Guatemala

by William Tufts Brigham

In the afternoon we crossed, on an iron truss-bridge covered with a thatched roof, the Polochic, now a shallow but still wide stream. I wished for my camera here,—as I had several times since I left Pansos; but we were effectually parted until our mozos should overtake us at Coban. We had been assured by the blind ladinos that there was no interesting scenery on the road. We were now constantly ascending, and we passed many Indios of the Poconchi tribe,—clean, good-looking, and dressed in white, with fanciful designs of darker colors sewed on.

We arrived at Chamiquin early in the afternoon, and found the hamlet consisted, as far as we could see, of two very inferior houses and as many sheds. A fine grove of mango-trees, but no fruit; a hen-house built in the second story only, and accessible by ladder; palms, with the withered leaves still clinging to the stem (cultivated for the nuts, but dreary looking); limestone cropping out on the neighboring hills,—comprised the distinctive features of the place. Our room was new and clean, lined with banana-leaves, and the hard earth floor was of course uncarpeted. The furniture was simply a table and a bench; but frugal as the furnishing was, our dinner surpassed it,—a few tortillas, four eggs, and some nasty coffee for two hungry men! We had our own candles, or we might not have seen how little it was. Perhaps our hostess did as well as she could, for the twenty-five dogs that besieged our room while we ate were evidently half starved.

All through the country the dogs are very ill conditioned, and I several times remonstrated with their owners for what seemed to me cruel treatment; for although I detest this unclean brute, I do not like to see him suffer. But I was always assured that the dogs were underfed, not on account of cruelty, but to make them good hunters and scavengers. It certainly made them useless for the only purpose besides hunting that dogs seem to have been created for,—human food. Guatemala canines are certainly a contrast to the juicy little poi dogs of the Hawaiians (which are fed only on poi, sweet potato, and milk), or the excellent dogs always hanging in the butcher-shops in China.

Here let me speak of the atrocious coffee that we found in this place and elsewhere as we went on. The berry, which is of fine quality, is burned, not roasted, and when pulverized, boiled for hours, and then bottled. This nasty mess they call esencia de café, and mix it with boiling water at the table. It was generally served to us in patent-medicine bottles, with a corn-cob or a roll of paper for a stopper. It had not the slightest taste of coffee, but reminded one of the smell of a newly-printed newspaper.

We were on our way next morning at half-past five, and found the road much washed by the severe rains of the night before. On our right, across the valley, was a fine cascade spattering over the limestone rocks, and now we came for the first time to home-like pine-trees. Begonias of two species grew in the clefts of the roadside rocks, and in a house-yard was a fine Euphorbia Poinsettii. As my horse had hurt his foot at Teleman, I walked much of the way, so our progress up the hills was not very rapid; and we were by no means expecting it when a turn in the road between two hills brought us abruptly into San Miguel Tucurú.

This interesting town, of some three hundred inhabitants, had no posada; but we found a capital casa de hospedaje, kept by a señora of African descent married to an invisible ladino. The house was of fair size, built of adobe, and well plastered. A black Saint Benedict hung in effigy on the wall,—the forerunner of a host of black saints and holy people whom we saw both in sculpture and painting as we advanced through this ancient domain of the Spanish missionaries. Our señora had a calentura,—the national excuse for not doing anything or going anywhere; but for all that she got us a good breakfast. Our horses were used up, and our boy could get no others. An appeal to the alcalde brought one poor horse; but all our further efforts were answered by mañana (to-morrow),—that word so hateful to an active man, but universal here. As we had a very comfortable house to pass the night in, we made ourselves easy, and started to explore the town. On our way in I had seen an attractive spring a short distance from the road, and I went alone to explore it, taking a calabash I had just purchased for a drinking-vessel. A well-worn path led across a meadow, and a sudden turn brought me upon a party of women in exceedingly slight apparel, bathing and washing in a little pool into which the spring emptied through a spout. These naiads were most of them young; but one old woman, a foul-visaged hag, scowled savagely upon me, while the others giggled as I quietly handed my calabash to the prettiest, and asked her to give me a drink of water, which she caught from the high spout with skill and without hesitation, although the action exhibited her form in all its beauty. How I wanted my camera!

Stuck in the muddy road was a train of ox-carts, and the oxen from seven or eight were yoked to the head cart; and when that was dragged out of the slough to a camping-place, the next and all the rest were treated the same way. We wandered about town between the showers, saw lime-kilns, a lead-mine, and several potteries, and at last came to the church,—a more considerable building than we had yet seen in Central America. The door was tied with a leather shoestring, and there was no resident priest. The images seemed, to our unaccustomed eyes, most horrible; but they must have appeared in holier form to the poor worshippers, for marigolds and amaranths were strewed before them, and votive candles burned on the floor. The ancient name of this town was Tucurúb (meaning “town of owls”); but the Spaniards re-christened it by one of the saints called Michael,—which I do not know, but apparently not that one whose churches in western Europe are usually perched on some almost inaccessible pinnacle, as at Le Puy in France, St. Michael’s Mount in Cornwall, etc. Only one man in the town could speak English, and he could give us very little information about our road. Indeed, all the way we were in that delightful condition of travelling without knowing exactly what is coming, and constantly meeting the unexpected. The rain at last came down in earnest, and drove us within doors. A Boston boy who has a fine coffee estate in the neighborhood came in as we were at dinner and initiated us into the mystery of tortillas tostadas. Certainly by toasting, the tough, clammy, cold tortilla is made even better than new.

At four in the morning our boy Roberto lighted the candle and waked us up. We had settled our score the night before, and so did not disturb the family, but completed our toilet on the doorstep, as we saw to the saddling of our horses, by the light of the solitary candle. It was so dark as we rode away that we could not see the road, and blindly followed our guide’s white horse. A gate across the road gave us some trouble, as we could only feel it. By daylight the scenery must be fine; but as the noise of rushing waters, and a blacker streak by the road-side, alone indicated the torrents and barrancas at hand, we were troubled rather than pleased by these picturesque properties. We came to an ox-train camped in the middle of the road; and but for the glowing embers of their camp-fires we should have had great difficulty in passing.