Leal, humilde, sana y obediente.”[2]
They are the same to-day, especially when removed from the baleful influence of those who, instead of aiding them, would drag them down to the lowest depths of degradation and servitude.
But obliging and honest as we always found these people to be, they, nevertheless, invariably failed us in one particular. We could never, except occasionally by accident, get from them a correct or satisfactory answer about the distance from one place to another.
Never shall we forget our experience during our first day’s journey in the Cordilleras. Our objective point was San Miguel, where we were told we should find a good lodging house—one of the best on the road, we were assured—and, as the distance was great, it was necessary to make extra good time in order to arrive there before nightfall. The heavy, long-continued rains had made our trail extremely heavy, and in places almost impassable. The hours passed and we found ourselves advancing much more slowly than was desirable. The lowering clouds were massing on the mountain slopes, and the rain began to fall in torrents. It then began to dawn upon us that we might not be able to reach our destination in the limited time yet remaining of the fast-departing day.
Further progress along our dangerous path in the impenetrable gloom, that would immediately follow sunset, we knew to be impossible. We knew or thought we knew, about how far we were still from San Miguel, but we wished to be certain about the distance.
It was now about four o’clock in the afternoon, and it was imperative for us to reach our posada by six o’clock, if we were to arrive there at all that day. We accordingly inquired of one of the many peons we met, who were returning to their homes from their day’s labor in the fields, how far it was to San Miguel. “Tres leguas, Señores”—three leagues, Sirs—was the answer to our question.
This was disheartening. Our mules were now exhausted, and could not possibly make three leagues in two hours over the terrific track we were traveling. But there was nothing to do but push on. At the end of an hour we asked the same question of another peon. “Quatro leguas, Señores”—four leagues, Sirs, was the reply. This answer was confirmed by several other peons, whom we also questioned. Matters were becoming serious, but we continued on in silence, hoping against hope.
About a half hour later we again renewed our query. “Una legua, Señores”—one league, Sirs—said a bright boy, who was driving a heavily-laden donkey. It was now dusk, and as dusk in the tropics lasts but a few minutes, we knew that we should soon be enveloped in total darkness.
A little further on, a woman, with a child in her arms, informed us that San Miguel was “cerca”—near. This was too ambiguous for us, as it might mean one league or several leagues. Asking her how near it was, she replied muy cerca—very near. This was still unsatisfactory. She then assured us that it was “cerquita,” “cerquitita”—diminutives of cerca—[3] meaning that the place was extremely near, only a few steps farther. “Dando la vuelta de la esquina”—around the corner there—she said, “is San Miguel, the second house you come to.” Peering into the darkness before us, we could barely discern what appeared a projection from the mountain side. We had to be satisfied with this answer as, try as we would, we could elicit nothing more definite from our informant.
The darkness was now so dense that we were unable to see even as far as our mules’ ears. There was then nothing to be done but to give our animals the rein and trust them to carry us to our destination. As if guided by a peculiar instinct, they carefully picked their way through the mud, but we thought they should never get around that corner towards which we had been directed.