RUINS OF TLALMANALCO.
CHAPTER IX.
MOUNTAIN EXPLORATION.
Travelling Companions—S. Lazarus Station—S. Anita—Ayotla—Tlalmanalco—Tenango del Aire—Amecameca—A Badly Lighted Town—Rateros—Monte-Sacro—Volcaneros.
On my first visit to the country, three-and-twenty years before, I had gone to the Sierra for the purpose of making a collection of photographs of Popocatepetl and the hills surrounding it. As my men were getting my camera ready I amused myself in scratching the ground with my stick, when, to my great surprise, I discovered a bit of pottery and presently a whole vase; I next tried the ground with my dagger and unearthed more vases, side by side with human remains. At that time, however, I was so absorbed by my photography, so ill prepared for gauging the importance of monuments and objects of antiquity regarding the country I was visiting, that I did not follow up my discovery; but now, deeply conscious of their interest, I returned to Popocatepetl, in the hope of finding the place as I had left it, and to be able to bring to light its hidden treasures.
Before going any further I wish to make the reader acquainted with my travelling companions. First in rank and importance stands Don Perez Castro, a Colonel of the Artillery, appointed by the Mexican Government to watch and share my labours and discoveries. Colonel Castro has taken part in all the battles and combats of his country during the Franco-Austrian empire of Maximilian; he is used to every climate, always ready to make the best of everything, blessed, moreover, with a perfect temper, a thorough good fellow, a caballero of the old school, with whom it is impossible not to get on. Next comes my private secretary, young Albert Lemaire, a promising topographer, a good draughtsman, who accepts cheerfully the hardships, privations, nay, the occasional perils of the expedition. Our servant, Julian Diaz, completes the list. He is a good specimen of a Calino, sweet-tempered, obliging, devoted, and indefatigable, and as simple and guileless as a child; he is never seen without his faithful dog d’Artagnan, a fine-looking animal, far too lazy to be any good against thieves or in the pursuit of game.
S. Lazarus is the station of a new line connecting Mexico with Morelos and Amecameca; here travellers must beware of the “cargadores,” who swoop down on the luggage like birds of prey, and if they are not more than quick in protecting their traps they will, in all probability, never see them again. Poor Julian learnt it to his cost, for in spite of all our vigilance, our fighting, our rushing madly after our porters not to lose sight of our things, when we reached the platform Julian’s trunk was gone. I was indignant, but he took his mischance quite philosophically, as though it did not concern him, lighting his cigar and taking his seat without a word of reproach against his unscrupulous countrymen.
The guard gives the signal, the whistle is heard, and we steam out of this squalid station, following the road by which Cortez entered Mexico. In the time of the Aztecs it was planted with beautiful trees, a glowing vegetation and pleasant groves clad the borders of the lake, over which glided a thousand light skiffs and floating chinampas; but now the waters which penetrated the city everywhere have receded so far as to be hardly visible, and the bright towns and hamlets, once washed by them, have been removed miles inland, leaving a barren strip of land with incrustations of salt on the surface. It is refreshing to abandon this unhealthy, horrible swamp to skirt S. Anita’s Canal, with its grassy banks, great trees, pretty villas, and blooming gardens overlooking the water. We perceive a few Indians among the reeds of the muddy waters casting their small nets to get a white fish to be found here. We pass Peñon with its sulphureous springs, stop at Santa Marta, once the culminating point of the road, and we shall soon leave behind the basin of the lake once so animated, so full of life, but now mournful and desolate beyond redemption.
The inhabitants, with amazing stupidity, even since my first visit, have laid low the forests of sombre pines and ilexes which shrouded the slopes of the volcanic hills occupying the valley, and imparting to it so unique a character; and now torrential rains carry away the soil no longer held by roots, leaving the rocks bare, so that nothing grows excepting the prickly pear or the funereal opuntiums.