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. The señoritas, accustomed to no exercise more violent then a leisurely stroll in the plaza, were frequently stoop-shouldered and walked with a débutante slouch. These Indian maidens were as straight as the shortest distance between two points, and their step was the lithe, springy step of the athlete.
They were tremendous workers. They would meet the morning train from Salina Cruz at daybreak; they would haggle in the market throughout the day; they would be back at the railway in the evening to meet the train from the other direction; and thereafter, until midnight, they would sit outside the circus tent, still selling their cocoanuts. Despite their devotion to business, there was always an air of play about their work. They laughed and chattered in their Indian dialect. They joshed one another. They brandished their big machetes in mock anger, and slapped one another with the flat of the blade, each slap against a massive buttocks resulting in a loud “Bam!” that resounded even above the riotous hubbub of the market-place. But let a stranger appear, and all fooling ceased. The welkin rang only with cries of, “Buy my cocoanuts, señor!”
Among such self-sufficient creatures, a man felt insignificant. These women owned the town. The shops and most of the houses were feminine property, as were the big coco-groves surrounding the city. Men were mere appendages in Tehuantepec—a somewhat desirable comfort in a tropical climate—but not at all necessary. The soldiers stationed here looked peculiarly contented, and the older women all wore strings of twenty-dollar gold pieces as mementos of the day when the gold-rush to California led across this Isthmus, yet to the casual observer, these Indian maidens were the least flirtatious to be seen in Mexico. If they could find a man—a fairly permanent, dependable man, who could be counted on to remain at home and keep house—well and good. They did not bother to vamp the passing tourist. They were too much interested in bartering.
Their careers as wage-earners and heads of family had made the older women quite masculine. If they had lost the grace of the younger maidens, they had acquired dignity. They strode along the street with a ponderous aggressiveness, cigars cocked skyward as among Tammany Hall politicians, arms swinging massively as though in readiness to floor for the count any mere male who did not step aside. Many of these older women were followed by troops of servants, ready to carry home purchases from the market. This was a common practice in upper-class circles elsewhere, for no Latin-American aristocrat can ever bear to carry home his own purchases, even if they consist of a single tube of tooth-paste. I was accustomed to the sight, but it was odd to see an Indian woman in the gaudy, picturesque costume of Tehuantepec marching before a retinue of retainers.
Before I realized that these were the local Hetty Greens, I had the temerity to stop one on the street with a request that she pose for a photograph. It was Sunday, and she had supplemented her already-astonishing regalia with a huipile grande—the old head-dress of the Isthmus—an elaborate creation of white lace that rose from her head like a lion’s mane and fell to her heels like a peacock’s tail.
“Ten cents!” I said, holding up the coin, in an appeal which had proved successful in other regions. “Ten cents if you’ll stop for a picture.”
She gave me one indignant look. Ten cents to one who owned thirty acres of cocoanut grove, six houses, and a gin mill! She never paused for a moment. She came on, full speed ahead, along the narrow sidewalk, swinging her massive arms. Like the other mere males in Tehuantepec, I stepped hastily aside. These Tehuana women might not be so beautiful as writers had pictured them, but they undoubtedly were the reigning queens of the Tropics.