When the bosses at Quiriguá heard this story, they looked at their own monuments—which tourists came miles to see—and shook their heads sadly.
“Those damned things are on our best banana land, too.”
XI
On the train that carried me back from Quiriguá—through swamp, and desert and mountain—from banana-land to coffee-country—I met an Old-Timer. He had been so long in the tropics that the mosquitoes refused to bite him. Like many another, he had the rank of General, earned in some long-past revolution.
“These countries are changing,” he said regretfully. “I can remember the time when there was nothing down here but thatched huts. All the white men in those days were tropical tramps, drifting from one place to another, but they’ve mostly disappeared. This Fruit Company won’t give you a job these days unless you come down on contract, with a white collar around your neck, and a testimonial from your clergyman.
“The tramp’s gone south. And now the soldier of fortune is passing. You no sooner get a revolution started than the United States sends down a gunboat to protect American property. Things are getting so civilized around here, I sometimes think of going home and joining the Ku Klux Klan for a little excitement.”
CHAPTER XIII
IN SUNNY SALVADOR
I
A mule trail leads overland from Guatemala to Salvador—a rugged, bowlder-strewn path that curls along mountain sides, and fords rivers, and scales precipitous cliffs—a road such as only a mule could travel with security and comfort.
I crossed it in an automobile.