Land without chimneys; or, the byways of Mexico

by Alfred Oscar Coffin

“Where is Churubusco?” “This is Churubusco.” “But,” I said, “I don’t see anything but a street-car stable with come mules in it.” “All the same this is Churubusco.” “Well,” I enquired, “where does this mule car go from this junction?” “It goes to San Angel, a summer residence town.” I determined to go out there and come back when my mind was settled to take a look at Churubusco, but when I got back, there it was, just an adobe mule stable. I sat on a bench opposite and tried to think what did General Scott want with the stable, and why they put it in the history. I suppose it was put there to punish unoffending little boys who liked to play base-ball. I took out my camera and prepared to shoot the harmless stable, and changed my mind. I was not on a warlike expedition, but was in pursuit of knowledge, and I did not want to add another blot on the sanguinary page of America’s Dr. Ledger. No, not for a brevet. I put up my magazine.

A general vegetable merchant, who had three cabbages and four turnips on a board, seeing my troubled countenance, very kindly came over and said: “Que pense, Señor?” I said: “I am thinking about General Scott bringing his army up here after that car stable and then did not take it away after you gave it to him. Now don’t you think he was off his base?” He shrugged both shoulders, took his cigarette from his mouth and thought a minute, and then he uttered these words of wisdom: “Quien sabe?”

I said, “Well if you live here and do not know, how am I expected to know, and what are the histories to do about it? And my good fellow, just between you and me and the gatepost, don’t you think if General Scott had come here and taken a good look at that stable first, he would have gone on to town and had a good night’s rest, and saved me all this unrest and pang of conscience about that history lesson, and that poor dead teacher?”

With his eyes full of pity he said: “Señor, are you hungry?” “Yes I am, and I am disgusted with your old street-car stable.” “Señor, here’s your car if you are going to town.” I turned my face to the city and my back on Churubusco.

We soon reached the city gate, where the locomotive was unhitched and the mules were re-hitched, and we were soon on the street, where we met a funeral car with its black canopy flying behind, as the mules, under whip and lash, hurried to the city of the dead, and I went to drown my thoughts in a glass of pina. Others may have this drowning mania sometimes, so I give this recipe free gratis for nothing, as I got it from the señora on the Zocalo. The pine-apple is first pared and sliced as we do apples. Then on her knees the señora takes her stone rolling pin and stone vessel like a wash board and reduces the slices to pulp, which is strained and sweetened and iced, and is sent to you by the señorita, who guarantees to drown all your troubles for just six cents, and she innocently prattles away until the glass is empty, and “of course the caballero will have another.” Under ordinary circumstances you would not, but many a man has taken his second glass there just because he did not know how to say no. The next car is bound for Atzcapotzalco, so we jump aboard and pass out upon that terrible causeway where the Spanish army were almost annihilated on that memorable night of Noche Triste, July 1, 1520.

At the bridge you pass through the Riverra de San Cosme and are shown El Salto de Alvarado. Alvarado was the most trusted lieutenant of Cortez, and on the retreat that night the Aztecs cut the causeway and the waters rushed in, separating the army of Cortez into two parts. Alvarado was fighting in the rear, and when he attempted to join Cortez he found the dike cut. His men were all killed or taken prisoners, and he gathered all his strength and made the leap from the end of his lance that made him famous. Authorities do not give the distance, but say it was impossible for any other man. Aztecs and Tlaxcalans alike looked on in amazement and cried: “Surely this is Tonatiuh, the child of the Sun!”

Here the Aztecs stopped to gather up the rich booty which Cortez had taken from their treasure-house and was forced to leave behind in the breach, and the circumstance alone enabled the invaders to reach the village of Popotla, a mile further, where Cortez sat down to weep over the destruction of his army. The tree under which he sat is by the side of the street and is known as the tree of Noche Triste—Melancholy Night. It is a cypress and is called by the Aztecs, Ahuehuete. Some years ago a religious fanatic set fire to it and disfigured it, but it still shows a trunk forty feet high and the same in circumference. The American tourists were about to take it all away as relics, so the city was compelled to enclose it in a lofty iron fence, which is fully able to enforce the ordinance, “Keep off the grass.” The natives very naturally expected me to attempt to scale the fence and get a branch, and to let them know that all Americans could live up to their reputation. I vigorously shook one or two of the iron posts which stubbornly refused to leave the enclosure. All the same I felt proud; I had proved to them that I was an Americano, who would rob the dead, if the dead had any keep-sakes about him that would do to exhibit at home.

Having thus patriotically saved our national reputation, I boarded the car for Atzcapotzalco, which was once an independent kingdom and the capital of the Tepanecs. Atzcapotzalco, only seven miles from Tenochtitlan, held the Aztecs in subjection. Once when the Aztec King sent a present, Maxatla, the tyrant, in derision returned to the king a woman’s dress. Later he allured to his court the wife of the Aztec king and violated her. For this insult, the Aztec king Itzacoatl, “Serpent of stone,” made an alliance with the Acolhuans, and in a two days’ battle the city of Atzcapotzalco was taken, 1448, and reduced to a slave market and never again rose to power. I think they were still talking about that battle when I was there. Old age seemed to have settled down upon everything, and the task to arouse them was so great I refused the contract and left it just as Cortez found it in 1520. The valley surrounding it is very fertile and alfalfa and vegetables were as green as ivy.

Tacubaya is the Monte Carlo of Mexico and the most aristocratic suburb around the city, with fine residences and beautiful gardens and the most handsome villas in the country. From the gate of Chapultepec a causeway leads through a most beautifully shaded avenue to the city, and then I lost interest in it. I was riding a bicycle and when I reached those cobble-stone pavements I gave them my undivided attention. A tall fellow from Texas did the swearing for the crowd, and he was so fluent there was no need for reinforcement, so my whole mind was given to calculations as to whether I could mount that next stone or climb out of the next hole. I saw a policeman and I thought he was coming to read the law, which says no team shall go faster than a walk, so I stopped to give him my impression of the inquisition and the rack, but I was disappointed. He had simply used up all the shade on his corner and was hunting for more. A frog once lived in Kiota, so the Japanese story runs, and he started out to see the world. When he reached the top of a hill he reared on his hind feet to view the world. As everybody knows, a frog’s eyes are on the back of his head, and as he reared up, his eyes pointed right back to Kioto, so he returned and said: “All the world is like Kioto.” So all of Tacubaya is like the main street, just cobble-stones. I am sorry I missed all the beauties they say are there, but all I saw was the front wheel of that bicycle and the cobble-stones. Bicycling is best done in that town on foot.

With Penon it is different. Penon was once an island in Lake Texcoco, but since the draining of the lake it is high and dry and is noted for the hot baths and its beautiful bath house. The whole establishment is paved in glazed tiles laid in mosaics, and the pillars are all painted after the ancient Egyptian style. I never was an Egyptian, but if I was I think I would mistake this excellent imitation for one of the old establishments that Anthony and Cleopatra used to patronize so liberally. The ride to Penon on bicycle across the ancient bed of the lake cannot be excelled.