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 improvement over its predecessors, was still maintaining itself by force, and after paying its generals, had little money left for keeping in order such railways as those that meandered through its southern jungles.
President Obregon’s term was drawing to a close; there was soon to be an election; there had never been an election in Mexico without a revolution; in view of the forthcoming excitement, work of any kind was practically at a standstill. An escort of troops was still to be seen on every train—better-uniformed and equipped than in the days of Carranza, but with the same villainous faces. And a garrison was lined up at the platform of each hamlet through which we passed—a small garrison, so that towns could be classified as one, two, three, four, or five soldier towns—a mere handful of men, but always present.
Conditions had improved during my four years’ absence from the country, but the land was by no means so pacific and prosperous as Obregon’s propaganda—circulated widely through the United States at the moment when Obregon was seeking recognition by our State Department—had led Americans to believe. Mexico was still Mexico.