CROSSING THE RIVER ON MARKET-DAY
The Indian will travel for days on his way to market at Oaxaca. On the day before market I drove out the south road for a number of miles, and the entire distance was literally black,—or perhaps it would be better to say brown,—with the natives coming to town bearing the “brown man’s burden,” and travelling along in the middle of the road at a rapid pace. These Indians were coming from the “hot country” farther south and were bringing oranges, bananas, cocoanuts and other kinds of tropical fruits, besides chickens, eggs and other poultry. Most of them were on foot, though the more fortunate had donkeys to carry the load; but they themselves walked and drove the animal. The women bore large baskets on their heads, which they balanced gracefully, although sometimes the loads are exceedingly heavy. They will carry one hundred pounds or more in this manner. Frequently a baby is swung across the back as an additional burden. The little mites are good natured in this uncomfortable position, and do not make half as much trouble as American babies in their rubber-tired, easy-springed perambulators.
A small pot, a basket of tortillas, a few fagots and plenty of coffee complete the outfit of the man. Perhaps the value of his load is not over a dollar or two in gold, but his entertainment along the way costs little, for he sleeps out of doors, carries his food, makes his own coffee and needs to buy nothing except perhaps a little fruit and aguardiente (brandy). The entire family sometimes accompany him, for the wife is afraid to have her man go away alone for fear he may desert her.
On the opposite side of the city from the road just described is another main highway. I stood here for several hours by the river bank on the afternoon of a market-day, when the people were leaving for home. The sight never grew tiresome or monotonous, as there was a constant succession of pictures, which a moving-picture machine alone could adequately portray. Although there is a bridge across the stream, no one used it, for by making a short cut across the river bed a hundred yards or more was saved. The pedestrian would remove his sandals to wade through the shallow water, and then replace them on reaching the opposite bank. The Indians going this way had more burros, and, as their load was disposed of, the family rode. Frequently a poor, diminutive burro carried as many persons as could sit on his back, in addition to the large baskets. Many of the great carts drawn by one or two yoke of oxen passed this way. The cattle are all yoked by the horns, which seems a cruel way, for their heads are brought down almost to the ground, and it looks as though every jar must cause them suffering.
So this unique panorama continued all the afternoon. I could not think of anything but Palestine, as I gazed at this unceasing procession of donkeys, Egyptian carts, women with their shawls folded and worn on their heads in Eastern fashion; and in the background the white walls, red tiled roofs and domes of the churches of Oaxaca. For a moment I wondered if I were not mistaken, and had suddenly strayed into some corner of the Orient, and found myself involuntarily looking for the mosque, and listening for the cry of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer.
A trip around about the valley near Oaxaca only served to strengthen the oriental cast of the picture. The types of buildings, and the signs of water and fertility in the midst of widespread aridity (for this was the dry season) are eastern. I saw many flocks of goats herded by the solitary shepherd in the truly old-fashioned way. Then, a slow-moving team of oxen followed by a peon guiding a one-handled, wooden plough deepens the picture. How powerful must have been the Moorish influence in Spain, for this is the plough of Egypt and Chaldea which was carried along the coast of Barbary into Spain, and left there as a heritage to the Spaniards who introduced it into the new world.
Yes, Oaxaca is an El Dorado, a land of treasure to the searcher after the picturesque. The real wealth lies in its delightful climate. The temperature is mild and does not vary more than twenty or thirty degrees during the year. The altitude is a little less than five thousand feet and the air is fresh and bracing. There is also an abundance of good, pure water. Some day this city will be known as a health resort for people from cold climates. They will find relief from the strenuous life in quiet, restful, oriental Oaxaca.
There is no more picturesque hacienda in all Mexico than that of Mitla a few miles away. Because of the bleak and rough nature of the country it has retained its early characteristics. The little store is a revelation of the simple and primitive life of these people. Evening is sure to find Don Felix, or his black-eyed son, behind the counter waiting on the groups of Indians who are constantly coming in to buy a couple of cents worth of mescal, or tequila, or cigarettes. One Indian woman came in to purchase a centavo (one-half cent) of vinegar, another of lard, and others an equal amount of honey, soap, sugar or matches. They would invariably buy only one article at a time, then pay for it and watch the copper disappear down a slot in the counter. Outside the door was an old Indian who had brought a load of wood down from the mountain, and the good housewives were noisily bargaining with him for a centavo’s worth of wood, and trying to get an extra stick or two for that sum.
Bargaining is a part of the education of these people. A young Indian came in hatless and wanted a sombrero (hat). He was shown one with thirty cents worth of brim by the merchant. The Indian offered twenty-eight cents which was accepted and he went away happy over his bargain. An old Indian,—and an old Indian is but a child in worldly wisdom,—brought a large cassava root, which, after considerable haggling, the merchant purchased for five cents. He bought a package of sixteen cigarettes for three cents and told the young hacendado that he had another “mas grande” (larger), which he would sell for seven cents. He went away but returned in a few minutes with the other root, and looked around at the crowd with a grin. The merchant took it but told him it was “mas chico” (smaller), and he could only allow four cents. The Indian came down to six and the deal was closed at five cents, the same price as the first one was sold for. He bought a glass of mescal for two cents and vanished in the night air, with a smile of complete satisfaction on his face. It is a simple life that these people lead, and the same scenes may be witnessed any day in the year at this little tienda at the Hacienda of Mitla.