Why were we leaving Mexico? When? Where were we going? Why? What had we done in Mexico? Why the devil had we come there, anyhow? What was our profession? Married or single? How many children? Why? Where were they? And how?
And when one had convinced the officials of his respectability, there was another long hike across an endless sunny grass-plain, to a palm-thatched shelter at the river bank, where other officials ransacked the baggage. A boatman poled the few emigrants across the swirling waters to Guatemala. And the entire proceeding recommenced on the other side.
The Guatemalan officials had no office. They stood in the shade of a pepper tree, flanked on one side by a squad of barefooted soldiers, on the other by an ox-cart, and backed by the town’s juvenile population. They pretended very solemnly to read every word in the passports—although one traveler’s was in Russian and another’s in Syrian. They paused now and then to shake their heads doubtfully and exchange suspicious glances. But at length, when every one had proved his solvency by displaying thirty-five dollars in American currency—Guatemalan bills not being considered sufficient proof of solvency—they passed us all. Baggage was loaded upon the ox-cart, and we started for the custom-house, led by the soldiers, and followed by the juvenile population.
There was another wait of more than an hour while the custom inspector finished his lunch, took his siesta, and smoked his cigarette. At last, however, he made his appearance, scribbled in chalk all over the outside of trunks and suit-cases, filled out several printed reports, and collected from each of us ten Guatemalan dollars—or fourteen cents in American money—and the formalities were concluded.
We were officially admitted to the Republic of Guatemala.
II
From Ayutla, the Guatemalan frontier station, to Guatemala City was another day’s ride.
The railway coaches, if possible, were just a trifle more dilapidated than those of Mexico, but the train made better time. The way led through a continuation of the bamboo forests, but it soon rose to the cooler highlands, where volcanic cones towered into the clouds. One or two of the craters were smoking, filling the sky with dense masses of white vapor, and sprinkling the earth with a fine lava dust.
To all Central America, these volcanoes are blessings. Occasionally the attendant earthquakes may shake down a city, but the lava dust enriches the soil, and a good coffee crop provides the wherewithal for reconstruction. The Pacific slopes of Guatemala are exceedingly fertile. Coming from Mexico, where revolution had brought a cessation of work, one noticed the air of prosperity in this little Central American country. The hills everywhere were red with coffee berries, the plantations were neatly kept, and the peons all seemed busy.
