Our way from Chichicastenango[17] led out over a narrow ridge or series of ridges, with deep barrancas on either side. The road was good, and hedged part of the way; but our animals were of the poorest kind. My little horse went slowly, and at last his legs seemed to collapse, and he came to the ground, leaving me standing over him. He was not worn out, he was a “trick horse.” For miles Frank and I walked on, leading our bestias. It grew very dark and misty; lightning flashed in the distance, and the trees were dripping with dew. With every desire to get on to Sololà, we agreed that in the darkness it was unwise to travel, and we looked anxiously for a camping-place, although the muddy ground, dripping bushes, and threatening sky gave no hope of a comfortable night. Twice we were misled by the gleam of fireflies, whose glow is so steady that we mistook it for light in a distant house. As we could find no safe place for a camp, a high bank on one side and a seemingly deep ravine on the other bordering the narrow cart-road, we walked on in the utter darkness until we almost ran into two ox-carts with a squad of white-coated soldiers, who told us we had lost our path in the dark, and were on the road to Totonicapan, and a long league beyond Encuentros. We returned with them to the latter place, where we found comfortable lodgings in the house prepared for the expected visit of the President. We occupied his room, which was temporarily furnished with plenty of Vienna bent-wood furniture, and decorated with a full-length, life-size painting of President Barrios and a small portrait of his wife. Two bedsteads of the box variety were quite bare, as His Excellency always carries his bedding, and we did not. After some excellent chocolate, but no other food, we spread our blankets and slept.
How cold that Thursday morning was when we started at daybreak! The thermometer marked 46° at half-past six o’clock, and we were at an elevation of eight thousand feet. We had a fine carriage-road for our travel to-day, on which I used Frank’s mare, while he tried his luck with my “trick horse.” For a while all went well, and Frank made the little beast go ahead, while I stopped to pick up some lava fragments in one of the cuttings; and so when Frank’s turn came I could see perfectly how odd it looked to have a horse collapse under his rider. Along the road were elder-trees (Sambucus) pollarded like our willows; as, however, they were not shady, but in the way of fine views, we voted them a nuisance. It was down hill all the way, and as we approached Sololà the view of the Lago de Atitlan and the volcano was disappointing. We had surfeited, perhaps, on the glories of landscape, and had expected something finer, with an immense lake, several volcanoes of more than average size, and a town whose white houses and red-tiled roofs were almost concealed in trees and flowers. However critical we might be, we were glad enough to see the town, and not less to find a posada, where we had a room to serve as store-room and bedchamber. We at once sent back our miserable horses; and after reporting to the comandante, as in duty bound,[18] we strolled through the Plaza, sending Santiago in search of bestias for our next stage. Here we first found the ripe fruit of the sapote (Lucuma mammosa), and did not like it. The outside was brown, rough, and leathery; the meat reddish, surrounding a smooth nut, and the whole flavored with cinnamon. Some sapotes were as large as a coconut, but generally they were not half that size.[19] The Plaza was full of people buying and selling. Mule-trains came in and went out, and it seems that this is the great wheat-market. This grain (trigo) is small and round, and the Government officials weighed each bag, which should contain six arrobas, or one hundred and fifty pounds. Fat-pine (ocote) is also an important article of commerce here, as it is the principal source of candle-light among the Indios.
Sololà and Atitlan.
The church is large, but of no architectural pretensions; and among its contents we noticed several strange things. A figure of Christ, with glass eyes and long human hair, wore a crown cocked over his left eye like a drunken man. On the wall of the nave was a water-color drawing passably done, representing a young man falling headlong over a precipice, while through a sort of Lutheran window, or peep-hole, in the sky a rather young female is trying to catch him with a long vine. The legend states at length that the youth, in passing along the edge of the terrible precipice above the Lago one dark night (when he had been to his club), mistook the gleam of the water for the path, and forced his horse over. As he fell, he breathed a prayer to the “Mother of God,” and she opened her window and jerked him up again with a grape-vine. In testimony whereof he offers this tablet, etc. Near the main entrance was a large altar-piece, with a deeply sunken cruciform panel containing a very realistic crucifix,—glass eyes, sweat, long hair, and blood-drops, indeed, everything that could make it disgusting to a civilized being; while from the five wounds proceeded skeins of crimson thread,—that from the side being much thicker,—and all these knotted together in a mass, black with the kisses of the worshippers of the blood of Christ. On one side of this panel were painted, life-size, Roman soldiers mocking the suffering Saviour; while on the other was a Guatemaltecan general, in full uniform, weeping at the sad sight, and using such an embroidered handkerchief as the nuns make at the present day. Just behind him was an attendant who had caught off his wig on the point of his lance. This last feature Frank interprets differently, and thinks the bald head is a shining casque, while what I call a wig is a flowing plume. With all due deference to his younger and brighter eyes, I submit that such a helmet was never a part of the Guatemaltecan uniform; and even if made of such close-fitting shape, would not have been painted flesh-color. Unluckily I did not take a photograph, to settle, if possible, this important dispute.
Frank was busily asking every one he met about mules; and we had not found any when, late in the afternoon, he met a gentleman walking alone in the public garden near the Plaza. He asked the oft-repeated question in Spanish, when, to his surprise, the person asked him if he spoke English. This proved to be the Jefe, Don J. M. Galero; and when told who we were and what we wanted, asked us to come to the Jefaturia in the evening. As Señor Galero was high in favor with the Government and beloved by his people, our very agreeable visit was interrupted by a serenade to his Excellency; and after he had promised to send us his own mules that very night for our journey to Totonicapan, we took our leave.
The public garden especially interested me, since all the flowers (except an orange-tree) were such as I might find at home;[20] but times and seasons were sadly mixed. Pinks and gladioli, sunflower and white lily, all blossomed together. The fountain was painted blue and white,—the national colors,—and sadly disfigured the garden, which otherwise was not laid out with any taste.
Our apartment in this only hotel in Sololà was completely fire-proof; walls, roof, and floor were brick or tile, and several of the floor-tiles were deeply impressed with dog-tracks (made, of course, before the kiln),—much resembling the fossil footprints in the red sandstone of the Connecticut valley. A low table, one chair, a hardwood table called a bedstead, furnished this room; and there was one door and a single window,—the latter, with its iron grating, suggesting a prison-cell. It was clean and quiet, and good enough. It does not require long travel in the tropics to teach one that the less unnecessary furniture in a house, the fewer lurking-places for cockroaches, centipedes, scorpions, snakes, and other disagreeable tenants; and comparative emptiness decidedly reduces the temperature of a room. During the night my hammock broke down; and the sympathy Frank expressed as he was half-awakened by the noise, would have been very soothing had he not fallen asleep again in the midst of it, leaving me sitting on the floor. He continued his sympathy in the morning, when the dreadful jar was almost forgotten.
Early next morning we were on our way, mounted better than we had been; for we left Frank’s mare with Santiago to rest for a week, and with the Jefe’s mules we rode briskly on to Argueta,—a small hamlet with a deserted convent or monastery, in front of which flowed a clear cool brook, and near by was an ingenio moved by water-power. We got our almuerzo here, early as it was, for we were warned that we should find nothing to eat until night. From Argueta the road was very hilly, and we climbed until my barometer said 10,450 feet. Wheat abounded everywhere, and there were fenced threshing-floors of beaten earth. The mozos we met carried packs of woollen blankets and redes (nets) of pottery; several had pine-boards hewn smooth, three feet wide by eight long. In the trees were flocks of bright-green parrots. So many little streams had to be crossed that we often wondered if they were not, many of them, parts of one rivulet winding in devious way among the foothills. Except in the ravines, where we had to zigzag down and up while the toiling mozos patiently climbed the banks too steep for horses, the road was generally over a good country for road-building. In one place, however, we had to climb a stairway paved with stone set on edge and walled with masonry. In places earthen pots were built into the walls to collect water for the wayfarer, and tiles were used to cap the masonry. This extended more than a mile, and took us up just a thousand feet by the barometer. We could not learn its age nor the builders; but it is old, and some of the mozos attributed it to the Jesuit Fathers. It is much out of repair, and I fancy that most of the travel over it is on foot. The views were fine all the way; but we knew our journey was long, and the daylight all too short to permit us to wait for our mozos to come up with the camera. Indeed, I hardly cared to reduce to black and white the glorious colors the light was painting on every side. The greens of the forest faded into the blues of the sky as in the turquoise, gold and silver glittered from the streams, and the very gray of the rocks seemed to be richer and more varied than usual.
On the hill-sides were ancient potato-fields only cultivated by digging the tubers; and this process has gone on for years,—the Indios digging at the bottom of the slope as potatoes are wanted, leaving enough for seed, and arriving at the top by the time the rains begin. As the small stems were quite dead and dried up, we could not ascertain the species of this aboriginal potato; but it was certainly not the common potato of cultivation (Solanum tuberosum). The Indios declared the potatoes had never been planted, but their ancestors had dug them from the remotest time,—en todo tiempo, señor.