Guatemala

by William Tufts Brigham

On Monday we started our mozos and luggage at six in the morning, and left our kind host before seven. We were almost surrounded by small volcanic cones, but Suchitan was the only one we identified. This gave little signs of its fiery origin to unpractised eyes, for the lower slopes were covered with shrubs, and here and there a little house peeped out among the trees, while fields extended to the cloudy summit. So severe was the wind on the plain at the base of this volcano that our animals several times turned from the path to seek shelter. Three leagues out we passed Achuapa, and five leagues farther Horcones,—both small villages. Clematis grew over the bushes and softened the rough appearance of the calabash-trees and espina blancas,—almost the only vegetation on this dry and unpromising upland. We had frequently seen the ocean from our highway during the past few days, and now we saw the volcanoes of Salvador, one of which was smoking, which I supposed to be Izalco. Blocks of lava were scattered all over the plain, as if some bed of lava had been broken up and brought down in fragments by an avalanche. The stone was well suited for the manufacture of metatles, or tortilla-stones, and fragments were scattered all about, as well as several half-finished metatles, spoiled by an unlucky blow. We could not find any one at work, and did not learn with what tools this rather difficult stone-cutting is accomplished. The honey of Suchitan is very good, perhaps made partly from acacia-flowers; its flavor being not unlike that of the famous honey of Auvergne in France,—also, a region of extinct volcanoes.

We arrived at Santa Catarina about three in the afternoon; there, while our animals rested and fed in front of the cabildo, we bespoke a comida at a little cook-shop in the Plaza, and then explored the poor little church, which was dark, windowless, and wholly bespattered with bat-filth,—pictures, crucifix and all. We beat a hasty retreat from this unseemly sanctuary; and after a wash in the public fountain, returned to the cocina, where we were served with tortillas, fried eggs, plantains, frijoles, and coffee,—for which we paid three reals, or thirty-seven and a half cents. As we left the town we passed a noisy trapiche, or sugar-mill, consisting of three vertical wooden rollers turned by four oxen. It sounded very like one of the ancient cider-mills in New England. A good mill could make a fair percentage of sugar out of the crushed cane passing through these rollers.

From the town we found a rather steep descent, and at the bottom a large river to ford, whose bed was full of loose rocks,—making the passage very difficult. We had not gone two leagues from Santa Catarina before darkness came on, and we camped by the roadside. A cheery fire and our blankets made the camp very comfortable, and the little child was quiet all night,—not civilized enough, Frank declared, to cry instead of sleep. The dew-fall was very heavy; it is probably always so at this dry season.

We were up at light, and sent the men to find water while we got the fire burning and made coffee. With honey and wheaten rolls we breakfasted well,—indeed, our out-door life in this good climate made us feel at peace with all men, and satisfied—nay, pleased—with everything that befell us. The morning was cloudy; but we knew the clouds did not mean rain at this season, and we were in the saddle before the dew was quite dried from our blankets. As we went along we several times passed black obsidian chips, some recent, but most of them quite old,—evidently the refuse of the knife-makers, whose work in ancient times was much in demand; the long, slim blades used in circumcision were never used but once, then consecrated in the temples or broken; and those knives used for other purposes were of course brittle, and soon destroyed.

Mozo on the Road.

We arrived at Agua Blanca about eight o’clock, and stopped to feed our bestias on cornstalks and squashes. The former were kept high up in the trees, which neither cows nor pigs could climb, while the squashes in endless variety nearly filled a small house, through whose bambu walls the wandering hogs could smell the coveted food. The town is appropriately named “White Water,” for the only supply was very milky in appearance and very clayey in taste. Almost directly over the town, the volcano of Monte Rico, long extinct, is the most striking feature in the landscape. Cultivated to the very edge of the crater, which is said to contain a large lake, the fertility of the fields was greatest at the top,—due, no doubt, to the waters of the crater; while the lower slopes are comparatively dry and barren. Around the base are many smaller cones, which remind one of those which dot the slopes of Ætna and give the Sicilian volcano the name “Mother of Mountains.” Not a league beyond we crossed the only clear stream we saw all day; but even this water was not very pleasing to the taste. Bars across the road made us fear we had missed the path and were no longer in the “camino real;” we were, nevertheless. At Piedras Gordas, in the afternoon, we stopped for food, in hopes of hearing tidings of our guide and mozos, who had started before us. Our frugal meal of plantains, tortillas, and red bananas was constantly interrupted by the pigs who were stealing the sacaton from our hungry animals. For miles there were booths and stone fireplaces marking the camps of the pilgrims who journey to the sacred Sanctuario de Esquipulas. At six o’clock we camped in a fine pine-forest high up in the mountains. No human habitation was near, but a few cattle were seen here and there. The pasturage was good between the scattered trees of this grand park. We built a roaring fire, which cast curious shadows from the trees, pegged our bestias securely, enjoyed a good lomilomi, or Hawaiian massage, and both fell asleep. Suddenly I awoke with the strong impression that something was wrong. There was no noise, not even the cry of a night-bird; only the soft sough of the night-breezes in the pine-tops. Frank was breathing quietly at my side, the fire was out, and the night was cold outside the blankets. As I sat up to look about, a dark object caught my eye in the dim distance, and without much thought or reason I went towards it, simply because I felt impelled to do so. There was no consideration of personal danger, but an overpowering feeling that all was not as it should be. The first thought as I got near the black object, which seemed to move towards me, was amusing,—it looked like the devil; there were the short, straight horns, the hoofs, and I saw the switch of a tail. It was very like a dream. I had seen the “father of lies” in many a human form, but never so undisguised; and I was filled with curiosity. The next moment a joyful hinny discovered our mare Mabel, who recognized me before I could plainly see her. Putting my arm around her neck, I found the remnant of the horse-hair lariat with which Frank had fastened her. I tried to return to camp, more than an eighth of a mile away, but could not orient myself in the dark, and had to call to Frank. Guided by his answer, I retraced my steps, stumbling into a brook I had unconsciously crossed in going out; and we found the peg and again secured Mabel. In this curious way we were saved a long hunt for the next day.

At daylight we were on a very good road, and soon after eight we stopped at a sugar-plantation for some coffee and frijoles negras. Here was a fine stream, together with vats formerly used for indigo-making, now useless. Hill rose above hill, and Esquipulas seemed as far away as ever. By the roadside were the pilgrim fireplaces, frequent and extensive, and we noticed a large deposit of a pink-colored rock, which I supposed might contain manganese (Rhodonite). The specimens I brought away, I regret to say, were afterwards left at one of our camps. The last hill at length climbed, before us lay an extensive valley reaching to the distant mountains of Merendon, the boundary of Spanish Honduras.

Lava Mask in the Museo Nacional.