INDIAN HUT; SANTA ANITA
GUADALUPE; DECEMBER 12
CHAPTER XXVII
CONCLUSION
But it was not necessary to go to distant Oaxaca and Chiapas to find Mexican indians. On the border of the capital city lie Santa Anita, Iztacalco, Mexicalcingo, Ixtapalapa, and a quantity of other villages and towns, where one may still find Aztec indians of pure blood, sometimes speaking the old language, sometimes wearing characteristic dress, and maintaining, to the present, many ancient practices and customs. At Santa Anita, for example, one may eat juiles and tamales, catch a glimpse of indian weddings, and delight his eyes with the fresh beauty of the chinampas,—wonderful spots of verdure and flowers—the floating gardens of the ancient Aztecs. Half an hour, or less, in the tram-car takes the traveller to Guadalupe, which may be called the heart of Indian Mexico. There, on the rock of Tepeyac, the Virgin appeared to Juan Diego; there, in the churches, dedicated in honor of that apparition, thousands of indians, from leagues around, gather yearly. On December 12, in the crowded streets of Guadalupe, groups, fantastically garbed as indians, dance in the Virgin's honor, and in their songs and dances, modern though they be, can be found suggestions of the olden time. Now and then, one may witness, what I saw in December, 1895—a group of indian pilgrims from a distant town, singing and dancing to the Virgin, within the great church itself. And near the high altar, where thick glass plates are set into the floor, letting a dim light into the crypts below, one may see crowds of indians rubbing the smooth surface with their diseased parts to effect a cure. On the streets of the capital city, one daily sees bands of pure Otomis in rags and filth, bringing their loads of charcoal and of corn to market. Their ugly dark faces, their strange native dress, their harsh language, make on the stranger an impression not easily forgotten.
Reliable figures are wanting as to the number of pure Mexican Indians. If the population of the Republic be estimated at fifteen millions, it should be safe to say that five millions of this number are indians of pure blood, speaking their old language, keeping alive much of the ancient life and thought. In some parts of Mexico, it almost seems as if what white-blood once existed is now breeding out. The indian of Mexico is conservative; he does not want contact with a larger world; his village suffices for his needs; he is ready to pay taxes for the sake of being let alone, to live in peace, after the way his fathers lived. In his bosom there is still hatred of the white man and the mestizo, and distrust of every stranger. The Chamula outbreak in 1868, and the Maya war just ended, are examples of this smouldering hatred. Mexico has a serious problem in its Indians; the solution of the problem has been attempted in various ways, according to whether the population dealt with was Totonac, Yaqui, Maya: it is no small task, to build a nation out of an indian population.
Soon after the publication of my "Indians of Southern Mexico," I had the pleasure of presenting a copy of the book to President Diaz, and of looking through its pictures with him. When we came to the general view of Yodocono, and its little lake, tears stood in the old man's eyes as he said, "Sir, that was my mother's birthplace, and in her honor I have established, at my own expense, two schools, one for boys, and one for girls." Looking at the round huts of Chicahuastla, he shivered, and remarked: "Ah, sir, but it is cold in Chicahuastla." I replied, "Your Excellency, I see that you have been in Chicahuastla." When he saw the Zapotec types, from the District of Tehuantepec, he said: "They are fine large fellows; they make good soldiers; when I was Governor of Oaxaca, I had a body-guard of them." He then told me of the six orphan boys who, in memory of his body-guard, he had adopted and educated; he told me with pride of the success which the five who still live had made, and of the positions they were filling. When he reached the portrait of the little Mixtec, carrying a sack of corn, who, with pride, had told me, in answer to my question, that his name was Porfirio Diaz, the President of the Republic looked long and earnestly at the picture, and I noticed that, when we turned the pages, his finger marked the spot where the likeness of his name-sake was, and, when the book was finished, before closing it, he turned back again, and looked at the little fellow's face. At the first Otomi portrait, he had said: "Ah, sir, but my schools will change the Otomis."