In answer to our shouts a man emerged from a house on the opposite bank and came over to us on a very small raft which he brought across the stream by hauling on a rope made fast to both banks. On this craft we were ferried over, two at a time. I dare say the passage was safe enough, but that was not exactly my impression whilst crossing, for the current was very swift and the raft almost entirely under water, and we had to curl ourselves up on a ricketty seat in order to keep dry. At our landing-place, called Agua Blanca, there were only two houses, and these were inhabited by Cobaneros, friends of Gorgonio, who gave us food and shelter for the night, treated our tired animals most hospitably, and refused all payment.
Alas! we had now left the beautiful climate of the Altos behind us, the air was hot and muggy and swarming with insect life, and we were glad when the dawn came and we could mount our mules to climb the steep hillside which led up to the tableland of the Alta Vera Paz. It was not a pleasant day’s journey, as our animals were very tired and a thick mist cut us off from the enjoyment of the landscape. About midday rain began to fall, the first we had felt since leaving the city of Guatemala, and the first break in our sunlit journey. About one o’clock we rode into the little town of San Cristóbal, which lies buried in fruit-trees on the edge of a pretty little lake. The coffee-plants here are not closely-clipped bushes but veritable trees laden with ripe red berries, and we found the whole Indian population busily engaged gathering in the crop and singing and chatting cheerfully over the task.
We passed through the plaza with its picturesque church, catching only a glimpse of the lake, as the mist still hung low, and the hills were veiled in clouds, and then rode on through lanes which were continuous bowers of the richest greenery and brilliant with flowers and fruit. A few miles further on we reached the village of Santa Cruz, and struck the main road to Coban; then the travelling became very bad, for the rainy season was not over and the long lines of ox-carts which carry the coffee down to the Port of Panzos had cut the soft road-bed into rough ruts and deep holes. We had still four leagues to ride, and night came on before we reached our destination. My mule floundered into the great holes full of half-dried mud, and it was all I could do to keep my seat. Outside the town we were met by Mr. Thomae, to whom we had telegraphed from San Cristóbal, and who had ridden out to meet us and escort us to his home, where his wife gave us the kindliest welcome. A clean bedroom, white sheets, and plenty of towels offered a refreshing change after camps, conventos, and cabildos, and an ever-thoughtful hospitality induced us to stay on for a whole pleasant week in our comfortable quarters.
ZOPILOTES.
CHAPTER XI. COBAN AND THE VERA PAZ.
COBAN.