain side we took a last look over the wide expanse of the _llanos_, extending twenty or thirty miles toward the west, as level as a floor, the blue line of the Cordilleras marking the horizon far beyond.
We pa.s.sed through several prehistoric, Indian towns. Their streets were laid out with regularity, generally at right angles, the foundations of the ancient houses still plainly showing. In many places, the base walls were intact and constructed of rounded bowlders laid carefully, in a row, upon one another in substantial tiers.
The rich bottom land along the river, wholly uncultivated, much impressed me. The soil, a black and chocolate loam, is capable of bearing any crop, and is twenty to thirty feet in thickness. There was no cultivation anywhere. These lands belong to some mighty _hacienda_ (a hacienda contains often from one hundred thousand to two million acres) owned by some absentee _haciendado_. It is said to be worth about ten cents (Mexican) per acre!
The river Balsas looks as broad as Elk River in West Virginia, where it enters the Kanawha (four or five hundred feet in width). It is now the dry season, but, nevertheless, the river is swift and deep, a tide of clear blue water too swift and too deep to ford or swim. In the rainy season it must be a boisterous mighty stream, for its fall is rapid. In the dry season it is fed by the melting snow fields of Popocatepetl and Ixtaccihuatl far to the east. The stream is said to afford good fis.h.i.+ng, and in it veritable crocodiles (Cayman) abound.
Approaching the river, we found ourselves at a primitive ferry where two wild-looking _vaqueros_ were about to cross. Availing ourselves of this opportunity to voyage upon the Balsas--Mexico's greatest river--we tied our horses in the shade of a friendly mimosa and climbed aboard the craft used as a ferryboat--a sharp pointed scow which is entered at the stern. The two Indian boatmen pulled each a ponderous blade, but despite their most strenuous efforts, the powerful current carried us down quite half a mile before we landed upon the farther sh.o.r.e--a wide bar of sand and pebbles. Our fellow pa.s.sengers eyed us in suspicious silence, each holding fast his _broncho_ lest it should jump out, their wild dark glances betokening little friendliness. Reaching the sh.o.r.e each silently swung into his saddle and galloped off toward the not far distant Cordillera. These silent, untamed men traverse this desolate country everywhere, keeping constant track of the thousands of cattle and horses which roam their wastes; and the Indians of Guerrero bear the name of being the most turbulent and treacherous of all Mexico.
Recrossing, we traveled for an hour through rich and uncultivated bottom lands along the river's course, until we came to the primitive town of Churumuco, a hamlet occupied by Indians only, an Indian priest gazing out of the dilapidated church as we rode by. Here we found a _fonda_ (inn) with ample _corral_. A half-caste Spanish-Indian woman, ”_Senora Dona_ Faustina,” cooked us a supper of potatoes, rice, _tortillas_, and _chilis_ (peppers) stewed in cheese, substantials which were washed down with clear hot coffee. Here, in the intense heat, the burning peppers were vivifying and we ate them greedily.
We slept on native mats set on frames three feet above the adoby floor in the open _patio_. Pigs, cats, chickens, dogs and children scrambled beneath.
We were just rolling up in our blankets, when _Dona_ Faustina excitedly addressed my companions, Tio and El Padre, and I gathered from her speech that _chinchas_, as long as your hand, had a habit of crawling along the rafters and dropping upon the unsuspecting sleeper, while, unless your shoes were hung above the floor, _tiernanes_ (scorpions) were likely to camp in them until dislodged. I hung my slippers above the _tiernanes_ stinging reach and lay awake apprehending the _chinchas'_ descent, but the fatigue and heat of the day, the soporific influences of _chilis_ and cheese, soon wrapped me in a slumber from which only the braying of our white pack mule at last aroused me, as Izus cinched upon him the burden for another day.
The night was warm and close, the first dull, heavy air I have known in Mexico. We were now actually in the _Tierra Caliente_--where, the saying is, ”the inhabitants of Churmuco need never go to h.e.l.l since they already live there.”
It was not yet three o'clock in the morning and still dark. _Ros_ and _poios_ and coffee were already prepared for us. ”_Adios, Dona Faustina!_” ”_Adios, Senorita!_” ”_Adios, Senores!_” ”_Adios, adios!_”
and we trotted out of the _corral_ and, turning northward, moved up a deeply-cut _baranca_ over a more generally traveled trail than that by which we had come. The coldness of night no longer chilled us, the air was almost warm, while no sign of day made mark upon the heavens above us; the black s.p.a.ces of the night were yet ablaze with great white stars. The constellations to the northward I well knew, but to the south there were many wholly new and, supremest of them all, just clinging along the gigantic mountain summits, shone the splendid constellation of the Southern Cross, my first glimpse of it. We reined in our horses, turned and watched the big l.u.s.trous stars descend and disappear behind the impenetrable curtain of the Cordillera's towering chain.
[Ill.u.s.tration: THE LANDING, RIO DE LAS BALSAS]
The Balsas River was now behind us. The _baranca_ we ascended widened out. We were upon the well-beaten track of travel from Guerrero, and even Acapulco, to the north. Ere the sun came blazing up, we were many miles on our way. And well for us it was so, for the day's heat has been the most terrible I have yet endured. The animals did not sweat, nor did we, the air was too dry for that, but my blood boiled, my bones baked, and my skin parched from the fierce hotness of the sun.
Even the cowboys we here and there encountered sat silent in their saddles beneath the mimosa's and mesquit's thickest shade.
The land was desolate, with no habitations save here and there a solitary _rancho_ or wayside resting place, where pa.s.sing travelers might find rough lodgment and perhaps food for themselves and beasts.
The only sound was the droning whir of millions of cicadas.
It was nearly midday when we reached the grateful shelter of La Mina Noria, there to tarry and revive until we should fare on in the cooler evening hours.
XIV
Wayside Incidents in the Land of Heat
MINA NORIA TO PATZCUARO, _December 8th-10th_.
Later in the day we were ascending the San Pedro valley toward the Hacienda Cuyaco. It was just growing dusk when we heard the music of violins. We came upon an Indian habitation of two buildings connected by a wide, thatched veranda. Here, upon the veranda, several dark-faced youths were playing a slow-timed Spanish fandango, and twenty or more young girls, arranged in rows of fours, were taking steps to the music, swaying their bodies and shaking small gourds, filled with pebbles, for castanets. The enthusiasm of the musicians, the soberness and gravity and grace of the dancers, as they stepped and postured, made a charming picture. They were gowned in white, with flowers in their black hair, and they danced with easy dignity. We halted our horses and watched the grave company, no one paying the slightest heed to our presence, otherwise than to acknowledge our ”_Buenas Dias_” and parting ”_Adios_.”
By the time the night came down upon us, we were far upon the road.
Just at the moment of the falling darkness, we met a band of Indians with their _burros_. They had halted. Each Indian had doffed his _sombrero_. One Indian kneeling, was crossing himself. They were facing a small rough cross rising from a pile of stones. Each threw one more stone upon the pile, crossed himself, bent his knee, and moved on. It was a spot where death has met some traveler. The cross sanctifies the place. The stones permanently mark it and, year by year, the pile grows bigger from the constant contribution of the one stone added by each pa.s.sing traveler.
The night found us at a primitive Indian shelter; a thatched roof above an earthern clay stove. In the _corral_ several droves of pack mules had already been unburdened for the night. Beneath the thatch the drivers were wrapped in their _zerapes_ and slept profoundly. We unrolled our cots, set them out beneath the stars and fell asleep, even as we were. By two o'clock we were awakened before the others were astir. We made cups of coffee from the hot water on the stove where the smouldering fire lingered through the night, and were in our saddles before the Southern Cross had sunk from view. We were to make a great day's ride, pressing on even to Ario, if that were possible, twenty-four leagues away (sixty miles) and five thousand feet above us in the air. Should we be able to do it?
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