A JOURNEY IN
SOUTHEASTERN MEXICO
There are few civilized countries where the American pleasure-seeking traveler is so seldom seen as in the rural districts of southeastern Mexico, along the coast between Tampico and Vera Cruz. The explanation for this is doubtless to be found in the fact that there is perhaps no other civilized country where the stranger is subjected to so many personal discomforts and vexations resulting from incommodious facilities for travel, and from the multiplicity of pests that beset his path.
The writers of books on Mexican travel usually keep pretty close to the beaten paths of travel, and discreetly avoid the by-ways in those portions far removed from any railroad or highway. They acquire their observations and impressions chiefly from the window of the comfortable passenger-coach or from the veranda of some hotel where three good meals are served daily, or from government reports and hearsay,—which are often unreliable. It is only the more daring fortune-hunters that brave the dangers and discomforts of the remote regions, and from these we are rarely favored with a line, either because they have no aptitude for writing, or, as is more likely, because, wishing to forget their experiences as speedily as possible, they make no permanent record of them. Tourists visiting Mexico City, Monterey, Tampico and other large cities are about as well qualified to discourse upon the conditions prevailing in the agricultural sections of the unfrequented country districts as a foreigner visiting Wall Street would be to write about the conditions in the backwoods of northern Maine. I can readily understand the tendency of writers to praise the beauty of Mexican scenery and to expatiate upon the wonderful possibilities in all agricultural pursuits. In passing rapidly from one section to another without seeing the multifarious difficulties encountered from seedtime to harvest, they get highly exaggerated ideas from first impressions, which in Mexico are nearly always misleading. The first time I beheld this country, clothed in the beauty of its tropical verdure, I wondered that everybody didn't go there to live, and now I marvel that anybody should live there, except possibly for a few months in winter. If one would obtain reliable intelligence about Mexico and its advantages—or rather its disadvantages—for profitable agriculture, let him get the honest opinion of some one who has tried the experiment on the spot, of investing either his money or his time, or both, with a view to profit.
In March, 1896, in company with two friends and an interpreter, I went to Mexico, having been lured there by numerous exaggerated reports of the possibilities in the vanilla, coffee and rubber industries. None of us had any intention of remaining there for more than a few months,—long enough to secure plantations, put them in charge of competent superintendents, and outline the work to be pursued. We shared the popular fallacy that if the natives, with their crude and antiquated methods could produce even a small quantity of vanilla, coffee or rubber, we could, by employing more progressive and up-to-date methods, cause these staple products to be yielded in abundant quantities and at so slight a cost as to make them highly profitable. We had heard that the reason why American investors had failed to make money there was because they had invested their funds injudiciously, through intermediaries, and had no personal knowledge of the actual state of affairs at the seat of investment. We were therefore determined to investigate matters thoroughly by braving the dangers and discomforts of pestilence and insects and looking the ground over in person. We had no idea of forming any company or copartnership, but each was to make his own observations and draw his own conclusions quite independent of the others. We agreed, however, to remain together and to assist one another as much as possible by comparing notes and impressions. There was a tacit understanding that all ordinary expenses of travel should be shared equally from one common fund, to which each should contribute his share, but that each one should individually control his own investment, if such were made. Each member of the party had endeavored to post himself as best he could regarding the necessities of the trip. We consulted such accounts of travel in Mexico as were available (nothing, however, was found relating to the locality that we were to visit), conversed with a couple of travelers who had visited the western and central parts, and corresponded with various persons in that country; but when we came together to compare notes of our requirements for the journey no two seemed to agree in any particular. Our objective point was Tuxpam, which is on the eastern coast almost midway between Tampico and Vera Cruz, and a hundred miles from any railroad center. As it was our intention to barter direct with the natives instead of through any land syndicate, we thought best to provide ourselves with an ample supply of the native currency. Out of the thousand and one calculations and estimates that we all made, this latter was about the only one that proved to be anywhere near correct. In changing our money into Mexican currency we were of course eager to secure the highest premium, and upon learning that American gold was much in demand at Tampico (the point where we were to leave the railroad) we shipped a quantity of gold coin by express to that place.
Our journey to Tampico was by rail via Laredo and Monterey, and was without special incident; the reader need not therefore be detained by a recital of what we thought or saw along this much traveled highway. This route—especially as far as Monterey—is traversed by many Americans, and American industry is seen all along the line, notably at Monterey.
Upon arriving at Tampico we were told by the money-changers there that they had no use for American gold coin. They said that the only way in which they could use our money was in the form of exchange on some eastern city, which could be used by their merchants in making remittances for merchandise; so we were obliged to ship it all back to an eastern bank, and sold our checks against a portion of it at a premium of eighty cents on the dollar.