Before the sun had melted the clouds in the valley below us, we were on our horses and slowly climbing a steep ascent of eight hundred feet. I had photographed the house, and, turning the camera on its pivot, obtained a view of the cloudy valley below: these views are before the reader now. A league brought us to another Santa Cruz,—a village pleasantly situated, and about the size of Chicaman, consisting of perhaps ten houses. There we saw by the roadside some fine oranges; but when Frank rode up to the house with his “¡Buenos dias, señora! ¿Tiene usted naranjas?” he was met by “No háy” (there are none). That phrase we heard altogether too frequently on our journey. In this case it simply meant that the señora had no oranges in the house; but she added that we might for a medio pick as many as we wanted! We tried the several trees, and filled a pillow-case with the fine fruit,—half a bushel for five cents!
We had little need of guides, for the camino real had few branches between towns; but soon after leaving Santa Cruz we found a branch on our left which puzzled us a little, as our map gave no indication of its existence. But we kept on almost a league, riding through a pine-forest on a nearly level road,—which proved to be the right one, although the choice was guess-work. Grass grew beneath these noble trees, and herds pastured in this park-like region. It was most interesting to see the acorns inserted by the birds in the pine-bark, precisely as I had often seen them in the forests of Nevada and California; but with all my watching I could not catch the birds at work. The acorns that I dug out, although frequently dry and apparently abandoned, were free from worms. The common species of pine (Pinus macrophylla) had “needles” fifteen and a half inches long; and the Indios were gathering them to strew the floors of the churches,—a more fragrant carpet than the rushes of our ancestors. We frequently came across artificial mounds, which, according to Santiago, “were where houses had been.” At ten o’clock we halted at a little village which we were told was Uspantán (our wretched mozo Santiago, who pretended to be guide, but knew no more than we about the road, led us into this mistake); so we unsaddled and waited for almuerzo, with little to amuse us except two turkey-cocks, one white, the other dark, inseparable companions, who followed us wherever we went, and at last were driven nearly wild by their attempts to converse with us. Not until two o’clock did we arrive at the true Uspantán, and then very unexpectedly; for seeing some women at a spring washing, in a wild place where no houses were visible, we turned a low ridge, and found ourselves in the midst of a considerable Indian town. The church, which we did not enter, had huge buttresses at the apse,—doubtless a precaution against earthquakes. We saw a great deal of pottery, and anona-trees were on all sides; but the full-grown fruit was not ripe. We felt so provoked at our waste of time at the first village (whose true name we never learned) that we did not care to stop here, but rode out of the town through a deep artificial ravine. San Miguel Uspantán has some nine hundred inhabitants, who weave cotton from the lowlands and wool from their numerous flocks; and it is from the mines near by that all the silver was obtained for the vessels of the church,—so says tradition. Ruined walls and broken aqueducts attest the former importance of the place under the Quiché rule.
The road became a mere trail until we came to Pericon,—a village of two hundred inhabitants, whose only industry is wool-dyeing; and from this we climbed the pine-clad hills to a height of over seven thousand feet, where we came suddenly upon a fine view of Cunen, directly west, but several leagues away, across a valley twelve hundred feet deep. I wanted a photograph; but the sun was in our faces, we could not spare the time, the day was almost done, and we had a difficult descent before us. Although we did not delay, it was long after dark when we rode into Cunen and found the Plaza, where we were assigned a good room in a confiscated monastery or church building. We had a mahogany bench fifteen feet long and sixteen inches wide for our bed, and a good table and several chairs abundantly furnished our apartment. We had our own candles and coffee; but no other food was to be had except some ears of green corn which we had picked by the way for our animals, but which we were fain to eat ourselves when Santiago had scorched them by the embers of the mozos’ fires in the Plaza. Although the corridor was full of mozos who were to pass the night here, there was no noise whatever. We closed our door at six; and as soon as our notes were made, fell asleep. The poor Indios had no politics to quarrel over, and we had the satisfaction of a day well spent; so there was peace and harmony beneath our roof of tiles.
Every day the vegetation changed, and we might have constructed an itinerary of floral landmarks; to-day it was a fine pink dahlia far surpassing in vigor of growth and blossom any of the cultivated varieties. In such a climate, however, this plant did not provide for hibernation in its tuberous roots, of which it had none. Acres of fragrant Stevia perfumed the air, while Bouvardias and bright Compositæ brushed against us on either side of the narrow pathway.
Twelve hours of solid rest were not too much; and while in the early dawn our bestias were being saddled, I strolled into the church, which is much smaller than its ruined predecessor at its side. In Central America the roofless walls of ancient churches usually, if not always, enclose a campo santo, and here the early Cunenans slept their last sleep among the crumbling relics of their work. In the modern church were two large mermaids of the genuine Japanese type, carved as supporters to the altar.
In the cold, misty morning we started without coffee, and at once began to climb a long ascent; for Cunen seems to be built on a platform on the mountain side. On our left was the finest waterfall we had yet seen, and on the banks were red violets. The summit of this pass was nearly seven thousand feet, and a sudden turn on a sharp ridge brought us to another region and a different climate. The transition was astonishing, for only a few rods behind we had left the rainy season. Before us was a vast valley bounded by forest-clad mountains and grassy buttresses; but near and far no sign of human habitation. The path we were on was the only token of man’s presence, and that looked more like the dry bed of a mountain torrent than a public road. Broad-leaved agaves were very common, some crowned with golden blossoms on immense stems, some dead after flowering, still others wantonly hacked by the passer-by,—so we thought, in our ignorance, until the too-frequent mutilation of the tough stems showed a labor that could not be purposeless; and then we remembered that these “century plants” flower but once, after years of growth exhausting their entire substance in that supreme effort, and leaving a withered stem and shrivelled leaves, to be swept down the hillside by the next storm. Foiled in its attempt to flower by the decapitating machete of the mozo, the plant lives on for a longer period, furnishing fibre and drink from its leaves. Anona-trees grew at the very summit of the pass, although we were assured that frosts sometimes occurred. Oaks of two species were abundant, and laurels were in blossom. A rancho built by the roadside, a sad travesty of the Dâk Bungalows of India, gave us at least a chance to boil our coffee.
A long and rough descent brought us to a pine-forest, whence at an elevation of six thousand feet we again looked down upon the valley of the Chixoy. Among the pines and oaks I photographed the view. The little white-housed town of Sacapulas on the hillside above the right bank of the light-green river which did not half fill its bed; the cultivated fields around; far in the distance the volcanic cone of Tajumulco,—the first we had seen, a token that we had left the limestone mountains of the Atlantic, and were looking on the fire-fountains of the Pacific coast,—all these and so much more in this grand view before us. We hardly noted the contour, the lines, the masses,—all that we could trust to the ivory plate that should carry it away; but the vivid colors in that clear atmosphere, the marvellous tints of forest, sky, and river, no photographic art could carry away, and we must enjoy it now by ourselves. The town was five miles away, and three thousand feet below us; and the descent was very difficult, owing to the sharp bits of quartz in the path. In the valley we came upon the huge cylindrical cacti (Cereus) used in fencing. Jocote-trees were abundant, but the small yellow fruit decidedly inferior. Sugar-cane grew to some extent in gardens, but fruits and vegetables were scarce. On the trees and fences hung a light-blue convolvulus,—the most attractive color I ever saw; and this with a smaller white one brought the number of the “morning-glories” we had found so far to ten species.
Women were bathing in a spring near the road; the men seem never to bathe in public. Over the river was a bridge of six piers with simple hewn logs laid between them, no plank or rail of any kind, although the bridge was high and the current, even in ordinary stages of the water, very strong. As our bestias did not hesitate, we of course crossed with them. A short distance up stream were two brick and stone arches of a more ancient bridge extending from the town side. Several piers of the bridge we were crossing had fallen; but the masonry was good, and they generally held well together, forming bowlder-like masses, on which new piers had been built: in one case this process had been repeated. No doubt the bridge will soon break down again; and two wire cables are stretched from cliff to cliff to provide transit in case of accident. We went up a steep paved street to the Plaza, where Señor Placido Estada, the comandante, assigned us quarters in the cabildo, and exerted himself to find us a boarding-place. Whether the climate was favorable, I know not; but we were always very hungry when we were where food could be got: where it was wanting we did not care for it. Here we did full justice to the señora’s cinnamon-flavored chocolate whipped to a froth.
SACAPULAS AND THE CHIXOY VALLEY.