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GRINGA
The "Charro" costume of the Mexican horseman com-
bines beauty with utility. The saddle pictured here is
silver-encrusted and once belonged to Maximilian.
* *
An Ara.erlca.il. Womaii * ini, "Mexico
By EMMA-LINDSAY SQUIER
HX,TJSTHAT3EI> WITH I>HOTOGHAFH[S BY
JOHN
BOSTON ANI> NEW
HOUQHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
1934
COPYRIGHT, X034 BY BMMA-LINI>SAY S
ALL HIGHTS RESERVED INCLUDING TUB StlCIIT TO JKf*O&tflOt
THIS BOOK Ok FAKTS TMKJK IN AY
CAMBmiDQffi , MASSACKtWBTW
3PKINTED IN T1WE V.S.A.
TO
JOHN
WHO TOOK PICTURES FOB THIS MEXICAN BHAPSODY
WHILE I WBOTE THE WOBDS
CONTENTS
I. A MEXICAN BOAT SAILS MANANA 3
II. THE BLACK DOG, AND THE BLUE SKY 13
III. WE LEARN AND FORGET 20
IV. A SONG IN THE NIGHT . . . AND THE DAY 26
V. THE CITY OF PEARLS 36
VI. VILLA CAME HERE 49
VII. THE PLACE OF FIREFLIES 60
VIII. MEMORIES OF BLOOD AND SILVER 72
IX. COCONUTS AND LEGENDS 82
X. THREE HORSEMEN AT MIDNIGHT 90
XL A WISH COMES STRANGELY TRUE 100
XII. GOD is TAKEN AWAY 110
XIII. LANGUAGE OF LOVE 120
XIV. How IT FEELS TO BE KIDNAPED 130
XV. BUSINESS AND A BLOODLESS BULLFIGHT 140
XVI. CITY OF MOCTEZUMA 151
XVII. ODDS AND ENDS 162
XVIII. DIA DE FIESTA 180
XIX. THE FLOATING GARDENS 189
XX. HECTIC EASTER 198
XXI. THE PLACE OF THE Two RABBITS 211
XXII. QUEEN OF SILVER 223
XXIII. ANCIENT MYSTERIES AND MODERN DIVORCES 235
XXIV. THE SACRED CITY 246
XXV. WHERE CHEWING-GUM BEGINS 258
XXVI. LOVE AMONG THE ZAPOTECS 270
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE 'CHARRO' COSTUME OF THE MEXICAN HORSEMAN Frontispiece
CORN is THE * STAFF OF LIFE ' Plate I
No 'MIDDLE MAN' IN SMALL TOWN MARKETS 2
THE INDIAN CRAFTSMAN 3
DIEGO RIVERA 4
SHY LITTLE INDIAN MADONNA 5
STRANGE, ENIGMATIC EYES 6
THEY ARE BURNING JUDAS! 7
CORPUS CHRISTI DAY IN MEXICO CITY 8
OLD COURTSHIP CUSTOMS PREVAIL 9
THE GIANT MAGUEY PLANT 10
THE WANDERING TROUBADOURS OF MEXICO 11
A MEXICAN INDIAN IN PAGAN ROBES 12
THE EMPEROR MOCTEZUMA, REINCARNATED! 13
AN OLD HARPIST 14
A BEAU AND BELLE OF YUCATAN 15
STONE STATUES AT CHICHEN-!TZA 16
THE ANCIENT RUINS OF UXMAL 17
WHERE CHEWING-GUM BEGINS 18
OUR PALM-THATCHED HOME 19
* TORTILLA,' THE BREAD OF MEXICO 20
THE TEHUANTEPEC HEADDRESS 21
How THE 'HUIPIL GRANDE' is WORN 22
' UNCONQUERED I " 23
GRINGA
L A MEXICAN BOAT SAILS MANANA
IF IN this word picture of Mexico you find opinions and descriptions
that seem to be to her discredit, do not put me down too hastily as
being one of those unfortunate persons who carry a chip on the
shoulder as part of their mental baggage when leaving the U.S.A.
Ask yourself rather if you do not know some strange, glamorous
character who intrigues, stimulates and exasperates you; whom
you alternately want to kiss and spank ; yet whom you go on lov-
ing because you can't help yourself; regardless of faults and blem-
ishes regardless of anything at all!
Mexico is like that. It irritates you at times, it shocks you now
and then, it makes you gasp with astonishment but it fascinates
you, always. I have talked to Americans who lost their fortunes
down there in the Revolution; who will harangue you by the hour
on the subject of governmental graft, business stupidity, 'raw
deals.' But somewhere along the line there comes a full stop.
A sigh, a memory, perhaps of a song heard in the moonlight; or the
smell of warm, damp, sun-flecked earth, and green things effort-
lessly growing. Then comes the slow admission... ' And yet,
there's something about the country can't tell you just what
it is but I'd like to go backl'
If you are sensitive to color, and song, a relaxation so complete
that it gently untwists your jangled nerves and makes you wonder
vaguely why you ever thought morning newspapers important
then Mexico will put on your heart and soul an indelible brand.
You will never hear Mexican music without a homesick throb.
And the sound of the Spanish language, spoken in Mexican fashion,
will make your heart skip a beat.
I fell in love with Mexico when I was ten years old. It was love
at first sight, or perhaps the response to some subconscious sense
4 GRINGA
keener than sight. For the hot little town of C. P. Diaz, just across
the Rio Grande from Eagle Pass, Texas, held no more than a
hint of the extravagant color, and romance, and glamour of the
vast country beyond.
It was really a very ordinary border town, with sunbaked streets
that ended in dusty desert, houses of adobe brick and buildings
of wood, with the round bullring holding the place of honor in the
'business section/
But it was the week of Diaz' birthday; Porfirio Diaz, that
strange, implacable Indian who had battled his way from a position
of utmost obscurity to the Presidency of Mexico. The little town
named for him was celebrating royally his natal day. There were
to be bullfights, barbecues, nightly dances, races, and feats of skill.
I was a part of that celebration. For, if you must know, I was
one of those terrible infant prodigies, a * child elocutionist,' greatly
in demand for Chautauqua circuits, churches, and women's clubs.
And our agent had taken advantage of a tour we were making
through Texas, to arrange a recital in C. P. Diaz, on the eve of the
bullfight.
At first Mother had been dubious about my giving a recital in
English before a Spanish-speaking audience. But our agent assured
her that it could be easily arranged. Notes on the printed programs
would briefly outline the nature of the readings.
'Just be sure to make them dramatic,' he told us 'and put in
plenty of gestures.'
The hall was packed. Beyond the footlights I had an impression
of dark rapt faces and a luscious wave of flower fragrance. I could
smell pungent carnations, warm rich roses, and the almost over-
whelming scent of jasmine.
I began by surging with great gusto through *Ben-Hur's Chariot
Race/ Whether the Mexican audience had ever heard of Ben-Hur
or not, they knew a race when they saw it gestured out for them!
And since I looked as if I were the one who was trying to win it
(braced in a mythical chariot, hanging on to four rearing Arabian
steeds and swinging a whip over their galloping backs), the audience
was for me.
They began to shout, whistle, stamp. They excitedly told each
other out loud what the programs said about it The big, brave
A MEXICAN BOAT SAILS MANANA 5
Senor Ben-Hut was trying to win over the unspeakable Romano,
Senor Messala. Viva Ben-Hur!
When I brought my fiery^Arab steeds to a wild, triumphant halt,
having considerably messed up Messala, the hall fairly shook
with thunderous applause. And came then the cry 'Viva!
Viva la GringitaP
I stepped forward to take a bow and was fairly deluged by
bouquets of flowers that came hurtling across the footlights and
broke around me like shattered rainbows*
Do you wonder that a small Anglo-Saxon girl, accustomed to
the polite and churchly praise of a cooler-blooded country, went
completely * punch drunk'?
I hurled myself into the lurid stanzas of 'Wild Zingarella,' the
story of a gypsy maid who has to fight off her own pet lion after
she has sent him, too successfully, against her indifferent lover.
As the audience breathlessly followed every movement, every
gesture, I went gradually beyond control. I raved, I ranted. I was
pursued hot-foot around the stage by the roaring lion. He overtook
me, threw me down. (Women in the audience screamed obligingly.)
I dimly heard Mother's agonized whisper from the wings, * Emily
get _ U p off the floor ! ' But I continued to roll, and fight,
and pant, and finally stabbed the beast, amid lusty cheers and wild
acclaim. I got up at last, dusty, my yellow curls awry, my blue
bow trampled and torn, to another frantic salvo of Latin applause,
and another deluge of flowers. Without realizing it, I had gone
supremely, ecstatically, Mexican!
Mother was ashamed of me. Bpt our agent said I was a sensation.
He wanted to book us through Mexico. Mother was firm in her
refusal. And so ended, except for a few more days in C. P. Diaz, my
first Mexican chapter.
But even those few days were a revelation. I had met Jerry, the
son of the American Consul, and he, a very grown-up young man of
sixteen, had a horse and could borrow another. We went riding.
And I had a glimpse of what the interior of Mexico would be like.
Every day the train disgorged throngs of ranch-owners, peons, and
Indians, all with their families, coming in for the big fiesta. The
hacendados, or ranchers, wore their very best charro costumes: tight,
limb-fitting trou&^s* ornamented with silver from thigh to ankle,
6 GRINGA
leather jackets, embroidered shirts. The peons came in loose white
cotton trousers with white shirt worn outside, belted with a red
sash. Their dark faces were shadowed by big high-peaked straw
sombreros, and every man carried a sarape, or blanket, brilliant
with stripes of red and yellow, green and blue, or woven with
gorgeous sprawling flowers and incredible birds.
Jerry wanted me to see a bullfight. I hotly refused. In vain he
argued about the skill of the matador, the thrill and the danger.
To me, a bullfight meant only one thing; a beleaguered animal
pitted against uneven numbers and superior intelligence. It meant
horses, too, being gored and stuffed with sawdust, and sent in again
until their poor racked bodies were completely mangled and useless.
4 Well, then,' said Jerry, 'come during one of the intermissions
and see the costumes and the crowd!'
I consented to see that much. So we left our horses in care of
an Indian mozo just outside the Plaza del Toros, and pushed and
elbowed our way inside.
We entered into a howling bedlam. Such shrieks, and shouts,
and screams, I have never heard. And all because a big black bull
had been killed in the classic manner 1
The surging chaos struck me like a blow in the pit of the stomach.
In the center of the ring the magnificent animal lay in a pool of his
own blood, his shoulders bristling with gaily ribboned darts. In
front of him the matador from the capital stood poised like a
slender red-and-gold flame. In one hand the crimson cape, in the
other, the long steel sword. There were other toreros too, but the
insane adulation was for this one man alone. The air was black
dotted with hats being hurled into the ring; brilliant with flowers
being tossed to him; beautiful girls stripped bracelets from their
arms and hurled them down to him. His face was dark, thin,
gypsyish. A short braided queue of hair stuck out at the back of
[his sleek head.
The wildness of the packed crowd terrified me. I had loved it
when they had shouted for me. But this cry was blood lust!
I was to learn that that, too, was Mexico; childlike admiration for
talent of any sort, love of flowers, and song and blood! I have
a dim remembrance of the ring being cleared, of a team of horses
swiftly dragging away the fallen black monarch. Of a blare of
A MEXICAN BOAT SAILS HAVANA 7
trumpets, fresh sand being sprinkled, a cessation of the shouts,
a settling back into seats for the enjoyment of a new spectacle.
A hush, as for the rising of an invisible curtain ; and then across the
ring, heavy gates opened. A big tan-colored bull stood there,
blinking in the light. From above, a crimson rosette on an iron
stake was plunged down between his massive shoulders. He
flinched only slightly, shook his head as if puzzled.
A torero with a red cape came forward, and trailed it tantalizingly
across his path. He glanced at it, snorted, but refused to charge.
A king, facing an amphitheater filled with rebellious subjects, could
not have gazed about him with more dignity or poise. A picador
on a poor, scraggly little horse, urged his unwilling mount forward.
The horse tried to veer away gave a whinny that was like a
human scream of fear.
I burst out sobbing. I shook off Jerry's detaining arm, and
pushed my way blind-eyed through the staring Mexicans. I reached
the outer air, flung myself unaided on my horse, and went galloping
down the dusty street with Jerry hard behind me, and the Indian
mozo gaping as if he thought I had gone insane.
It must have been true love on Jerry's part, for the next day he
took me horseback riding again. He even told me, in deference
to my feelings, that the big tan bull had turned out to be a toro de
paja, a bull of straw; that is, he would not fight, and was finally
turned out of the ring amid an insulting storm of imprecations
and insulting references to his lack of ancestry.
We met an open carriage, and drew our horses aside to let it pass.
The occupant of the back seat was, of all persons, the matador
from the capital. Jerry spoke to him courteously in Spanish, and
the bullfighter lifted his black hat and smiled brilliantly. I, to my
shame, was thinking only of the poor little horse who had cried
out with such a human note of fear. And I stuck out my tongue
as far as it would go! The man sat back with a dazed, incredulous
expression on his thin, sallow face. It was obviously a shock to him
to learn that all women do not love matadors!
Between my first glimpse of Mexico and the next stretched
a hiatus of many years. Life on a ranch in the Northwest, High
School, College, and then California, and newspaper work.
I had learned enough of the country below the Rio Grande BO
8 GRINGA
that I argued hotly with, people who thought Mexicans lived on
tamales and chile con came; who believed that they were as
depicted in the movie 'Westerns'; dirty, treacherous, wore long
drooping mustachios; and that the women trailed around in frilled
skirts and high combs with mantillas hanging over them,
In those days I was writing animal stories. Indian legends of
North America followed. And then, oh, thrill of thrills, came the
opportunity to get a series of legends in Mexico I
But how? Where? I wanted to go everywhere and not as
a tourist. I wanted the feel of the country. I decided that I would
start as nearly like a native as possible. With that in mind, I in-
quired in every steamship agency in Los Angeles for some kind of
boat that went down the west coast of Mexico and up into the Gulf
of California. From there I meant to go into the interior ; to Mexico
City; to Yucatan; to the east coast; the mountains; and the desert.
But I found that passenger boats did not consider the Gulf of
California navigable or profitable. Only freighters went there.
And even when I located a company that had a freighter with
limited passenger accommodations, the agent, a most conscien-
tious young man, wasn't at all anxious to sell me a ticket. His
attitude was that even though writers are crazy people who like
inexplicable things, I certainly wouldn't be crazy enough to like
the S.S. Washington which was American in name only,
* There's no piano in the social hall/ he said discouragingly,
'and the decks aren't wide enough for any sports. The staterooms
are pretty small.,.'
Til take one,' I told him.
For the boat's itinerary had a leisurely sound that I liked. It
poked its nose into all sorts of tiny, untouristed ports. It was
scheduled to take three weeks to go from San Pedro (the harbor of
Los Angeles) to Manzanillo, down oil the west coast of Mexico.
I would have three weeks of constant association with Spanish-
speaking people, three weeks of much-needed practice with Spanish
as used in Mexico.
I asked when the Washington would leave for the south. The
young man replied gloomily that it would probably be March first,
or a few days earlier, and sold me a ticket, much against Ms better
judgment.
A MEXICAN BOAT SAILS MANANA 9
So I went back to San Diego where Mother and I were living,
and all through February my friends gave farewell parties for me,
and I was looked upon as a mild sort of heroine, 'going into a
country like Mexico, all alone!'
The last week in the month, having heard nothing from the agent,
I called him by long distance.
The Washington? he answered vaguely, No, it hadn't come yet,
it was delayed somewhere down the west coast. .. would probably
leave San Pedro about March tenth.
My friends pretended to be overjoyed that I was to be with them
a few days longer. But the farewell parties diminished in number
and cordiality.
By the fifteenth of March, when the boat still hadn't come, and
I hadn't gone, I began to be regarded as a nuisance; almost an
impostor. You can't expect people to go on saying * good-bye* to
you, and then to meet you on the street a week later with any
enthusiasm.
The first of April came and went; I didn't. The tenth of April
appeared but the boat didn't. And so in desperation, I went up
to Los Angeles, bag and baggage, to await it.
On the fifteenth of April, the S.S. Washington actually came into
the harbor of San Pedro, and I was notified by the sad young man
that I could get aboard if I really insisted on it. It would leave
at eight that night.
I was driven down in style by a friend with a car and a chauffeur.
She saw to it that I had the usual bon-voyage gifts, a big basket of
fruit and flowers, books, candy an imposing assortment. But
when we arrived at the specified pier, the only ship under the white
blot of a powerful light was a low-lying, grubby-looking craft with
winches screaming fore and aft, a crew of dark-skinned men in blue
overalls gesturing and shouting amid a bedlam of rattling chains,
and bales of boxwood that were being swung from pier to hold.
My friend gave a gasp.
* You aren't really going on that I ' she demanded above the racket.
I said I was.
We picked our way aboard, through a litter of boxes, piles of
brooms, oil tanks, and coils of ropes. The incredibly narrow deck
was crowded with Mexicans (in ordinary American clothes), but
10 GRINGA
whether they were passengers, or friends of passengers, we could
not tell.
I managed to waylay a white-jacketed steward, and got enough
nouns and verbs together to ask for my stateroom. He took my
numerous bags, looked dubiously at my steamer trunk (guaranteed
to fit under any berth), and gave a groan when he saw my big ward-
robe trunk being wheeled aboard.
He shoved and elbowed his way through the throng of voluble,
chatting Mexicans, never forgetting his manners. He murmured
plaintively to broad backs and ample bosoms, 'Con permiso! Con
peraiisoP (With permission.) And everyone squeezed a little closer
to the railing with a courteous 'Pase!'
We followed in his wake (the ornamental basket of fruits and
flowers bumping against people and being regarded in a none too
admiring manner) to the side of the deck away from the pier. It
was dark, and a bit sinister-looking. The steward stepped inside
a door, and turned on a dim, blinking light. It revealed a musty-
smelling cubbyhole with two unbelievably narrow bunks sans pil-
lows, a tiny folding washstand, and a very small stool.
The steward introduced us with a flourish.
* Su camarote ! ' (Meaning, * Your stateroom ! ')
My friend and I squeezed inside as he squeezed outside, he hav-
ing, with a manful struggle, got the steamer trunk under the lower
berth, probably never to be pried out until the end of the journey.
The bags filled the lower bunk, and what there was of the small
floor space. We stood with our arms loaded with books, and candy,
and the huge basket that had become positively garish. And if
I ever need to describe 'horror and pity' in someone's eyes for
a story, I need only remember my friend's gaze in that moment.
'Why/ I said, 'not bad at all! Look, I can turn clear around!*
I did and upset a carafe of water in a ring on the wall.
4 Well, anyway,' I added for my Mend was beyond speech
'there's running water!*
Outside on the big cargo decks the only portions of the boat
that were big, the constant din of loading went on. Winches shriek-
ing, chains rattling, voices shouting directions in Spanish. People
were swarming all over the place; every stateroom was bursting
with more visitors than it could hold, babies were crying, portly
A MEXICAN BOAT SAILS MANANA 11
Mexican gentlemen patted each other on the back and hissed
intermittently for the poor little perspiring steward to bring them
drinks.
It was my first experience with the Latin hiss. At first, it para-
lyzes you with its virulent sound. You feel as if you had stepped on
an adder. Then it shocks you with its apparent lack of decorum.
It takes time to accustom oneself to it and considerable courage
to attempt it. But it is absolutely according to Hoyle below the Rio
Grande. You use it to attract the attention of a taxi-driver,
a waiter, an usher, a general, a friend's grandmother. And after
all, what do you do when you want to call to someone, say across
the street, or to a waiter in a crowded cafe? In the States, there is no
gentler substitute than 'Hey!' or beating on a water glass with
your knife. In Mexico the hiss carries farther, and can really be
done in quite a genteel manner 1
I called to the little steward as he panted past, about my big
trunk. He made a despairing gesture. 'It must stay outside 1
Your Grace can see that there is no room in here!'
I asked him then what time the boat would leave. His reply
was an expressive shrug of the shoulders, and a deprecatory lifting
of the hands.
*Pues, quien sabe? Mariana! perhaps!'
My friend left reluctantly. I am sure she thought my farewell
grin was one of those 'gallant quirks of the lips' that we writers
like to have our heroines use. But it wasn't. I was tremendously
excited, eager to get going.
As I turned away, a handsome American girl with brown eyes
and hair spoke to me.
'Are you a passenger?'
'I will be,' I answered, 'if the boat ever starts.'
'So!' she said, 'you've been waiting too!'
We got acquainted over an exchange of experiences, like old
ladies on a sanitarium porch talking about their operations. It
seemed that Mary's friends had given her farewell parties, too.
And she, working at a studio in Hollywood, had had even more
cutting remarks about the long delay than I had endured in San
Diego.
We had other things in common; Johns, to be exact. Her John
12 GRINGA
was a husband, mine was going to be at the end of my Mexican
adventure. And we were agreed in our admiration for what little
we knew of Mexico, and oux determination to see and know much
more before we got back.
'Why are you going down there?' I asked, after explaining my
own mission.
'Too much Hollywood, I guess,' she replied. 'I'm so horribly
nervous; I can't seem to sit still for a minute. My doctor advised
me not to take this trip, but I felt that I had to keep on the move.'
She made a quick, unhappy gesture with her hands, ' Do you know,
I'd like to be in some place where it was impossible to do anything
or go anywhere. I'd like to have to "stay put" for about four
monthsl'
I often thought of that impulsive wish ; how strangely it came true !
Towards midnight, the clamor died down a bit. Visiting Mexi-
cans began filtering from the boat, and we could calculate with some
degree of accuracy as to our fellow passengers. We were the only
American women, that much was certain. In fact, there was only
one other woman left, a young Mexican matron, who, before she
started on the plumping process so fatal to Latin beauty, must
have been ravishingly lovely. She was with her husband, a young
lawyer; and their baby, a chubby-faced cherub, was wide awake,
watching all the excitement with pleased, dancing black eyes.
There were two or three Mexican business men, a taciturn Yaqui
General, a priest, a school-teacher. They all saluted us with
elaborate politeness, and took it for granted that Mary and I were
traveling together. We let them think so. It is bad enough in
Mexico for two women to be about without a husband, brother or
father 1
It was four o'clock in the morning when I felt the throb of the
engines. I leaped down from the upper berth (which I had chosen
as having more ventilation than the lower one) and looked out of
my tiny window. The lights of San Pedro were merging into a
gleaming crescent-shaped brooch on the breast of the dark morning.
The smell of salt water came on a cool breeze. The little Washing-
ton began to rock gently as she felt the swell of the sea beyond the
breakwater. We were going southward! To Mexico I ^Mafiana
had come, at last*
IL THE BLACK DOG, AND THE BLUE SKY
THE next morning the Capitan introduced himself to us with
elaborate formality. He was a small, brown-faced man with a skin
like uncreased leather, sharp, dark eyes, and a delightful smile.
He struggled and floundered with English to tell us that the boat
and everything in it was ours. If there was anything at all that we
wished, or did not like, would we please do him the honor of
allowing him to provide or remedy it for us.
Mary and I looked at each other, and I rather shame-facedly
asked if we might have pillows.
But yes! Immediately!
Mary, thus emboldened, mentioned that there were cockroaches
n in her stateroom.
~ He was properly sympathetic though not at all horrified.
P They should be exterminated at once!
Jh He was as good as his word, on all counts. The boat was indeed
& ours. Nothing that could be done for our comfort was too much
trouble for the little Capitan.
The meals were ample, the food simple, but well-cooked. It
^ was a new experience to have black beans served for breakfast,
r again at lunch, and again for dinner. But we soon learned that
V* frijoks, sometimes boiled, and sometimes fried in olive oil after
having been boiled, are the mainstay of every Mexican meal.
^ There were eggs, usually two kinds of meat, vegetables and fruits,
Eland always a stack of mealy flat tortillas, made of ground corn, and
(T^baked on a clay platter without grease or salt. Sometimes the
dessert was paste de guayaba, a sort of solidified jelly made from
guava juice. Flan, a very delicate custard flavored with cinnamon
was another favorite. And the variety of cheese was endless.
I was accustomed to drinking coffee without cream or sugar.
So the first morning when Chato, the cook's assistant, stood beside
me with two or three pots on a tray and asked whether I would
have milk or hot water with my coffee, I said,
'Black, please.'
He stared at me speechless for a moment.
14 GRINGA
'Puro negro?' he demanded.
I said that was it. Pure black. So he poured into my cup a thick
stream that looked like melted tar. Eyeing it dubiously, I remem-
bered that Mexican coffee was said to be very strong.
'Try it first, Senora!' he pleaded.
I did _ an( i said with a gulp, 'Hot water! Lots of it!'
Chato filled up the cup with -triumphant relief.
Mexican coffee is not roasted, it is burned; literally. The result
is a bitterness that at first makes your stomach shrink like a
debutante from a tramp. Yet its strength is not the kind that
keeps you awake; perhaps because you really use so little of it per
cup. You are only expected to take about two tablespoonsful of
the 'essence,' and then add hot milk or water, al gusto according
to the taste.
The strange thing is that when your stomach faces the inevitable,
the taste of Mexican coffee grows on you to such an extent that
when you get back to the States, American brands seem lifeless and
without flavor. At least that was my experience.
In the dining salon of the S.S. Washington there was no doubt as
to the number of courses you were going to have. At every place
there was a pile of plates, topped by a large soup bowl. As you
finished with each dish, it was removed. AWhen you got down to the
last one the meal was over.
The passengers were mildly interesting middle-class people,
pleasant and courteous. They sat all day in the tiny social salon
and played a complicated Mexican game called 'albures,' with
cards that had pictures of golden cups, and swords, and hearts
stuck through with daggers.
The Yaqui General kept aloof from them. He was tall and dark,
with black, piercing eyes, and his lips were grim and thin.
The members of the crew were Indians, with brown faces and soft,
centerless, childlike eyes. They were delighted to be noticed,
delighted to talk to us. We improved our Spanish daily. And the
little freighter went steadily southward with blue water underfoot,
blue sky overhead, while the warm, golden sunshine wrapped itself
around us in a soft, soothing mantle that already smelled faintly of
the tropics.
When I say that the crew were ' Indians,' I do not mean half-
THE BLACK DOG, AND THE BLUE SKY 15
naked savages with feathers in their hair. The Indian of Mexico is
not like the red man of our country a small dying unit, un-
absorbed, denied the right of citizenship. In Mexico he is the back-
bone of the nation. In a country with a population of more than
sixteen millions, almost nine millions are of pure Indian blood,
unmixed with Spanish, Chinese, Negro, or Nordic influences. One
hundred and twenty-two Indian languages and dialects are spoken
in the great republic. And at least three of them, Aztec, Zapotec,
and Mayan, are used in some localities more frequently than
Spanish.
Mexico was a cultivated, cultured country long before the
Spaniards came. But it was divided into a number of jealous,
warring empires. Cort6s with his handful of men never could have
conquered that vast territory had he not been aided by the bitter
foes of the arrogant Aztecs; the Zapotecs on the south, who had
fought fiercely against northern domination, and the Tlascalans in
the north, whose small mountainous empire was so bottled up that
they could not even trade for salt. Cleverly, Cortes played one
Indian monarchy against another, representing Spain as the friend
in need. With the Aztec empire defeated, the other kingdoms
became at first willing vassals, and then, with the terrific in-pouring
of gold-ravenous Spaniards^ abject slaves.
Your modern Mexican is the result of four centuries of inter-
breeding between the native Indians and Spaniards, with a touch
here and there of outside influences. In southern localities such as
Vera Cruz, there is a mixture of Negro heritage. In the north,
where the * Yankees' have come, a dash of Nordic ancestry. And in
many parts of the country prolific Chinese have started making
Mexico into a suburb of the Orient.
But there are still thousands and thousands of people who con-
sider themselves proudly puro India! And it is a type which
you learn to regard with affection and respect. The soldier-priest,
Hidalgo, who first delivered Mexico from Spain's clutches, was
part Indian. So was Benito Juarez, the patriot, the great idealist;
and the Iron Man of Mexico, the dictator, Porfirio Diaz.
It was about the third day down the brown, barren-looking coast
of Lower California that Mary and I, like puppies with eyes newly
opened, began to distinguish faces and personalities. Alesandro,
16 GRINGA
our steward, was revealed as a conscientious, hard-working young
man with a wife and child in Vera Cruz. Chato was a handsome,
irresponsible boy with a dazzling smile who stole Mary's cigarettes,
a few at a time, under the impression that the loss of them, even
down to the last package, would not be discovered.
There was a dear old man in the engine-room, with whitening
hair and the eyes of a little child. He was especially attached to
me. Writers, he thought, were something like angels they ex-
isted, certainly, but very few people had ever seen any. I showed
him a magazine with my name on it. He stared with awestruck eyes.
*Ay, que cosa! Que cosaP he murmured. ('What a thing!')
I gave him the magazine, and he went away to the engine-room
carrying it as if it were a precious, fragile chalice.
Then there was Pancho, the boatswain. Tall, with straight
black hair, eyes like those of an inquiring fawn, and a consuming
ambition (so he said) to learn English. He owned a big black dog
who made every trip with him. He told me proudly that his dog
had an English name * Popi.' Gradually I realized that in some
way the word 'Puppy' had become thus Latinized.
He knew two English words. 'F6e-ry wo-ode' was the way he
pronounced them. I tried without success to place them, and finally
asked him to spell them. He did so, laboriously. They turned out
to be 'firewood.'
Using Popi as Exhibit A, I started with the English lessons. We
were standing by the rusted iron railing on the narrow deck outside
my stateroom.
'The black dog/ I said slowly.
He watched my lips with aching intentness, tried to shape his to
the same sounds.
*De bleck doge,' he repeated waveringly.
I pointed to the arched cobalt of the sky.
'The blue sky,' I pronounced.
*De bio ski ee,' he echoed, enchanted.
But that was as far as he could get. To all other words and
sentences he seemed tone deaf. Not that it really mattered he
was supremely happy. And when, an hour later, he finally went
aft, followed by Popi, he was murmuring in a soft, plaintive voice,
*De bleck doge! De bio ski eel'
THE BLACK DOG, AND THE BLUE SKY 17
It was about this time that we all noticed the Yaqui General's
'crush' on Mary. He followed her with his avid black eyes, and
found many excuses to speak to her. He stared whenever occasion
offered at her legs.
Mary had no illusions about her legs. They were much too fat;
at least, they had been considered so, in the States. We were to
find to our amazement that the standards of beauty were strangely
reversed on this floating piece of Mexico. I, who had been the envy
of most of my feminine friends because of my slim figure which
needed no dieting to retain, was looked upon as positively thin!
The cook took a special interest in trying to fatten me. Chato
urged second helpings upon me. I was treated like a turkey before
Thanksgiving. But the legs of Dona Maria were the esthetic pride
of the boat. Even the small Capitan complimented her about them.
At first we were inclined to be resentful. We had yet to learn that
in Mexico one discusses with charming candor certain bodily
attributes and functions which in the United States are considered,
for social purposes, non-existent.
The Yaqui General told us or Mary, rather, since I was less
than the dust as far as he was concerned about himself and his
people. The Yaqui Indians have always occupied a unique position
in Mexican history. For many centuries they have owned a wild,
mountainous territory in the State of Sonora. They are a tribe of
warriors; their one ambition is to fight as continuously as possible.
Their religion (now thinly veneered with Catholicism) is much like
Mohammedanism; to die on the field of battle is to obtain instant
admission to paradise; a he-man's paradise, with plenty of deer to
kill, plenty of beautiful women and plenty of battles.
'With devils? 'I asked.
He turned on me his strange, smouldering black gaze.
* With the " Yori," J he said briefly. And I felt a chill run up along
my spine. * Yori' is what the Yaqui Indian calls the white man.
The tribe is inconceivably virile. It has to be, to survive. It has
produced no philosophers, no poets, singers, or artists but what
warriors 1 The Yaquis fought the Aztecs before the white man
came. The Spaniards sent expeditions against them year after
year from 1540 on into the next century and failed utterly to
subdue or even treat with them.
18 GRINGA*
When they became technically a part of Mexico in 1821, they
scornfully refused to acknowledge any government save that of
their own. They slaughtered missionaries sent into their mountain
fastnesses, continued to steal cattle, to rob, murder, swoop down
on walled haciendas, and to thumb their noses at pursuing soldiers.
Porfirio Diaz made a point of conquering them, and actually
did starve a large band of them out of a remote natural fortress.
He sent the rebels to the terrible hot salt-fields in Yucatan, where
they died off like flies. But the tribe struggled through some-
how, increased in numbers, adopted Christianity and painted it
with savage colors. They still retained their passion for predatory
warfare, however. The settlers of southern Texas were in mortal
terror of their wild midnight raids.
General Obregon undertook the job of subduing them, and so
nearly conquered them that he won their respect. When he became
President of Mexico, he did an unprecedented thing; he incorpo-
rated the Yaqui warriors into his army; gave them positions of
trust chose them for his personal bodyguard. They became as
fanatical in his defense as they had been a year before in fighting
against him.
'Now/ said the General, his black eyes never leaving Mary's
face, 'there is peace in Sonora. I am returning to tell my Yaqui
brothers of the United States. I have seen it all, Los Angeles,
Fresno, Tucson. I will be a big man among my people. I have
land. I want to marry a white woman.'
*0h,' said Mary innocently, although I could see the crimsoning
of her cheeks, 'I thought you had a wife, one of your own people.'
He stared at her, straight and grim.
* She is almost dead now.'
At that moment the First Officer came by. I think he must have
seen the distress in our faces, for he charmingly invented an excuse
to take us up on the bridge and give us a lesson in Spanish navigat-
ing phrases. He was jovial, olive-coinplexioned, gray-eyed. He
spoke English better than any of the officers. He had his master's
papers but no ship. He was much above the others in mentality,
in social background and worldly wisdom.
'Listen/ he said abruptly, * I must warn you both. You are both
very simp&tica, as we say in Mexico. The word means nice;
THE BLACK DOG, AND THE BLUE SKY 19
friendly. Yes, you are both simpdtiea. You will be told so a thou-
sand times ! My countrymen will make love to you, and will perhaps
say things that will make you angry. You will ask yourselves,
" What have I done to make him think such a thing of me? " Shall I
tell you? '
We nodded, confused and wondering.
He leaned towards us impressively.
* You show the teeth when you smile! 9
We stared at him, blinking uncomprehendingly.
'Yes,* he went on earnestly, 'that is something that American
ladies must be careful of in Mexico! Our women smile discreetly
a very small smile. It promises nothing ; it is very delicate and high-
bred. Our men expect only that. To be smiled on openly, dazzlingly '
he flung out his plump brown hands in an expressive gesture
'it is like too much wine I It intoxicates! It goes quickly to the
head!'
He paused, searching our faces to see if we were offended.
'Do you realize,' he asked slowly, 'that in the Spanish language
there is no word for "like"? "Yo te quiero" means "I love you!"
You cannot make the verb "querer" mean anything else!'
' I think that Mexican men will have to learn that it means some-
thing else!' I flashed out. ''
He turned on me amused, tolerant eyes.
'I heard you trying to teach Pancho English/ he said gently;
'did he ever get beyond "the black dog, and the blue sky"?'
I flushed, admitting that he had not.
'Well' he smiled on us paternally 'in the language of love,
we of Mexico have our limitations tool'
'What about the Yaqui General?' asked Mary. 'Do you think
he is serious? '
'Serious and dangerous!' said the First Officer. 'Be very
formal with him from now on. Do not accept any invitation from
him when we get to Guaymas. And above all do not smile at
him! Remember' he shook his finger at us, imitating Pancho'a
soft, plaintive voice * " de bleck doge! De bio ski ee! " '
DDL WE LEARN AND FORGET
WE LEARNED that you could say a great deal in Spanish by merely
doing things with your fingers. For instance, if you wanted to
have someone come to you first having hissed to attract the
attention you made a short stiff gesture from the elbow, the
palm of the hand turned down, as if batting sharply at a fly.
Nothing could look less like a command to come. Yet it always
works.
If you called the steward early in the morning asking for a bucket
of hot water, and he held up his hand with the thumb and fore-
finger about an inch apart, you knew he meant * Ahorita! ' In just
a little minute. If you were hungry, you indicated it by doubling up
your hand close to the lips, and vibrating your fingers rapidly. If it
was a drink you wished, you extended the thumb and little finger of
your right hand, the other fingers clamped tightly down, and made
a rocking motion as of tilting a bottle back and forth.
We found out, too, that Castilian Spanish, as taught in the
schools, is most definitely not used in Mexico or any of the other
Latin-American countries on this continent. The grammar is the
same, but the lisping sound of the c and z is considered an affecta-
tion. In Castilian Spanish, a double I is pronounced as if it were fol-
lowed by ay. Thus;*caballo cah-bahl-yo.' The Mexican version
of the same word is 'cah-beJi-yo/ omitting the / sound entirely.
Also there are colloquialisms that you must learn as you go.
And if you are wise, you will consult with someone before attempt-
ing them. For there are so many indecencies easily picked up
from overhearing them on the streets that it is well to be cautious,
and to find out if such expressions are of the parlor or the gutter.
I will never forget the horror on the little Capitan's face when I
used a certain phrase in telling him of how a fruit-vendor had
cheated me.
'Sefiora!' he fairly gasped, 'never use that word, netjer/' It was
the first time that he or any of the passengers or crew had
corrected my Spanish, And therein lies one great difficulty in
WE LEARN AND FORGET 21
learning the language accurately in Mexico. Everyone is so terribly
polite! They will listen to you make the most hideous blunders
without the flick of an eyelash or the remotest suggestion of a
smile. They will swear that you speak the language 'like a native,*
when you yourself feel sure that you have hopelessly mangled
feminine and masculine genders, and have put verbs and nouns on
the wrong side of the track from each other.
Once I was singing an American song, accompanying myself on
the ukulele. My dear old friend of the engine-room came by,
stopped to listen, asked what it was. I told him the name of it,
and tried to add that it was very well known in the United States.
But by using cocida instead of conocida, I actually told him that it
was 'very well cooked!' He heard me say so without moving a
muscle of his face. It was only when I caught the mistake and
laughed, that he ventured to laugh too. Such tolerance for a for-
eigner struggling with a strange language, such exquisite courtesy,
is at first quite unexpected. For the Nordic attitude is that if an
outsider doesn't speak English, he is just plain dumb. The Mexi-
can idea is that if you speak ten words of Spanish you are very
smart!
We asked about the word "Gringo/ and started a hot argu-
ment. It seems that the origin of the word is shrouded in the
mists of unreliable tradition. One of those se dice (it is said) things
so common in Mexico.
The Capitan maintained it was because the American soldiers,
during the war of 1848, sang a song about ' Green grow the rushes
oh,' and were finally nicknamed 'Gringos.'
Our lawyer passenger, however, insisted that the use of the word
was known much farther back than that. He said it came from a
phrase to 'speak like a Greek' (hablar en griego), and meant a
foreigner, '
On one thing they were agreed; that at first the word had been
a symbol of contempt; just as ' Greaser,' used on the Texas border,
was a derisive epithet flung at Mexicans.
The steady influx of Nordics, however, has changed and softened
the harsh implications. In Mexico now a * Gringo' simply means an
American. I later realized that it all depends on how it is said.
I have had its feminine counterpart, ' Gringa,' hurled at me like
22 GRINGA
a stone; and I have had it whispered to me in the moonlight,
together with other complimentary adjectives!
I learned during the five days between Los Angeles and the
southern tip of Lower California what is meant by 'pitiless public-
ity.' My big wardrobe trunk stood outside on the forward deck,
exposed to whatever elements there might be. And if I had had
any thought of opening it in private and modestly drawing out lin-
gerie and feminine wearables, the idea slunk sadly off into oblivion.
For one thing, salt water had rusted the lock, and I had to ask
help from Pancho, my English student. Three or four of the crew
gathered during the lengthy process of turning the key without
breaking it, then some of the passengers strolled over to watch.
Popi arrived, sniffed around, was suspected of malign intentions,
was driven away in a fury of shouts and imprecations. The commo-
tion brought all the crew available, and then the rest of the
passengers. The trunk came open with a jerk, and a pleased
chorus of triumph. Everyone beamed on me and everyone
stood waiting, to see what I was going to take out.
Being an old-fashioned girl strictly brought up in the matter of
keeping underthings out of sight, I waited too, flushed and em-
barrassed. Everyone crowded closer, inspecting the lining of the
trunk, commenting on the number of drawers, delightedly dis-
covering the shoe case. After all that work, I simply couldn't
pretend that I didn't want anything! I fumbled and temporized,
finally extracted the very minimum of what I needed, and dropped
a lace-trimmed pair of 'scanties' on the deck!
A dozen masculine hands reached for the crpe-de~chine frag-
ment that wasn't a bit pinker than I. It was handed back to me
gallantly. And through my crimson haze I saw Mary on the deck
above, grinning maliciously. Hollywood gives one a much broader
vision in the matter of feminine underwear.
On the fifth day we rounded the <%pe of San Lucas, on the
southernmost tip of Lower California, and came into the lovely,
green crescent harbor of San Jose del Cabo. It was our first view of
real coco palms; not the transplanted, ornamental palm trees of
California, but the tall, spindling, spidery topped palms of the
tropics ! There was a smell in the air as of lush wet grass and foliage.
The sunshine was gorgeously hot. The water was as blue and calm
as painted canvas.
WE LEARN AND FORGET 23
We had to anchor far out. The commercial drawback in most
of the Gulf of California ports is shallow water. But it did not
matter, for a fleet of long black dugout canoes was racing towards
us, looking like a school of hungry porpoises.
The languorous peace of the day was shattered. The winches
started their deafening clatter, the approaching boatmen shouted.
The hatches were thrown back, and the S.S. Washington began
rattlingly to disgorge cargo those fresh-smelling pine boards that
were my first impression of her.
Most of the canoas were to take the boxwood ashore. But
some of them were floating restaurants; they brought pineapples,
long bundles of sugar cane, tamales of sweet potatoes wrapped in
corn husks, fresh fish, lumps of the crude brown sugar called
panocha, and best of all, green coconuts.
The vendors held up their wares, shouting their merits dramat-
ically. The passengers leaned over the railing, bargaining.
The first green coco is a thrill; especially if you have thought of
coconuts in terms of the brown, dried-up things you buy in the
States. They are opened with a skillful chop of the long Mexican
knife called a machete. A little spurt of clear white liquid shoots
up from the opening thus made. A few more slices with the knife,
and there is the shell, shaped for your lips. Even so, the drinking of
the coco milk au naturel requires practice. At first you drool it
untidily down the front of your dress. Perhaps you are offered a
glass. Don't accept it! The sweet, delicate savor of the liquid is at
its best when taken directly from the casco. When you have had
as much as you can imbibe of the cool, delicious liquid, then the
machete is used again, this time to chop the shell apart, and to
slice off a fragment that can be used for a spoon.
The meat of the green coco is about the consistency of gelatine;
creamy white, just sweet fnough and of heavenly flavor!
Mary and I went ashor6 at San Jos6, perched precariously on
bales of boxwood piled high in a dugout canoe. There was consid-
erable surf on the white, cresent-shaped shore. The brown boatmen
with their long paddles watched carefully, shouted suddenly,
flung themselves in unison upon the paddles. The narrow canoa
fairly hissed through the foaming breakers. Other men on shore
plunged waist-deep into the water, guided the long craft up on the
24 GRINGA
beach, and lifted us out on the warm white sand, slightly breath-
less, but completely dry. Far out in the harbor, the S.S. Wash-
ington looked like a toy boat set in blue glass.J ''
We found ourselves in the midst of fast-moving yet strangely
unfrenzied activity. On the smooth stretch of the beach were
dozens of little ramadas temporary shelters built of willow
branches and palm leaves. In each one, a Mexican family was
installed, the women and girls cooking tortillas and beans over a
charcoal fire, the tiny children sleeping on mats or playing in the
sunshine, the older ones helping the men to unload the boxwood
and to nail the boards together in the form of crates.
Down from the hills were coming caravans of mules; the animals
seemed tiny, dreamlike, against the tawny coloring of the sandy
slopes. Each mule was loaded with two panniers made of willow
sticks that were filled with big green tomatoes.
We learned that from this part of Mexico comes a large part of
the tomatoes used in the western United States. It is an industry
of steadily growing importance. Forty-two million pounds are
shipped yearly from Mexico's west coast.
A curious lethargy began to steal over me. Was there really
such a place as the United States? Already it had become remote;
very dim. Nothing seemed real but the relaxing, golden sunshine;
smell of blue sea, and sugar-cane fields wood smoke and bean
odors, popcorny fragrance of tortillas; coolness of palm shade,
bitter scent of willows and sycamores. I looked at Mary. She was
feeling the spell of it too. We had landed on the beach charged with
energy, wild to go somewhere; do something. We had exclaimed
impatiently when told that a Ford truck would not leave for the
little town of San Jose until about an hour or more.
We had a letter of introduction to a Widow Garcia that we had
been anxious to use. Now, we didn't care if the truck never left.
We wandered about, silently, were accepted without stares or
questions, and that intangible, insidious charm that is Mexico
began to seep through the taut pores of our consciousness.
'Funny/ said Mary sleepily, 'I feel as if I'd let goof something 1*
We heard a voice calling us. A dark-faced woman in one of the
shady little ramadas made the gesture of 'come here,' smiling at
us.
WE LEARN AND FORGET 25
'Come in! Come in! The sun is very hot!*
She rose up from patting tortillas as we stooped under the im-
provised doorway. Just an Indian woman, barefooted, wearing a
white cotton blouse, a faded pink skirt, and a blue rebozo (cotton
scarf) . But she said, with the utmost graciousness, * Seat yourselves ;
this is your house.' No apologies because the * chairs' were boxes,
no hint of subservience. A duchess could not have found fault
with her manners. She offered us the best she had; bananas from a
ripening stem, hot tortillas, black beans, and what was obviously a
great luxury, a bottle of lukewarm soda pop !
Her little brown children came and stood by us shyly, examin-
ing with careful fingers our dresses, our rings, our silk stockings.
The mother said gently, *Do not molest the beautiful Gringas!'
We talked a little, with long lazy pauses. We felt as relaxed as
cats on a sunshiny porch.
'Why do you use charcoal for cooking?' I asked.
She looked at us, slightly puzzled.
'What else is there, Senora?' She pointed to the small brasero,
that looked like a big iron pot set on an inverted one. It was half-
filled with glowing bits of charcoal which heated the bottom of the
flat pottery plate (comal) on which the tortillas were baking.
Of what use to try to explain gas, wood, coal, electricity? How
little they mattered now!
'And what kind of wood makes the charcoal?'
Again her look of surprise.
'Mesquite, from the desert.' She hesitated, plainly wondering
about our ignorance. Then she thought she understood.
'That "United States" then it is not a very big town?'
Mary and I looked at each other. Then I laughed.
'Senora,' I said drowsily and truthfully, * I have almost forgotten
what it looks like!'
IV. A SONG IN THE NIGHT.. .AND THE DAY
THE Ford truck came at last, filled with bales of hides that were to
go farther south with us to Mazatlan, I think.
The driver, a slim young Mexican wearing a plaid cap that
looked as if it had originated on the Bowery, was delighted to have
our company into San Jose, and would bring us back in plenty of
time for the sailing of the Washington. He scorned the mention of
payment. Oh, absolutely not, he said grandly. He had had to
bring the hides down to the beach, he would have to return later
with the mail. No, there would be no payment! Of course, he
added as a mere afterthought, if we wished to give him a prop ina,
we could do so.
Unfortunately, Mary and I hadn't brought a dictionary from
the boat. I felt sure that the word meant 'tip'; but Mary was
equally sure that it didn't. After the way the jaunty young buck
had treated our timid negotiations, it couldn't be money that he
wanted us to give him! A little present, more likely; something to
remember us by. We let it go for the time being, and climbed up in
the seat beside him.
One's first experience with Mexican automobile drivers calls for
sound heart, steel nerves and no imagination! The idea seems
to be that you put the accelerator down on the floor and keep it
there, regardless of curves, narrow roads, pedestrians, burros, cows
anything at all! Since Mexican distances are figured in kilo-
meters (one of which is about two thirds of a mile), the speed-
ometer on the car shows a speed which, in addition to the way
you feel, is absolutely maniacal
The road was narrow, and sandy, with well-defined ruts. We
careened madly around a thousand curves (or so it seemed), skid-
ding from side to side, $team spouting from the capless radiator, the
light truck wrenching and jolting and rocking. We narrowly missed
an Indian woman with a bundle of sugar cane on her head; a
terrified cow saved herself from annihilation by scrambling down
into the ditch at the last possible minute. We almost collided with
A SONG IN THE NIGHT ...AND THE DAY 27
another truck, coming from the opposite direction, and being
driven in the same wild, hey-nonny-nonny fashion. We held
tight, trying to pretend we loved it; but our smiles were mere
showings of the teeth grimly clenched. It was difficult even to
appreciate the lovely pattern of lights and shadows on the road, so
fast did we tear them to bits; I began to realize that one's Spanish
vocabulary should have emergency clauses in it : * Please drive more
slowly.' 'I would like to look at the scenery.' 'I have a weak
heart.' I thought of the play, 'Gentlemen Prefer Blondes,' in
which the chorine checks the mad speed of Parisian taxi-drivers by
crying out, * Je suis enceinte! ' My only reason for not doing so was
because I couldn't think of the Spanish equivalent of 'I am with
L childP
We commenced to go down^a hill,'"quite a steep one, with a sharp
hairpin curve at the bottom. There was no slackening of speed;
rather an acceleration. I groped for the Spanish word meaning
'brakes,' and decided to try the English.
4 Son buenos sus brakes? ' I shouted above the roar and rattle of
the car.
Our dashing literally dashing young driver turned a flash-
ing smile on me from underneath the incredible plaid cap.
'"Breques"?' he echoed and laughed merrily. 'No hay!' 1
Which means, 'there are nonel*
He launched into a lively explanation as to why not, giving me
all of his attention, illustrating with gestures of both hands oif the
wheel.
I shut my eyes awaited the inevitable crash at the hairpin
curve. We skidded sickeningly high up on the bank, rocketed over
to the side, slithered indeterminately on the edge of eternity as
represented by a sheer drop into space, bumped into the ruts again,
and roared onward into the now visible town of San Jose del Cabo.
We rushed along a narrow street into a spacious, sunlit plaza.
Nothing had happened strangely enough, things rarely do
happen to Mexican drivers. They start out with empty radiator,
tires that a junk man wouldn't recognize as such, no spares, no
tools and come light-heartedly through, not even knowing that
they represent a triumph of mind over matter.
1 Pronounced ' No-eye I*
28 GRINGA
We got down from the steaming, panting track, with knees
actually wobbling.
I murmured to Mary, 'Are you still here?'
She nodded, after a sort of mental examination.
'And in Hollywood/ she mused, *I thought I was a nervous
wreck!'
The little town was drowsy and non-energetic. The plaza, which
is the heart of every Mexican village, was a green, cool place with
palms and coral-blossomed trees. A rickety bandstand occupied
the exact center, and there were benches scattered through the
park, whereon sprawled dozing men.
The stores and houses all of them built of adobe brick, red-tiled,
and of once bright but now gently weathered pastel colorings, were
tightly closed. We looked at our watches, and saw that it was after
one o'clock. Clearly the hour of the siesta. We, two Americans
who had yet to learn that good old Spanish custom; seemed to be
the only persons standing upright.
A group of burros came ambling leisurely down the dusty street,
each one so loaded with long upright stalks of sugar cane as to re-
semble a walking clump of trees. They were followed by a small,
somnolent looking little boy, wearing a big straw sombrero and a
pair of American pants which had been somewhat cut down for
him and belted with a tightly wound red sash.
We stopped him, and asked the way to the Widow Garcia's
sugar mill. He lifted his ragged hat politely, but sleepily.
*I go there with the cafia,' he murmured. 'If Your Graces will
follow me...'
We did, trailing perspiringly in the dusty wake of the little
donkeys with their rustling green loads, and were regarded with
amazement by the few inhabitants awake enough to see us.
The sugar mill was on the outskirts of town. We plodded along a
narrow grass-filled road, between acres and acres and more acres of
tall, greenly stiff sugar cane. Our small guide cut us each a stalk,
slicing it down to the juicy sweet pith. We went along chewing on
it. More amazement on the part of infrequent passers-by. It is
really no wonder that Americans have a reputation for insanity.
The sugar mill, where we arrived at last, was silent and de-
serted. The brilliant white sunshine of the siesta hour enclosed it
A SONG IN THE NIGHT... AND THE DAY 29
like a wrapping of cellophane. No one was stirring to take charge
of our young friend's cargo.
'What do you do?' I asked rather hopelessly. For it was very,
very hot!
He looked up at us with placid, unhurried brown eyes.
*I wait,' he said simply.
We rather mournfully and aimlessly strolled through the sun-
drenched enclosure, with its thick, pervading smell of sugar, its
piles of cut sugar-cane stalks, its crude pressing machine and boiling
vat.
We came to the entrance of an adobe house like the rest, but one
suggesting more prosperity. A bevy of thin dogs rushed out,
roused themselves to fury by the smell of Americans, were spoken
to querulously by an Indian servant woman with long black braids,
who came sleepy-eyed to the door.
She stared at us for a moment, then screamed to the dogs, and to
us, impartially:
'Get out! Come in! Down, you brutes! Come inside, Senoras!
Ah, God, what animals! Be quiet! Come in! I go to teU the
Mistress!'
We made our way a bit uncertainly through sniffing, still sus-
picious dogs who were convinced that we were out for no good.
We entered a cool, whitewashed room with bare tiled floors, and
furnished with a stiffness suggesting preparations for a seance.
The shiny chairs (of Grand Rapids pre-war vintage) were placed in
an exact circle, the hub of which was a highly polished table. In the
center of the table was a gaudy vase containing artificial flowers
made of paper. And just outside the door were quantities of roses,
lilies, daisies, carnations, and jasmine!
From one corner, a pink-stomached Kewpie doll beamed on us
inanely. And in another, an electric light bulb bloomed glassily
from a bouquet of green paper leaves. The room was immaculately
clean.
The Senora made a belated appearance, still a bit dazed from
sleep, but beautifully gracious, none the less. She was plump, and
dressed profoundly in black, despite the fact that her widowhood
was of ten years' duration. She spoke no English. And we, de-
spite our practice on the Washington, found Mexican small talk
30 GRINGA
rather difficult. The weather was warm. Yes, we agreed, it was.
Was the weather like this in the United States? Well, yes and
no...
She indicated proudly the furniture, the Kewpie doll, the electric
light bulb. American products, all of them, she said. We tried to
be polite. Was not Mexican furniture ever used? I asked. She
seemed shocked. Did I mean the common stuff made by Indians,
of mesquite wood and cowhide? Oh, of course in the casas humildes
you might find it her tone pointedly implied that hers was not
a * humble house M
She showed us through the sugar mill, which was awakening to
desultory life, like a picture taken with slow-motion photography.
Men wearing peaked straw sombreros were languidly guiding
sugar-cane stalks along a belt that ran beneath a crusher. Other
men were dumping the crushed pulp into a huge boiling vat, steamy
with heavy sweetness, a little sickening in the hot air.
The process was primitively simple. When the raw sap was
sufficiently thick, it was poured out into molds that were no more
than fairly large holes bored in slabs of solid mahogany. The brown
sugar hardened there, and the lumps were dumped out into long
open boxes.
A large part of the panocha output is used in Mexico itself. But
a great deal of it makes its way to the States, to become refined into
brown sugar of various grades.
Later our hostess pressed upon us a cold refresco, and then gave us
the lukewarm soda pop that Americans are supposed to yearn forl
As we left, she said to us earnestly, l Whenever you come to San
Jose del Cabo, remember, this is your house!'
'Aqui es su casaf That beautiful, gracious phrase. The little
barefooted Indian woman in her palm-thatched ramada on the
beach had said it. The Capitan on the boat had said it. Whether
or not it is sincere, it goes straight to your heart, makes you feel
choky and sentimental. It is without doubt an integral part of
Mexico's glamour and charm.
Our friend of the plaid cap and no brakes was awaiting us in the
plaza that is, he was sound asleep on one of the benches. But
he sprang up, all smiles and volubility, when we apologized for be-
ing late.
A SONG IN THE NIGHT,.. AND THE DAY 31
'Late? Oh, no! There is time there is always plenty of time...*
Then he drove back to the beach as if all the fiends in Hell were
behind him!
He deposited us on the beach, shaken and sore-armed from
bracing ourselves. We remembered, belatedly, that we had bought
him no present! The stores had been closed when we went into
town and we forgot about it when we came out!
'The er propina,' I murmured, trying to be tactful, 'per-
haps you could suggest something?'
He waved away any mercenary tendencies.
'Oh, well, Senora say ten pesos for the two of you! 9
It took all the money I had borrowed from the Capitan to pay
the exorbitant charge. I was boiling with rage. But it served us
right. And it certainly taught us a lesson.
However, back on the S.S. Washington, which had taken on a
somewhat animalistic smell due to the cargo of imperfectly cured
hides, our ruffled feelings were soon soothed. We still lay in the
calm harbor. The sun went down in a scorching blaze of barbaric
coloring that stained the sapphire blue water a gorgeous, royal
purple. The tawny mountains in the distance were spread as
with luminous crimson rose jam. Little fires in the ramadas
along the beach gleamed like a broken necklace of garnets.
The moon came up, a huge disk of red gold warped out of shape
by the too great heat of the flushed sky ; it solidified itself gradually
into pale gold, and then very slowly vaporized into a luminous
silver bubble that floated gently upward through an ever-increasing
maze of star flowers blooming suddenly and brilliantly. The night
air was luscious, balmy, cool with an offshore breeze.
On the forward deck, the men of the crew began to sing. They
had a guitar, an old violin, and a queer stringed instrument that
was of Indian origin. Their soft plaintive voices blended in a
harmony that was as simple as a child's prayer, as thrilling as a
lover's whisper. They were singing the song of the four little
patches of corn, 'Cuatro Milpas.' A song of Mexico's tragedy for
the poor man the floods that come, sweeping away the little
cornfields, the cattle-yard, everything. 'The little house, so pretty
and so white all, all, is gone!
Mary and I stole out to listen to them. We bid behind a great
32 GRINGA
pile of brooms, lying flat on our backs, drinking in tlie music, star-
ing up at the great round moon. I thought they had not even seen
us. But they had. And presently Pancho came, apologetically. If
we liked the music, would we not do them the honor to come and sit
with them? And would not Dona Emilita (they found the name of
'Squier' impossible to pronounce or remember) bring her guHarita,
and perhaps sing an American song?
No invitation to the Diamond Horseshoe at the Opera was more
eagerly accepted! We raced away to get my ukulele and Mary's
cigarettes.
At the top of the companionway, a tall dark figure was silhouetted
against the silver moon striping of the water.
* Maria ! ' he said hoarsely. It was the Yaqui General. ' You must
not sit and sing with those men those pelados* and he put his
hand fiercely on her arm.
She shook it off, and anger made her grammar almost one hun-
dred per cent perfect.
6 1 sing with them because I want to ! In my country a " pelado "
is a man who makes love to a girl when he has no right to do so!'
He stepped back, actually shaking with fury. But we sped past
him, got the ukulele and the cigarettes, and down on the forward
deck, in the magic of the moon, forgot the disagreeable incident.
We sang we listened. We learned a variety of Mexican songs
that night. A buoyantly rowdy ranchero song called 'Alia en el
Rancho Grande,' in which the men give yipping cries, or gritos be-
tween the lines, while the guitar strums on. It is the 'wild west'
type of music, as heard on the Mexican ranches. Then a song of
aching sweetness, 'Adios, mi Chaparrita' 'Good-bye, my Little
One.' And a song of the late Revolution, one that Pancho Villa
loved, called 'Cucaracha' * Cockroach.*
For our part of the program, we obliged with many 'requests.'
Some of them were rather hard to place, for the titles had been
learned more or less phonetically.
'Ukileddy' resolved itself into 'Ukulele Lady.' * Silver Strings'
turned out to be ' Silver Threads Among the Gold.' * Sweet Home''
was 'Home, Sweet Home/ and ' YandtiT was finally run to earth in
the melody of 'Yankee Doodle.'
Near midnight, we returned to our miniature staterooms, tired,
A SONG IN THE NIGHT... AND THE DAY 33
but blissfully content. We found that most of the passengers, and
the officers, had been listening to our concert from the deck. Not
one of them would have so lowered his dignity as to come down
and sing with the men of the crew. But strangely enough it
pleased them all except the Yaqui General that we would.
We heard on all sides that we were *muy simpaticasP 'Muy
graciosas!'
Later that night, when the engines started their throbbing
rhythm, I looked out for one last glimpse of that moonlit, palm-
fringed crescent beach. And saw, leaning against the railing outside
of Mary's stateroom the Yaqui General. He did not speak to
me; he continued to stare fixedly at her door. I wondered if I
should do something. But what was there to do? He was merely
'playing bear'; keeping the traditional vigil of the caballero who
hopes to melt his sweetheart's indifference by patient, nightly
waiting!
Guaymas was our next port. A picturesque little town with a
shallow, winding harbor entrance that made me realize why bigger
boats could not come up into the Gulf of California.
The Yaqui General tried in yain to talk to Mary alone. And
left the boat finally, his eyes black and hard, and ugly.
We waited an hour, then hired a boat doing a fair job of hag-
gling under the amused supervision of the First Officer and went
ashore. We changed our American money into Mexican pesos at a
bank, getting more than a two-to-one rate. We asked for paper
bills, as the silver pesos were bulky and heavy. The teller looked at
us with amazement. Paper money? Sorry 'No hay 1'
We strolled about the plaza and visited the lovely church. The
cool darkness was punctuated by candle flames burning in front of
statues of morbid-looking saints, and figures that emphasized the
bloody realism of the agony of Christ on the Cross. The air was
permeated with the smell of burned-out incense.
Later we tried and approved the oysters for which Guaymas is
famous, then went into a barber shop for a much-needed hair trim.
We were immediately followed by two young Mexican flappers
with straggling long bobs, who asked the tonsorial artist to cut
their hair exactly as the American Senoras were having theirs.
We came out, a variegated quartette. The barber was an in-
34 GRINGA
dividualist, with an abhorrence for repetition* My curly brown
hair had been left quite thick on top, and so closely clipped at the
neck that it resembled a kitten on top of a pumpkin. Mary's had
been rough-hewn into a wind-blown effect. And the little Mexican
flappers, with their thin dark faces, looked like sharply whittled
lead-pencil points!
Guaymas has rail connection with the United States, and is a
flourishing, wide-awake port. Deep-sea fishermen find a paradise
here, a great deal of sugar cane is raised, and the land is honey-
combed with mines of silver, copper and lead.
We had lunch in a clean little Mexican hotel, and were presently
spoken to in English by a delightfully freckled boy with red hair
and blue eyes, who turned out to be the son of an American father
and a Mexican mother. He spoke Spanish as perfectly as English,
and couldn't imagine why anyone would live in the United States
when Mexico was so close at hand!
He introduced his friend, a tall, shy, olive-skinned youth who
had been to school in Los Angeles, but who had forgotten most of his
English on his return to the land of his birth.
They invited us to go for a ride with them and see what the
country around Guaymas was like.
We went, in a rickety Ford, along a hot narrow road that seemed
to be one consecutive bump after another. And an hour outside
of town a tire blew out.
An American man would have cursed, or at least would have gone
at the task of changing a tire in a grimly determined frame of mind.
Not so our two Mexican friends. They looked at the blobby mess
that had once supported the rear wheel, and said, * Let's sing for
half an hour, then do the work.'
So that is what we did. We whooped * Alia en el Rancho Grande '
into the burning afternoon sun, and learned two more verses about
Pancho Villa's Cockroach, who couldn't go out on the street be-
cause he had no marahuana to smoke!
Afterwards, very cheerfully, as if it were a part of the fun, the
boys rolled up their sleeves, and sweated and tugged the tire off,
mended it crudely since there was no spare, and off we went
again, expecting another blowout any minute, and as usual in
Mexico, not having the expected happen.
A SONG IN THE NIGHT.., AND THE DAY 35
Coming back, I rode with the freckled young man in front, and
Mary with the tall, enchanting olive-skinned boy in the back seat.
We were all singing 'Cuatro Milpas.' And as we turned into the
street by the Plaza I saw the Yaqui General standing, and
watched his dark, Indian face grow rigid as he caught sight of Mary
and the young Mexican lad.
She pretended not to see him. The boys escorted us to the boat,
had dinner with us there, sat on the deck learning to play the
ukulele, and argued like children about which one should have it.
They left reluctantly. We as reluctantly said good-bye to them,
for the boat would sail very early in the morning. We would not
see them again.
It was more than a month later when we met an American
traveling man who knew the freckled boy very well. He knew the
other lad, too.
'Nice kid,' he observed, 'too bad he had to be picked off like
that'
'What do you mean?' I gasped.
*Oh, hadn't you heard? He was shot in the back. No one knows
exactly who did it but everyone suspects a Yaqui General, who
is one of the "bad men" of Sonora..,*.
V. THE CITY OF PEARLS
THEY call it;" La Paz ' (The Peace) . But it should have been named
'The City of Pearls. 1 The Aztecs should have given it a stately,
descriptive title ending with * tlan' ('the place of) ; for surely they
must have known about it too. The Spaniards discovered very few
things in the New World. For the most part they merely took ad-
vantage of and exploited the wealth that the Indians before them
had used for countless centuries.
It is impossible to think of that little town tier on tier of white
houses gleaming on the steep terraces of tawny hills without
thinking of the pearls that lie in the cool, peacock-colored waters
below.
At San Jose del Cabo it had been sugar cane and tomatoes; at
Guaymas, oysters and tortoise-shell trinkets; but at La Paz, as the
Washington crept cautiously through the blue-green shallows of the
wide, crescent-shaped harbor, there came out to meet us a scurry-
ing fleet of long, narrow black canoes, paddled by dark-faced In-
dians who swarmed up the rope ladders with the agility of monkeys.
And every man of them carried a small leathern bag filled with
pearls.
These Indians were different somehow from those we had seen.
Wilder, blacker-eyed, more scantily dressed a torn shirt and a
ragged pair of white cotton calzones sufficed them. There was about
them a quality of remoteness; they did not shout and chaffer as the
other Mexican vendors had done. They came silently, barefooted,
to stand on the narrow decks with the little pouches opened to dis-
close the milk-white sheen of the jewels they themselves had pried
out of the ocean's deeply hidden coffers. They were not tall men.
But there was a fluid strength in their slender, deep-chested figures
that suggested what their world must be like. A dim, cool world of
green that would ripple with wavering fantastic shadows as their
brown bodies cleaved its aqueous depths. A strange, unknown
world of gently sliding, gaping-mouthed creatures, slipping like
golden wraiths through underwater forests that had no kinship
with the sun, A world completely alien to mankind; yet these
THE CITY OF PEARLS 37
shaggy-haired silent Indians knew its ways, had wrested some of its
treasures from it.
'You can buy from them if you like,' the First Officer told us
with a shrug, 'they will not cheat you but of course their pearls
are very common (may corrientes) ; the best ones they sell to the
merchants in the city.'
It was true that the pearls in the small, water-soaked leathern
bags were of poor quality; even I could see that. They were tiny,
or misshapen, or marked with dark flaws. Yet those I bargained
for on the hot, sun-drenched deck of the Washington that day
meant more to me than the sizable jewel I afterwards bought of a
paunchy, white-suited Mexican merchant in the city.
One of the younger vendors came up to me as I finished buying
four or five minute pearls from an older man. This one spoke no
Spanish; or at least none that I could understand. He had taken a
fancy to a brilliant batik silk scarf I was wearing. He touched it
with one finger, and a delighted, almost awestruck look came into
the velvety blackness of his wide-set eyes. He smiled wistfully,
and thrust out his leathern pouch, offering a trade.
I hesitated, for I really needed the scarf. Then my dear old
friend of the engine-room came up on the deck and spoke to the
young man in his own dialect.
'He says you may have them all, for the beautiful silk, Senora.*
'Certainly not!' I answered, startled. 'I only paid money for
this he has risked his life for the little pearls.'
My friend translated, and the young Indian answered in a soft,
plaintive voice a tone somehow typical of Mexico.
'He says he must have the silk. He has never seen anything so
beautiful. It is for a gift.'
'What is his sweetheart's name?' I asked in jest.
But my friend and the seller of pearls were very grave.
'It is not for his sweetheart, Senora, it is for the Virgin.'
'The Virgin?'
'Yes, Senora. This little young one (jovencito) comes from a far
village on the coast. It is a very poor little place, for the pearl
merchants of La Paz cheat the divers, and not many boats come
here any more. In the church is a Virgin who needs a new dress.
The women made her one of pink paper last year, but the roof
38 GRINGA
leaked, and the dress was arruinado. The little Virgin (Virgincita)
is very sad because she has nothing beautiful to wear for Holy
Week. The women have shame because of it. This young one
wants to take the silk to her so that she will not be sad any more.
And he will give you all of his pearls."
What would you have done?. . . Well, so did I. Never as long as
I live shall I forget the look that blazed up in the boy's black eyes
when I put the scarf into his hands.
* Tell him that it is a gift,* I said.
He took the brilliant, barbarically colored scarf very carefully, as
if it were already a sacred adornment. He folded it tenderly, re-
verently almost, and put it inside his rag of a shirt. Then, before he
turned away, he gave me the only Spanish of his vocabulary, spoken
with effort, but deeply from the heart.
'Senora, vaya Usted con Dios!' (Go with God.)
I have often wondered what kind of dress the Indian women
made out of that batik silk for the little Virgin in the far-off fishing
village.
As soon as the port technicalities were over, Mary and I went
ashore. There was little greenery visible. The streets were hot and
brown, the buildings blindingly white. The avenue that followed
the contour of the waterfront was studded with squat, massive
bodegas (warehouses) from the iron barred windows of which came
a saturated, heavy odor of oyster shells. Great mounds of them
were piled or scattered behind the buildings. We wondered, picking
up some of the discarded gray shells, which ones had been caskets
containing hidden beauty; had this one made an Indian diver's
eyes widen with delight as he pried it open with his sharp knife?
Or this one? Or this?
Those gutted fragments of submarine life were small links, thin
and tenuous now, between what was once an era of fabulous wealth
and a present of * reduced circumstances.'
Hernando Cortes, the Conqueror, first discovered this place
for Spain, that is to say in 1526. He must have felt the heat
terribly here, for he named Baja California * Calida Fornax,' which
is to say, 'Heated Oven.' Perhaps he heard at that time about the
wealth of pearls that the peacock-colored waters yielded. For in
1540 an expedition was sent out by the Viceroy Don Antonio de
THE CITY OF PEARLS 39
Mendoza to subdue the natives, and to make reports on whatever
'things of value might be found in those parts.'
However, it was not until 1636 that Spain opened amazed eyes
to the realization that here were pearls of quality equal to those
that came from the waters of Panama; and were here in such quan-
tities that *a man need only break open a handful of shells to find
himself a fortune.'
The news of it spreading like wildfire, brought officers of the
crown, merchants, representatives of the Church, and penniless ad-
venturers crowding into the peninsula that was still thought by
cartographers of that time to be an island.
Despite the hot, arid barrenness of the land, a noble city arose.
La Paz became the capital of hectic, easily acquired wealth. In the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, some of the finest pearls in
the royal coffers of Spain came from this remote spot. Caskets of
the precious gems were carried by great gilded galleons of state to
be sewn on the court gowns of Queens and Infantas, and the robes
of statued saints. Pirates waylaid vessels that sailed from the port
of pearls; men fought and died to possess the luscious, milk-white
jewels.
In 1830, La Paz was made the capital of the Province of Sonora.
The city maintained its heady prosperity for another fifty years,
ranking as one of the three greatest pearl-producing centers of the
world.
The decline of its importance was gradual, but complete. Re-
volutions, the diminishing number of pearl-bearing oysters, the
introduction of synthetic pearls, and the lowered market price, all
contributed malignantly to despoil the one-time Queen of Pearls.
Today, La Paz is a queen divorced by fickle destiny; a queen
unforgotten, but one who no longer has a throne.
We left the waterfront area, with its great warehouses, its cubby-
holes of stores, and its piles of skeleton shells, and wandered aim-
lessly along a quiet street that ran at right angles to the bay.
Suddenly we heard as we turned a corner a drone as of a huge
hive of bees. The sound came from a one-story, whitewashed adobe
house that looked like a small private residence.
We paused outside the street door, which was open, and caught a
glimpse of a patio inside, flecked with sunshine and shadow, grate-
40 GRINGA
fully green with banana plants, and brilliant with purple bougain-
villea vines.
We had not meant to stare too rudely. But our approach had al-
ready been noticed. The droning ceased abruptly, and a score of
little brown faces popped up on the inside of long barred windows.
Bright black eyes surveyed us excitedly, and there was a rising
murmur of voices calling to each other.
'Mira! (Look!) Americanas! GringasP
A slender young man appeared in the doorway. He wore a white
jacket, and his face was the lovely, unworldly one of a youthful
priest. But he was not a priest, he was the principal of a grammar
school for boys. He smiled, that enchanting, delightful smile that
seems to be Mexico's favorite heritage to her sons.
'Come in!' he begged us. 'Come in and rest yourselves. Aqui
es su casaP
Thus, even a boys' school was graciously bestowed on us to be
'our house/
We went in, of course. And lessons were over for the morning.
Can you imagine an American school being broken up without even
the formality of dismissal, just because two strange females from
another country had stopped outside the door to look in?
Yet no one seemed to think it was strange. Probably because in
Mexico time has not the terrific, nerve-racking importance we
Nordics assign to it. What does not get done today can be done to-
morrow or tomorrow, or tomorrow. What difference does it
make? The essential thing is to enjoy life as it comes along,
whether it be in the guise of music, food, a street fight, or a couple
of Gringas from Los Estados Unidos.
The young principal introduced himself formally, 'Jesus Al~
marez de la Palma, very much at your orders. 1
The name of * Jesus' as written, is apt to give the Anglo-Saxon
mind an uneasy qualm. But when one hears it spoken, the sac-
rilegious implication is lost; because it is pronounced 4 Hay-soosV
And it is such a common name in a country where almost everyone
is christened for a saint or a pious thought, that one soon becomes
accustomed to it.
The form of Mexican introductions might be pleasantly applied
in our own country. If you don't know the name of a chance ao-
THE CITY OF PEARLS 41
qualntance, It is not necessary to embarrass him and yourself
by asking him for it, as is the awkward custom in the States. You
simply wave your hand grandly and say, 'My friend, I want to
present my friend!' Then they shake hands cordially, murmuring
their own names which probably neither one hears distinctly
each one adds that they and all they possess are at the orders of the
other, and the social amenities have been beautifully fulfilled.
We became the immediate center of a crowd of a hundred little
Mexican boys of ages ranging from five to twelve years. Their
teachers were three shy, olive-skinned young girls who certainly
were no more than in their teens, and who apparently shared the
naive delight of their pupils in looking us over.
Down at San Jose del Cabo, on the tip of Lower California, the
United States had seemed as remote as last week's dream. But
here, strangely enough, in this city of pearls that had no real con-
nection with the northern country, it had a vital relationship to the
affairs of this small school.
The gentle-faced young principal spoke not one word of Eng-
lish, but he was all afire to do things in the American way. With
the utmost pride he conducted us through the class-rooms, all of
which opened on the central patio. He exhibited really charming
water-color sketches made by the children, and had the little boys
show us their * setting-up exercises.'
'Like Americans, are they not?' he asked happily.
We were to learn more and more that regardless of an official dis-
like for our government, the great mass of people in Mexico look
upon anything that comes from the United States as perfection;
even things which here are regarded more or less dubiously, such as
machine-made embroideries, yellow shoes, jazz, and Kewpie dolls.
The humble little school in La Paz had a besbol (baseball) team.
They had a catcher's mask and an old mitt, a ball that had split a
seam and had been painstakingly sewed up again. All of the calls
were in alleged English; 'Strak wonel Strak towl Wone boll
Ou oot!'
And in the office was a cardboard box containing a few battered
centavos, each one worth half a cent, the humble copper nest eggs
of an ambitious project which one day would hatch it was hoped
into red caps and blue uniforms 1 When Mary and I each con-
42 GRINGA
tributed an American dollar (thus making a total of four pesos Mex-
ican), we were regarded in the light of benefactresses from another
world. We were promised that the teams should be named for us.
The Dona Emilias would play the Dona Marias I I wonder if they
ever did.
The teachers according to our standards were woefully under-
paid. They had little to work with in the way of equipment, and
textbooks were precious, respected possessions that were never
taken away from the school buildings. It was a gesture of highest
esteem on the part of the young principal when he gave us each
a copy of Plato's dialogues in Spanish, of course and an illus-
trated primer which the little Mexican children us-> in learning to
read.
To us, the most peculiar thing was the audible studying; the
droning murmurs which resolved themselves into arithmetic,
geography, or history. But since I found the same system later in
Guatemala and South America, I have come to the conclusion that
it is one of those 'old Spanish customs,' transported bodily from
the old world to the new.
By the time we had finished our extemporaneous inspection of
all the rooms, had taken pictures of the baseball game and the
setting-up exercises, it was nearly one o'clock. Lunch time. We
stated our intention of going back to the boat. But no indeed! The
young principal would not hear of it. We must honor him and his
wife by eating at their house and the three teachers were in-
cluded in the invitation as well.
We all trooped out into the hot sunshine, Mary and I arm in arm
with the girls, a very gay company, already on first-name terms
after the friendly Mexican fashion. Our Spanish was still in its in-
fancy. But since we had mostly to answer questions, it was ade-
quate.
How much did my dress cost? Ah, so much? (Indrawn breaths,
as they probably thought of the tiny salaries they were paid.) And
the stockings were they really of silk? How much did they cost?
Was it true that in New York (Nueva For') there were buildings that
touched the clouds? Of course one had seen pictures, but then per-
haps some artist with imagination had drawn them. And motion
pictures everyone knew they were all made in Hollywood, and
THE CITY OF PEARLS 43
were not true only see what dreadful mistakes they made in
showing how Mexicans act and dress!
The girls themselves were bobbed-haired, and dressed in home-
made frocks of cotton print, very plain, but very clean. Their
stockings were cotton; their slippers were high-heeled, inadequate
for walking, but fashioned to reveal the daintiness of their feet,
which is one of the Mexican woman's chief charms.
When we reached the tile-roofed house of the young principal, it
was with a shock we realized that his young wife had had no ink-
ling of our arrival! There was no telephone no one had been dis-
patched to tell her that she was to have five extra people for
lunch!
Can you picture the indignant dismay of an American house-
wife so treated? The savage glares at Friend Husband, the strained
cordiality, the frenzied commotion in the kitchen, and the tem-
pestuous domestic aftermath?
Yet here there was none of that; no feeling of friction or un-
pleasantness. We were received as if we had been eagerly awaited
for months and months. The little sala, which is the formal room of
a Mexican house, was spotlessly clean, and with the furniture (a
queer Austrian bentwood that seems to be everlastingly popular in
Mexico) arranged in circular formation about a central table.
The pretty Senora, who had quantities of lovely black hair wound
about her head coronet fashion, simply told the one servant, a
wrinkled old Indian woman, to make more tortillas and to put
more plates on the table under the shaded 'portal* that enclosed the
inner patio.
We sat down at a table covered with a cloth of Mexican drawn
work that would have honored the presence of an empress. We ate
black beans and tortillas, beef smothered with a hot but delicious
sauce, and drank cinnamon-flavored chocolate, whipped to a froth
with a wooden stick. For dessert there were mangoes, golden and
ultra juicy; fresh sweet pineapples that made us wonder what kind
of insipid imitations were sold under that name in the United
States ; papayas, and cactus fruits. We ate and drank ourselves into
a stupor of contentment.
When we left, an hour later, it was with the understanding that
our friends would all come down and have dinner with us on the
44 GRINGA
boat that night. And I wondered, even as I extended the invitation,
if the portly cook and Chato would be as equal to the occasion as
the charming young Mexican housewife had been!
We went back along the hot streets, tingling to the very core of
our beings with the delightfulness of our recent experience. Such
spontaneous hospitality is one of the many charming 'customs of
the country.'
Another experience was just ahead of us. In La Paz, I was to get
the first of the Mexican legends and stories I later wrote.
The waterfront avenue was shimmering and deserted in the
silence of the midday siesta period, which extends from one o'clock
to three. But my old friend of the engine-room was waiting on the
dock, and hailed me with a volume of fast-tempoed words many
of which I did not catch. Una leyenda (a legend), he said, was very
near at hand. A very strange story about *una perla sin ver-
giienza.' *
How a pearl could be sin verguenza (shameless) I could not imag-
ine. 1 thought my Spanish was at fault. But he, with many
gestures and much excitement, guided us along the harbor avenue,
and paused at last before a massive house, white like the others, but
with barred windows tightly shuttered, and with a cross painted on
the iron-studded doorway.
'The house of the shameless pearl!' he pronounced oratorically;
*the house that is deserted, and forever cursed!'
And then, more slowly, to accommodate my still imperfect
understanding of Spanish, he told me this story, which I wrote
under the title he gave me: 'The Shameless Pearl.' 2
Dona Consuelo was the only daughter of a Spanish grandee who
made his home in La Paz more than two hundred years ago. She
was beautiful as only one of high birth can be at least in legends.
Yet it was a pale, waxen-like beauty that seemed to have nothing
to do with flesh and blood. Her eyes were dark and indolent, and
her red lips rarely smiled. She had suitors by the score. They
came and sang outside her barred window at night, they pleaded
for a glance, a word, a token. And to them all she murmured in her
soft, slow voice that seemed as bloodless as her milk-white skin, 'If
you love me, then bring me a pearl.'
1 Seen ver-gw&n-sah. * Ladies' jHome Journal.
THE CITY OF PEARLS 45
Pearls were to her like the craving for drink that a drunkard has;
like gold to a miser. She would wear no other jewels. As the years
went on, she all but beggared her father to buy more and more of
the precious gems that the Indians say are the hidden tears of angels.
She adorned her spreading brocaded gowns with them; she wore
them around her throat; strung them through the black masses of
her silken hair; wreathed them upon her lovely arms from wrist to
elbow; even her small satin shoes were embroidered with them.
Her lovers brought her pearls and more pearls and she repaid
them after her own fashion. It was whispered that she did not
hesitate to barter thus even with humble Indian divers.
There came to La Paz from the capital a tall young caballero
whose mother was of Moctezuma's royal line, and whose father was
a Spaniard. He saw Dona Consuelo and loved her. Despite the
discreditable rumors concerning her virtue, he 'played bear' outside
her window. And she found him very different from the young
beribboned fops from Madrid. It may be that he touched her
heart a little, for she promised to marry him. And yet, she whis-
pered to him in her soft, honey-sweet voice, 'If thou wouldst have
my love, then bring me a pearl more beautiful than any I possess, to
be set into a betrothal ring.'
The young Don Francisco was like a man in heaven. But because
he lacked sufficient fortune to purchase a jewel of the size and
quality he desired, he went away from La Paz, and lived with the
Indians of the coast who spoke his mother's language, and who
initiated him in the mysteries of the diver's trade. Many were the
dangers he encountered, and many were the softly glowing gems
that he filched from the ocean's depths. But not the pearl; the
precious, priceless jewel that should symbolize his adoration for
that queen of beauty, Dona Consuelo.
It was eight months before fortune favored him. And then, one
momentous day he wrested from an undersea crevice two rough
gray shells which when opened disclosed two enormous pearls.
One was a lovely ethereal pink, translucent as a baby's skin, rosy
as spring dawn. The other was the size of a man's thumb nail ; and
of a tint neither gray nor purple, but partaking of some of the
qualities of each.
Don Francisco thought to present them both to the lady of his
46 GRINGA
heart. But the Indian diver who was his companion, gave a gut-
tural exclamation, and crossed himself.
* A leper pearl ! ' he said with dilated eyes ; ' do not keep it, Patron
it is accursed! It spreads disease among any others that it
touches. It is called "Una perla sin vergiienza " ; and whenever one
is found, it is quickly destroyed!'
The young caballero laughed.
'Nay,' he said. * I shall at least keep it as a curiosity, and I shall
see to it that it does not touch this other, the betrothal gift to my
future bride.'
But when the eager, bronzed youth returned to La Paz, he found
that Dona Consuelo had not waited for him. She had married the
wealthy Don Severiano, morose and evil-tempered, but who was so
wealthy that he could satisfy her craving for the ocean gems as no
other man could have done.
There was a stormy scene between the two who had been
plighted lovers. Don Francisco stood tall and straight before her,
his mouth taut with disillusionment, his eyes filled with agony.
'I tell you,' she cried defensively, 'I thought you dead! The
months were long you did not come back . . . '
She was dressed in a gown so thickly encrusted with small pearls
that it seemed almost to stand alone. A marvelous necklace
was about her white throat, her arms were banded from wrist
to elbow with strands of pale, moon-white gems.
"I understand,' he answered her softly, 'I understand at last
too well. But at least I have not come back empty-handed. This
pearl is yours may it bring you the happiness you deserve!'
And he put into her eagerly outstretched band a mammoth
globule of grayish purple, as large as a man's thumb nail.
She gasped when she saw it. Her dark eyes grew bright with
little sparks.
* Ah, but it is perfect ! Priceless ! Ah, Francisco mio . . . ' She flung
out her arms to him, her red lips uplifted. But he stepped back,
haughtily, his face rigid and expressionless.
'Your pardon, Senora, I do not take what is not mine!'
By a curious quirk of fortune, Don Francisco lost love, but
found wealth. He sold his other pearls to such good advantage
that very soon he employed a hundred Indian divers. He became
THE CITY OF PEARLS 47
a power In La Paz, an expert in the choosing and the care of the
precious gems.
At the end of the year, Dona Consuelo sent a necklace to him
in secret as he had known she would do. The enormous pearls
in it were lusterless and dead; discolored with strange-looking
patches neither gray nor purple, but partaking of each. In the
center was the great jewel that the Indian diver had called ' leprous ' ;
a * shameless pearl' And her frantic message read, 'Is this the
"happiness" you promised me? Cure, I beseech you, the sickness
of the gems so dear to me!'
Don Francisco did not send the necklace back. Instead, he
took it with him one evening when he called formally on Don
Severiano and his beautiful wife. He pretended not to know from
whom the jewels had come.
^ 'Look you,' he said, negligently holding them up to the candle-
light. 'I am thought to be a wizard instead of a pearl merchant.
Some unknown lady sends me these pearls with the request that
I "cure their sickness/" He shrugged, and Dona Consuelo drew
in her breath sharply as if a needle had pricked her waxen-white
skin.
'Does she not know, this fair unknown one' Don Francisco's
voice was hard and mocking 'that the disease comes from the
sickness of her own soul her lost honor?'
Dona Consuelo got to her feet, one hand knotted against her
throat, and stood there rigidly; like a white-faced doll held up-
right only by the stiff panniers of pearl-embroidered skirts.
Don Severiano looked at the dull, spotted gems, blinking queerly.
He recognized them well enough much of his large fortune had
gone into that necklace which was the finest in all of Mexico.
He looked at his wife. She opened her lips, but no sound came
from them.
Don Francisco was saying smoothly,
'I must take my leave '
At that, she screamed out. Tried to walk towards Mm, but
stumbled, and caught at his arm.
'For God's sake, Francisco, tell him it is not true! Something
else has caused the blight ! Something in the pearls themselves *
Don Severiano took her by the shoulder and pulled her roughly
48 GRINGA
back, so that she fell. Don Francisco was looking down at her
with hard, glazed eyes.
' Adios, beautiful pearl Perla sin Verguenza *
Passers-by on the silent streets that night heard dreadful shrieks;
a woman's agonized screams, begging for mercy; sobbing out
denials, promises, pleading, endearing words. And then there
was silence. Too well they knew what that silence meant. Horror
was in it; and terror; and death!
'From that time/ said my friend solemnly, *the house has been
cursed. No one will live in it. For it is said that in the patio the
ghost of Dona Consuelo walks on moonlit nights. There is a dull
red stain above her heart, and in her hand she carries a broken
string of pearls. She weeps piteously; not because of her sins,
Senora, but because of the precious gems which the " shameless
pearl" killed!'
VI. VILLA CAME HERE
WE WERE to have tied up to the dock at Puerto Yavarto early
in the morning. The little Capitan spoke to us about it in glowing
terms, for it was one of the few places on the western coast of
Mexico where this was possible.
6 It is because of General Obreg6n,' he said enthusiastically.
'This is his country, and he wishes to develop it. The harbor is
excellent, if only it can be dredged. Already there is a channel...
you will see...'
But his triumph was ruined by an anticlimax. After negotiating
the channel in the obscure hours after midnight with no one awake
to appreciate his skill, careless or sleepy laborers on the dock tied
the Washington insecurely and she got away.
I was awakened by the most curious sensation as of riding in a
car with a flat tire. A series of tump, bump, a bedlam of voices
shouting, and feet running overhead. Lights flashed and swung
past my window. The shuddering vibrations of the engines shook
the boat with fierce straining irregularity. Then again would come
the disquieting bump, bump, bump.
I flung on a hasty neglig6e and went out on the deck. The newly
risen moon, orange red and distorted like a Japanese lantern, re-
vealed a strange scene. We were in the middle of a harbor almost
circular in shape, and were evidently in the embarrassing position
of not being able to go either forward or backward. The tide had
treacherously carried us halfway out to sea, and there were we,
having our keel spanked humiliatingly by the sandy floor of ex-
President Obregon's favorite port.
It was early morning before the tide came in sufficiently to
permit navigation. Tempers were strained a bit ugly. For the
first time we had a glimpse of that phase of Mexican temperament
which makes possible swift revolutions; uncalculated acts of
cruelty; debauches of emotion and patriotism.
But by the time breakfast was over and the Washington securely
snubbed to one of the thick pilings of the long concrete dock,
the usual good-natured gaiety prevailed.
50 GRINGA
For one thing, Mexico's most popular ex-President was expected
momentarily on a trip of inspection. The school-children in a
tiny palm-thatched building were in their best dresses, and were
practicing in high shrill voices the Mexican national anthem.
Above the Customs House hung the green and white and red
flag, with its snake-conquering eagle perched triumphantly on a
cactus.
The country here in the State of Sonora was like that we had
seen in Baja California. No wonder Cortes called it 'Heated
Oven'! Yet it certainly is not barren. For the soil has that
marvelous fertility which only needs water for a miraculous trans-
formation. On one side of the narrow, sandy road were acres of
grim, thorny cactus, dusty-looking sage, and twisted desert mes-
quite stretching away to the purple, shimmering heat of distant
hills. On the other side of the road, an area criss-crossed with ir-
rigation ditches, were similar acres, similar distances. But these
were green with sugar cane, corn, beans, and garbanzos, or chick
peas, the latter rapidly becoming popular in the United States.
General Obregon came at last in a private car hours late,
of course. A most interesting person, this man who had been the
President of a vast Republic, and was destined to be elected to that
office again. An erect, soldierly figure despite a slight paunchiness,
and the absence of his right arm, lost in an engagement with the
bandit, Pancho Villa. The empty sleeve was folded and pinned
on the broad bosom of his Palm Beach suit. His round campaign
hat had a strap under the chin.
He was not at all the accepted Mexican Hype.' His eyes were
vivid, almost startlingly blue. His face, tanned by exposure to
the hot sun, was the ruddy bronze of the Nordic, not the chocolate
brown of the Indian or Latin. His graying mustache was close-
clipped, his chin strongly aggressive. His whole appearance lent
force to the story told us that his ancestry was partially Irish,
and that the very name of Obreg6n was an adaptation of ' O'Brien.'
How true this is, I do not know. But certainly he had energy and
vision, plus a constructive mind that the usual Mexican politician
does not possess.
He had proved his worth as a fighter in the ttamultuous days of
the Revolution in 1912. And what a leader he must have been to
VILLA CAME HERE 51
have won the respect of the hard-bitten Yaqui Indians! With
four hundred of these savage warriors, he went to the assistance
of President Madero, and the next year joined Carranza against
General Victoriano Huerta, after the latter had usurped the Presi-
dential power and Madero had been murdered.
From that time his star was in a swift ascendant. He fought
against Villa, was made Minister of War, and in 1920 was elected
President of Mexico. He entered office with a bankrupt treasury,
a country ravaged by ten years of internal warfare, and a frowning
* Colossus of the North' still showing official teeth because of
losses of American life and property.
That he was able to bring order out of that terrific chaos tells
what manner of man he was. He met the American issues squarely,
got his Government recognized by the United States, and started
building up Mexico's disorganized credit.
Then, after four years of absolute power, he retired to his agri-
cultural holdings in the State of Sonora, graciously allowed himself
to be compared to the Roman Cincinnatus who went back to the
plow after a brilliant career of statesmanship and continued
to be the power behind the throne.
At the time we met him, everyone knew that when President
Plutarcho Elias Calles finished his term, the Mexican Constitution
would be amended to make it possible for Obreg6n to run for
President again, and have a six-year tenure instead of four. It
was rumored that these two men the strongest in Mexico since
the dictator, Porfirio Diaz had a turn-and-turn-about arrange-
ment beautifully planned between them. It was a grand idea;
but things rarely work out so smoothly in a country where politics
are too often mixed with equal ingredients of bullets, poisons, and
hired assassins.
That day at Puerto Yavarto, General Alvaro Obreg6n was com-
pletely surrounded by yes-men. Or, as Mary called them, 4 Si
Senores.' They followed him in a swarm, like admiring, hungry
dogs, ever alert to catch at a word, a smile, or a spoken statement.
They would respond in chorus, 'Si, mi General! Deveras, mi
General!'
A few years later, he was to learn tragically that too great power
has a fatal price. But on that hot, windless day on the coast of
52 . GRINGA
Sonora, there were no clouds visible in the sky of his political
career.
We were presented to him very formally, and he immediately
invited us to go to the inland town of Navajoa l with him in his
private car.
We accepted with alacrity, becoming, for the time, yes-women.
The car was a Pullman Mexican version, much narrower than
those in the States, and fitted up with red plush magnificence.
There were comfortable chairs, a buffet with a large array of liquors,
a table strewn with magazines and newspapers.
The other gentlemen of the party kept up a lively conversation,
which we followed as best we could. But the worthy ex-President
was very silent, and stared fixedly I regret to report at
Mary's legs!
In vain did she try to arrange her skirts so as to hide them from
his steady, admiring eyes. He seemed fascinated by them. And
I, serene in my obscurity /as being much too thin, got the same
malicious enjoyment out of Mary's discomfiture as she had from
mine when my wardrobe trunk was opened on the deck of the
Washington.
Only once did he look up from his absorbed contemplation.
The train was rattling its way across miles of barren cactus and
mesquite. There were crude wooden crosses by the dozens
the hundreds, sprouting at drunken angles from the baked desert
soil. We passed a collection of empty adobe houses with collapsed
walls and tiny cornfields ragged with unkempt desolation.
Ex-President Obregon made an expressive gesture with a plump
hand. It included the crosses, the gutted houses, the ruined corn-
fields.
* Villa came here,' he said.
Pancho Villa, that ferocious disciple of violence and lust! Pancho
Villa, the man who was at once a revolutionary hero and a bandit
whose name was a synonym for ferocity and desolation.
We were to hear many stories about him. He has become since
his death in 1923 an almost legendary figure. He had the courage
of an angry wolf, the pitilessness of a mad dog. His love affairs
were casual and brutal. And yet, his favorite song, the one to
1 Na-va-ho'ah.
VILLA CAME HERE 53
which his followers often marched, was 'Adelita'; a delicate,
appealing little folk-song with the freshness of a spring morning
about it.
Adelita se llama la joven.
(Adelita is the name of my little one.)
Le quiero, y no puedo olvidar.
(I love her, and am never able to forget her.)
En el campo yo tengo una rosa,
(In the country I have a rosebud,)
Y con el tiempo me voy a cortar.
(And when the time comes I will pluck it for myself.)
A strange character, this peon of humble birth, who became
successively a national idol, an outlaw, and a general. Like so
many others of his class, he had felt the crushing weight of the
Diaz regime, during which time the landed proprietors ruled their
workmen with a callous disregard for human life that was horrify-
ing.
He eagerly joined the revolutionary movement under Madero
in 1910, but, with the many succeeding counter-revolutions,
changed his allegiance as nonchalantly as he loved, and fought.
He was always able to convince a large number of followers, how-
ever, that he was the only real leader in Mexico, the one true
patriot. Such was his swollen sense of ego that he did not hesitate
to attack the power of the United States itself, by crossing the
border and making a midnight raid on Columbus, New Mexico.
General Pershing was sent hot foot down into Mexico after
him and the wily bandit retreated to the mountainous regions
of Sonora and Chihuahua, lived off the country, and sent obscene
billets-doux to the perspiring Yankee soldiers who could not even
catch a glimpse of him.
It did not increase the prestige of the United States, that futile,
ill-advised chase. It made Pancho Villa more a national hero
than ever.
But he who had lived by the sword perished through the
treachery of one of his own followers. He was shot, while riding
in an automobile, and his assassin was never officially named or
punished.
At Nayajoa, we were in the very center of what had been revolu-
54 GRINGA '
tionary ground. This section of Mexico, once so fabulously rich
in silver and copper mines, and so pregnant with agricultural
possibilities, was completely devastated by the harrowing years
when there was no stable authority, and various outlaws, calling
themselves 'Patriots' and l Generals,' overran their own country
with the remorselessness of Attila's Huns.
I have only a vague memory of the town, I know it was very
clean, with blinding white buildings, and that it had an Oriental
aspect because of many date palms. We were not there long;
for the genial ex-President turned us over to one Jorge 1 Palacio,
with instructions that we were to be taken by automobile to a
little walled city called Alamos, where General Obregon had been
born.
Jorge had been one of Pancho Villa's lieutenants for three years.
Thus he was technically, I suppose, an ex-bandit. But no one ever
looked less like a desperado. He was big, blue-eyed, ruddy of
face, and had the most infectious laugh that ever came out of a
human lung. There was nothing 'typically' Mexican about him,
either, except that he spoke Spanish. He looked exactly like a big,
good-natured Irish foreman of a ditch-digging crew, and had a
fund of stories that for humor and lustiness I have never heard
surpassed. He wore a khaki outfit with broad-brimmed hat and
puttees, a cartridge belt, and a six-shooter the size of a ham.
He 'borrowed' a Ford, known as a 'Fordingo,' and a chauffeur
in the casual way that seems to prevail in Mexico, and away we
went bumping and careening painfully over an interminable stretch
of terrain that was called by courtesy a road, but which in a less
courteous country would be known as a detour, passable but
dangerous.
Our experience in San Jose del Cabo had prepared us somewhat
for the eccentricities of Mexican drivers, who seem to have only
two speeds: very fast, and stop. We clung desperately to the sides
of the car to keep from being flung hither and yon like two peas
in a gallon pail, while Jorge, the ex-bandit, sat in the front seat
with the driver, and roared back stories of blood, and carnage,
and Villa's many love affairs, all in the same lusty voice, punctuated
with explosions of gargantuan laughter.
iHor'hay.
VILLA CAME HERE 55
*Do you see that house there?' he shouted suddenly. It was a
small, demolished shell of a building that had once been a peon's
humble home. 'Dios, how I remember what happened there!'
(An outburst of hearty laughter.) 'The Jefe 1 (meaning 'The
Chief,' Pancho Villa) missed one of his men; a good man, too;
he needed him. And he sent me with some others to get him. We
brought him in; and the Jefe said to him, "Where have you been?
Why have you deserted me?" The fellow said, "My General, I
have not deserted you; but I have a wife and a child. uThey are
both sick. I have had to take care of them." The Jefe said, "If
you are lying to me, I will have you shot." The man swore on the
cross that he was telling the truth, so the Jefe went to that house
there and looked in. Sure enough, there was a poor sick woman
lying on a mat in one corner of the room, with a poor little sick
baby beside her.
'The man said, "Do you see, my General, I cannot leave them
to suffer here alone!" The Jefe said, "You are right! You cannot
leave them to suffer." Then he pulled out his gun' (graphically
describing it with his own six-shooter) *and "bang! bang!" he
shot the woman and the child dead! Then he said to the man,
"Now you haven't a sick wife or a child! They won't suffer any
more. Come with me ! " '
Jorge went into great gales of uproarious laughter, while Mary
and I clung weakly to the wrenching, lurching frame of the Ford-
ingo, and tried to think of something to say.
We bumped and swerved and rattled up a steep grade into a
crumbling, deserted town that had once been populous and busy.
It was Nuevas Minas (New Mines), and four thousand people
had once lived and worked there. But it was in Villa's path. He
had come and left his death mark on it.
The houses were gutted, roofless shells. The walls were pit-
marked with bullets. Cactus and mesquite trees were growing in
rooms open to the sky and wind. We did not see a living soul;
not even a dog or a burro. The dismantled sheds of the smelters
were like the carcasses of dead vultures dropped down on the gaunt
hillside. The stillness of utter desolation drooped over the place
like an invisible funeral pall. Even the irrepressible Jorge seemed
i Hef-fay.
56 GRINGA
to feel It, for he lowered his voice to a half-shout; and for once
did not laugh.
'Villa came here!' he said.
Later I tried to describe the rest of the trip in a letter to John:
'Th^ desert is gray green, as if covered with dusty mold. The
only signs of life are the zopilotes l (buzzards) wheeling pensively
overhead, and now and then burros come trotting past loaded
with mesquite wood, the hindermost being ridden by a small boy
topped off with a straw sombrero.
'There are so many crosses scattered here, and piles of rocks
beside them. The crosses, as General Obreg6n already told us,
mean death by violence. But the rocks are prayers; piled by
casual passers-by, who thus record a good thought for the repose
of the departed soul.
' " Sometimes they put cinco centavos instead, " Jorge told us,
"but the money never lasts long! The next fellow who comes
along takes it!" And he laughed heartily.
'As we approached the walled city of Alamos, a strident, metallic
sound floated out over the desert. A vigorous, rather alarming
banging, as of someone striking a pan with a piece of wood.
' " Church bells, " said Jorge.
'We looked at him in astonishment.
'"Sure! A fellow stands up in the belfry and hits them with a
bar of iron! 7 "
By the time we arrived in the little desert city, we were almost
too stiff to get out of the Fordingo.
But within a few moments, the charm that is Mexico soothed
our tortured nerves. For we found ourselves in a town that be-
longs not to the present, but to a remote, glamorous past. A little
walled city, built in 1525, one of the first to be colonized after
the Conquest. A huge cathedral fronted upon a plaza that was
surrounded by green trees and palms, and where the afternoon
sunlight lay like strained honey upon tiles and flagstones four
centuries old.
The streets that radiated out from the plaza like crooked spokes
from a hub, were narrow, cobblestoned, and cool with shade.
The houses were mot entirely white; many of them were painted
1 So-pee-lo'tays.
VILLA CAME HERE 57
with colors that had once been bright, but which time had dimmed
to purplish pinks, dusty blues, and pale, placid greens.
We had lunch in a tiny restaurant where a smiling black-haired
woman guaranteed to have 'a bite' ready for us in half an hour,
and then produced a prodigious meal. Chicken with rice in the
Mexican fashion, toasted tortillas, black beans, eggs in ranchero
style, a lettuce salad, a plate of cool sliced tomatoes slightly rubbed
with garlic, cinnamon chocolate, and a variety of fruits for
dessert.
Our coming brought a crowd of grown-ups and children and
dogs, to peer in at us through the open door, and the irrepressible
Jorge proclaimed to one and all that we were/amosas in the United
States! I turned out to be an author only a little less well known
than Shakespeare, and Mary was transformed into a motion-picture
actress from 'Olywode'l
A man detached himself from the throng, revealed himself as
a 'cousin' of ex-President Obregon, and presented us each with
a parrot. Mine escaped soon after, and got into the top of a tree,
where he shrieked defiance at those who shrieked back at him
and tried to dislodge him with sticks and stones. We never did
get him back. But Mary's parrot, Terrico,' was more reasonable
about becoming the property of a gringa. He accompanied us on
our further travels, and finally died full of years and personality
in the United States.
In the midst of the somewhat hectic meal, a messenger came
asking Jorge to bring the visiting ladies to the home of a very
wealthy man, for a refresco; a drink made with shaved ice and
fruit juices. The gentleman who so hospitably invited us to his
home, had twelve children. The numerous sons were all being
educated in such cities as Washington, Boston, New York, and
New Orleans. They spoke perfect English, he told us proudly as
he showed us their pictures, and he felt sure that they would
marry American girls.
His house was spacious and magnificent; an architectural relic
of a time when neither labor nor materials were difficult to obtain.
The rooms were huge, furnished with excellent taste, all of them
opening on a central patio where a wall fountain, called a pila,
made murmurous, sleepy music. There were flowering vines,
58 GRINGA
banana plants, bird cages by the dozens. It was a little enclosed
world of melody and color, and infinite peace.
The gentleman's daughters, shy, eager-eyed girls all dressed
in Hack (probably in mourning for their mother), spoke only
Spanish. We asked, very tactlessly, if none of them had been to
the United States,
1 Oh, no,' said their father rather stiffly, 'they have never been
away from the west coast/
Then he changed the subject abruptly. But we were given
definitely to understand that no 'nice' girl of good Mexican family
would be permitted such masculine freedom as to travel in other
countries.
Their destinies are clearly outlined from birth: they will marry
someone approved by their father; they will then go to the retire-
ment of their husbands' homes. They will raise many children
just as many as possible. They will become placidly fat, content
in the adoration of their children (and they always seem to have
it), and never must they interfere with their husbands' business
or outside pleasures even though such pleasures may include
to their certain knowledge other pseudo-marital establishments
with illegitimate sons and daughters.
He urged us to spend the night at his home; and the daughters
were pathetically anxious to have us tell them about American
clothes and Hollywood celebrities. But we had a mental picture
of the long, long road back to Puerto Yavarto. We knew that we
*fcould not hope to reach the port before midnight, even if our
driver kept awake and did not upset the car in the cactus. So we
bade them a reluctant 'adios,' and their last words were the as-
surance that in Alamos was 'our house,' forever and ever!
The trip back was a nightmare, even with Jorge's unflagging
vitality and inexhaustible fund of humor. We were so bruised
and shaken, and our way was made so perilous by the failure of
the headlights, that I remember only one story with which he
regaled us.
It seems that Jorge and a Mexican driver were going along that
same road in a Fordingo. And they saw ahead of them an Indian
girl lying in the sand, writhing in agony, while her young peon
husband made desperate signals to flag the car.
VILLA CAME HERE 59
He spoke almost no Spanish, for he was a Mayo from the hills.
But Jorge understood well enough that the girl was in great need
of medical treatment, and with a heartiness that I can well imagine,
volunteered to take her to the hospital in Navajoa.
He put the suffering Indian girl and her husband in the back,
and he himself rode with the chauffeur, telling him to hurry.
(Unnecessary command!)
As the car went dashing and lurching along that bumpy, in-
credible road, the two men in front heard a faint cry. The driver
turned, startled, and then exclaimed, 'Jesus Cristo, ya somos
cincol' ('My God, we are now five!') An Indian baby had come
into the world in the back seat of the bumping Fordingo!
During the telling of the story we got off the road somehow, and
for several miles lurched along through rasping masses of mes-
quite and cactus. Then the little driver said plaintively, with a
passive declaration of facts, ' Senor, I am lost, and I must sleep.'
Jorge swore jovially.
'But I can't drive, hombre!'
Mary and I said that we could. So the chauffeur went to sleep
on the back seat, and somehow, between the three of us who kept
awake, we crawled in the general direction of Puerto Yavarto
without any lights, and, as Jorge casually remarked, without much
gasoline, as he didn't think any had been put in the tank at Alamos.
We arrived at the port about four in the morning, to the immense
relief of the small Capitan, who had been much alarmed by our
protracted absence.
'But Dios mio/ he scolded us, after we had taken a regretful
leave of the delightful Jorge, 'this is bad country for two ladies
alone. And that man do you not know that he was one of Villa's
lieutenants? Do you not realize, you have been traveling with a
bandit?'
As a matter of fact, we had not thought of it in that way. I
still don't.
VII. THE PLACE OF FIREFLIES
PEBBICO the parrot was given a hearty welcome aboard the
Washington. Mexicans have an affinity for animals and birds of
all kinds. You will rarely find a house, no matter how poor, that
does not have its quota of well-fed and adored singing birds. I
have seen families of peons moving from place to place, most of
their humble belongings piled on top of one burro, but with cages
of nightingales, mockers, and clarins carefully carried by hand.
Chato, the cook's assistant, volunteered to teach Perrico how
to talk; but the little Capitan advised us very earnestly against it.
'He will teach him to say things that will give you great shame!
For,' he added sadly, 'it seems that parrots and children always
learn the worst words the easiest.'
So we tried to educate Perrico ourselves. But despite all of our
patient repetitions of * Polly wants a cracker,' he remained stub-
bornly mute. Until one day he burst out in Spanish with a rip-
snorter of an expletive that no dictionary contains, and which is
decidedly not used in polite society. Whether Chato had been at
work behind our backs, or whether Perrico had already been
trained in Alamos, we did not know. Throughout our travels he
clung perversely to that obscene phrase, giving us, even as the con-
scientious little Capitan had foretold, * great shame,' but caus-
ing great shouts of laughter from all Mexicans who heard him.
We left the boat temporarily at the tiny little port of Topolo-
bampo, 1 to take a train journey that would bring us by a circuitous
route of several days back to Mazatlan, farther down the west
coast, where we would wait for the leisurely coming of the Washing-
ton and continue with it on down to Manzanillo.
I wanted to go to an inland city in the State of Sinaloa, called
Culiac&n. 2 I had heard of a legend there about an ancient pool,
sacred to Aztec gods, that had been exorcised by the use of holy
bells. It was said that the spirit of one of the Emperor Moctezuma's
daughters, a golden-haired Princess, came there one night every
t l To-po4o-bam'po % 2 Cu-lee-ah-kahn'.
THE PLACE OF FIREFLIES 61
year to bathe in the enchanted waters and so preserve her im-
mortal youth and beauty.
Mary decided to accompany me on my quest, and we left Perrico
to the tender care of Chato. Heaven only knew what kind of
vocabulary he would have when we saw Mm again!
One's first experience on a Mexican train in the rural districts
is^something to be cherished forever. The naivete, the gay cama-
raderie, and the complete informality is so amazingly different
from the stiff, rule-bound journeys in the States, that it takes one's
breath away.
The trains follow the amiable Mexican custom of running almost
on time almost always. Except when there is a washout on
the line, or bandits have torn up the tracks, or the engineer has
accidentally killed a cow, a hot box has developed, or some big
politico (politician) has been waited for.
However, no one but an impatient Nordic, with a ridiculous
idea of getting things done on schedule, would worry about time-
tables being adhered to en punto.
Certainly Mary and I didn't care; the station platform itself
was a novelty, from the blackboard out in front, which said that
the train would arrive at thirteen o'clock, to the various vendors
of tropical fruits and virulently colored candies. The ticket agent
was so delightfully polite and chatty that we didn't realize until
later that he had short-changed Mary about forty centavos, and
had given me twenty centavos too much including a Canadian
dime!
There are usually three classes of coaches, first, second, and third.
But unlike Europe, no one of caste rides in any but the first-class
cars. They generally differ from the segundo class in name only.
The rattan-backed seats are the same, in fact everything is the
same except the price, and the superior feeling of knowing that
by paying it one rises to the stratosphere of society.
We had left Perrico on the boat because it didn't occur to us
that you could take a parrot on the train with you except by exiling
him to the baggage car. Imagine our astonishment to find the
coach crowded not only with people, but with caged parrots,
leashed dogs, a couple of swordfish, several cages of quails, and a
coop of ducks!
62 GRINGA
There were no vacant seats. But when we came down the aisle,
probably a little dazed with the unexpectedness of it all, a fat
Mexican papa sprang up, shoved two or three of his sprawled
children out of the way, tugged aside a pillow-case bulging with
clothing, and with voluble courtesy insisted that we seat ourselves
there.
We did, at first gingerly. But as Mama beamed upon us from
the seat across the aisle, and immediately entered into conversation
"with us, asking where we came from, where we were going, whether
we were married, how many children we had, and how much our
dresses had cost, we soon entered into the prevailing spirit of in-
formality and began to have a glorious time.
The windows, of course, were all open. The train stopped at a
little station every ten or twenty minutes, and we were besieged
by a shouting clamor from men, women, and children selling milk,
boiled eggs, tortillas, and fruits, live chickens, bunches of flowers,
sugar-cane stalks and songs!
Yes, songs. For it seemed as if in every town there was a blind
man led by a ragged wife or small son, who begged the privilege
of either singing a 'little song' or playing a 'little piece' upon a
violin or a harp.
We entered into the buying orgy as recklessly as our new friends,
indeed as all the passengers did. We leaned out of the windows and
bargained earnestly for the big melon-like fruits called papayas,
and for small, runty-looking oranges surprisingly delicious as to
flavor.
We shared our spoils with Mama and Papa and the three solemn-
looking little children, and when they finally left the train, they
told us with many energetic repetitions that 'our house' was at
number so and so, such and such a street, in such and such a town.
We arrived at Culiacan late that night, and were whirled away
in one of the indispensable Fordingos to the Hotel Rosales/1 We
were so tired, after a very long day filled to the point of mental
indigestion with new impressions, heat, and kaleidoscopic colors,
that we were only conscious of a huge room with long barred win-
dows at one end, through which came the mingled odors of jasmine
and tuberoses.
The cool, clean beds were pavilioned with diaphanous tents
THE PLACE OF FIREFLIES 63
!
of mosquito netting. From the outer fragrance of the patio came
the liquid silver notes of the nightingale, the bird that the Aztecs
called the xenzontle. 1
1 Far-off voices were singing to the throbbing strum of a guitar.
The soft, plaintive tones blended in the simple, direct harmony
so characteristic of Mexican songs. And as we dropped off into
dreamless slumber, it was to the aching sweetness of 'Adios, mi
chaparrita.' ('Good-bye, my little one/)
i Are Mexican hotels clean? Yes! Even in the smallest towns
with the possible exception of some of the ports. Usually the floors
are of polished tile, and you awaken at dawn to the swish, swish
of water and dripping mops. The bed linen is always thoroughly
laundered; and though feather pillows are not universally used, I
have never missed a night's sleep because of their absence. In sec-
tions of the country where there are mosquitoes, nets are always
in evidence. The servants are good-natured, honest, and grateful
for small tips. In. all the time I spent in Mexico I did not lose so
much as a penny through theft or pilfering; a record which would
be hard to duplicate in the States!
Added to the sheer poetry with which we were housed, and the
delight of eating our meals under the arcades (portales) that sur-
rounded the flower-filled patio, came the excitement of ex-Presi-
dent Obregon's arrival the next day.
He greeted us with apparent pleasure 'How could he re-
member my face? ' demanded Mary, sotto wee and invited us to
a ball that was to be given in his honor that night. Someone had
told him that we were learning to sing Mexican songs and could
play the piano. So he spent most of the afternoon with us teaching
us 'Estrellita' (Little Star).
It was an interesting sight to see the big, blue-eyed, one-armed
warrior and statesman standing by the piano robustly vocalizing,
'little star, of a far horizon, thou dost see how I suffer, thou
knowest my sorrow!' No true Mexican is ever self-conscious about
singing. It is so much a part of his life, his very soul, that it is as
natural as breathing.
Fortunately, Mary and I had brought an evening dress apiece.
Nothing elaborate, but we were audibly admired by the fat little
1 Sen-son'tlay.
64 GRINGA
Indian maid who Aook care of our room, and by the cook, porter,
and various * cousins ' whom they stationed at the doorway to see us
depart for the ball.
The affair was given in the Municipal Palace, a mammoth old
building that was built in the early sixteen-hundreds. Our taxi
honked its way officiously through a crowd of genie humilde, humble
people who were not invited to the affairs of the elite, but who took
a lively pleasure nevertheless in standing outside, listening to the
music, and in commenting after the pungent Mexican fashion on the
size and shape of various lady guests.
As we paused in the crowded corridor, having presented our
elaborately beribboned cards of invitation, a small pompous gentle-
man approached us with a murmured *Con permisoT and offered
us each an arm. ,
We entered a huge ballroom, glittering with lights, thronged
with gorgeously dressed men and women; gilt chairs were ranged
along the mirrored walls, and at either end of the stately expanse
was a military band in full uniform. Most of the ladies were already
seated. The elder ones in black, the younger ones in elaborate
gowns that spoke of Paris. There were hundreds of officers in
uniforms that fairly crackled with gold braid and spectacular
epaulets. And instead of being led directly to our own seats, we
were paraded slowly, in a complete circuit of the enormous ball-
room, like a couple of mares on an auction block!
It was a rather trying experience, that wordless promenade under
the appraising eyes that took in every detail of our unassuming
gowns. But it was something to realize, after we were seated at
last and formally introduced to those at our right and left, that all
ladies arriving without male escorts were thus personally conducted
the long way round perhaps to give the stag line the chance to
look them over for future reference.
We danced that night with many gentlemen who spoke no
English and with many who thought they were speaking it. For
those of my own sex who may be contemplating a trip to Mexico, I
advise a course in Spanish which will include the proper replies to
such questions and phrases as, 'Ah, how you are like a moonbeam!*
*Why have you no Mexican sweetheart?' *My heart has waited
long for this moment 1* *Do you know how to love as well as you
THE PLACE OF FIREFLIES 65
dance? ' The suggested course in adequate repHes should be made
under test conditions: music through which you have to strain to
hear your partner's voice; a fast, zipping Spanish that bears no re-
lation to the slow, halting language you were taught in school;
dance steps entirely new to you; and generally, a partner who is not
nearly as tall as you are.
There is no sense in feeling insulted. For although you will not
be made love to by every man in Mexico, you will meet with
enough Latin gallantry so that you will suddenly begin to realize
how charming you are, and what dolts the men back home were
not to have noticed it. Do not take it too seriously and on the
other hand don't treat it too lightly. A good stock reply to all com-
pliments is, 'listed es muy amable!' ('You are very amiable!'),
accompanied by that 'small, discreet smile' the First Officer told
us about, and, by no means, a 'showing of the teeth!'
When a uniformed officer bowed before us and said that His
Excellency, General Obregon, asked us each for the pleasure of a
dance, we wondered just how it would be managed. But it was
very simple. When my turn came, the same officer escorted me to
the ex-President, who offered me his one arm (the left one), and we
promenaded slowly through the throng of dancers, who made way
for us respectfully.
Two bands played in relays all night, alternating tangos and
danzons with American fox trots and waltzes. At midnight there
was a halt for a collation. Cold meats, cakes, sherbets, excellent
wines, and for those elderly dowagers who drank no liquor, a
sparkling cider called sidral, which to my mind is almost as
delicious as champagne.
The affair ended about five A.M. The stiff formality with which it
had commenced gradually dissolved under the twin influences of
music and bottled spirits. As the sun was rising, everyone sang the
Mexican national anthem, gave a series of lusty 'Vivas' for ex-
President Obregon, for Mexico, for Liberty, for well, for life in
general. We heard them still shouting 'Vivas' as we collapsed
wearily but happily into a Fordingo, and were driven back through
the cool, dawn-fragrance of the awakening city to our big, shadowy
room on the flower-filled patio.
Comparing notes we found that Mary had received more com-
66 GRINGA
pliments about moonlight than I, probably due to the superior
quality of her legs. But I had received a great deal of attention
from one Romeo who danced the tango divinely, and claimed to
have read all of my books a most elegant falsehood. So we were
just about even.
Culiacan is an old city that was beautiful and populous long
before our own Pilgrim Fathers landed on the famous rock. As
with all Mexican towns, its heart is the plaza, and its soul the mas-
sive cathedral near-by.
From this place, in 1540, Francisco Vasquez Coronado set forth
to find the Seven Cities of Cibola that were reputed to have golden
walls and gateways studded with turquoise.
He found no such fabulous treasures. But he and his intrepid
explorers did discover the Grand Canyon of the Colorado, added
the present States of New Mexico and Arizona to Spanish do-
minion in the New World, and wandered as far east as Kansas be-
fore they gave up the search for the mythical cities of glamorous
repute. 1
Coronado failed in tracking down his legend. And I, in Culiacan
almost four hundred years later, found that legends are still
shadowy, unreliable things. For when I at last located the place,
some nine miles outside of the city, where the sacred pool of the
Aztec Indians was said to have been, I was bitterly disillusioned
and empty with disappointment.
Somehow I had expected a trace of Aztec ownership still to re-
main visible: a broken fragment of an onyx balustrade, perhaps; a
carved head of a feathered serpent half-buried in the soil. Some-
thing, something, that would speak mutely of a far-off, magnificent
past; that would Jset the blood to tingling with the memory of
the lovely Princess who came here to preserve her immortal
beauty.
We stood there in the blistering heat of the day, and the place
seemed insupportably commonplace. I had already made up my
mind how the story should begin: 'Deep, deep down you can hear
them ringing, the bells of Culiac&a../
And there are no 'depths' for the bells to ring from! In the
midst of a clearing, circled by stunted, thorny trees, were a few
1 * Gold Afar ' in Good Housekeeping.
THE PLACE OF FIREFLIES 67
shallow spots of brackish water, where Indian women were wash-
ing clothes and gossiping. That was all!
I began to doubt strongly if there ever had been a deep pooL
But our driver, half-Indian himself, declared that it was so. 'The
padres destroyed it/ he said earnestly, 'for it was a pool sacred to
the gods of the Aztecs. I know aa old Indio who lives over there in
that small house, Senora. He can tell you many stories of the past.
If you wish, we will go to him.'
Can you imagine, in the States, a taxi-driver guiding you to a
story-teller's house, and then sitting there with you at no extra
charge absorbed and enthralled while an ancient legend was
unfolded?
The old Indian received us courteously and with much dignity.
His little adobe house was palm-thatched, the floor was of pounded
earth. He brought us clean mats to sit on, and gave us atole 1 to
drink, a beverage made of ground corn and milk, flavored with
pineapple.
His skin was wrinkled like that of an apple long past its prime.
But his eyes were black and vivid, and his body was lean and
straight. He spoke Spanish rather gutturally, but I could under-
stand it. For he chose his words carefully, and Ms gestures were
those of an orator.
Very briefly, this was the story he told: 2
More than a hundred years after the Conquest, a missionary
priest, Fray Sepulveda, came journeying down the Tolotlan River
to carry the Gospel message to the savage China Indians.
With him came young Don Alva, whose ancestor, another Don
Alva, had fought at Cortes' side, and had afterwards returned to
Spain.
The old priest was sick. And the young man, having heard of an
ancient pool with curative waters somewhere near a ruined Colhua
city, begged Fray Sepulveda to make camp there for^a few days in
order to test the medicinal value of the waters.
The few Indians he encountered would not guide hinrto the place,
for they feared it with a strong, superstitious terror. But they gave
him directions so that he himself could find it. And he, cutting his
* Ah-to'lay.
* 'The Bells of Culiac&n,' in Good Housekeeping^
68 GRINGA
way through the thick jungle with a machete, finally came upon it,
almost at nightfall.
The remnants of a pool were there, deep-shadowed by great
ceiba trees. The onyx balustrade was broken, and the steps that
led down into the water, richly mosaiced with turquoise and lapis-
lazuli, were cluttered with fallen leaves and vines that crept from
between the cracks.
But within the circling wall the deep water bubbled with a
slumbering, sibilant rhythm. A curious, dim silence lingered there,
as if, with the coming of night, portentous events were awaited.
Don Alva was troubled. But it was too late to make Ms way
back through the dark jungle. So with an ' Ave Maria * he wrapped
himself in Ms cloak and lay down on the alabaster tiles to sleep.
At the hour of midnight he stirred, as if a hand had been laid on
his breast. The jungle was breatMessly silent. Fireflies pricked
points of light in the tMck darkness, swinging to and fro like tiny
blue-green lanterns.
Then suddenly, from far away, came a sound of little tinkling
bells. A sound sweet and thin, like honey dripping into a goblet of
silver. All at once the night woke to ardent life. The fireflies
spiraled upward in clouds of living moon-fire. The jungle was a--
flutter with the stir of humming-birds' wings. And their voices
called like human voices 'Huitzlin! Huitzlin!' 1
Then Don Alva saw with a thrill, half-ecstasy, half-horror, that
through the matted vines and branches a golden light was blossom-
ing, unfolding like the petals of a gigantic rose. And in the heart of
it walked a woman, fairer than any maid of romance, or dream, or
reality!
Her long hair, sweeping down around the unearthly pallor of her
face, was the color of burnished gold. And her eyes, gazing upon
Don Alva's with rapt wonder, were bluer than skies of a summer
noon.
One gauzy white garment veiled the loveliness of her body. And
upon her head was a feathered casque that glimmered with the iri-
descence of humming-birds' wings.
Don Alva felt Ms senses wMrling. Who had not heard in Mexico
of Moctezuma's beautiful golden-haired daughter, Huitzlin, the
i WeeU-Iin'.
THE PLACE OF FIREFLIES 69
Humming-Bird Princess? But she had died two hundred years
before!
The young man stood in a deadly paralysis. And heard as in a
dream her soft voice speaking:
'Art thou not the Don Alva who came to my father's palace,
long, long ago, and won my heart all in a day? Behold, I have kept
my youth and beauty, faithfully awaiting this moment when we
should meet again. Once a year I have come to this magic pool, and
with ancient incantations have besought the gods of my people to
give me immortal life. Now, come! Slip down into the waters with
me, and together we shall dwell neither living nor dead, but dream-
lessly in eternal rapture!'
She held out her white arms to him. And Don Alva, enslaved
by her incredible beauty, took a step towards her. But his soul,
struggling upward like an imprisoned thing, suddenly made itself
heard. His lips parted and cried, as if without his own volition,
'Ave Maria! Save me from mortal sin!'
The golden light went out in a muttering of thunder. The forest
reverberated with the sullen rumble of an approaching storm.
Don Alva fled from the enchanted place with thorns striking at his
flesh, and a terrible, overwhelming desire tearing at the very core of
his heart.
With the coming of day, he found Fray Sepulveda again, and
poured out the wild tale, keeping back nothing, not even the fact
that he was consumed with longing for the love of a beautiful,
ghostly Princess.
The good padre listened with horrified attention, his thin fingers
clutching the crucifix of his rosary. Then he said: * Of such things I
have heard, my son. The Devil hath created this pool, and perhaps
given it properties of false life, the better to enslave unwary souls.
We shall linger here for a year, and I will exorcise both the pool and
the wandering, unhallowed soul of the Princess Huitzlin.'
Then Don Alva was ghastly pale.
"But what would lie ahead for her? Paradise, or eternal dam-
nation? *
The padre looked at him sadly.
'That is in God's hands. But certainly, she hath sinned deeply;
she hath bargained with the Evil One for the gift of unholy beauty*
70 GRINGA
I fear that she will be seared with many flames before God's grace
reaches her!'
So for a whole year Fray Sepulveda and the young Don Alva
remained in the ruined city of the Colhuas on the bank of the Tolot-
lan River. The priest summoned his Indian converts to dig crude
copper ore from the near-by hills, and from the metal he fashioned
three copper bells.
He sprinkled them with holy water, blessed them with prayers,
consecrated them to a great and awful mission. Don Alva seemed
to have grown old in that single year. He rarely spoke; and his
eyes were sunken deeply in their sockets.
There came again the same night of the same month in which he
had first seen the lovely phantom Princess. The copper beUs were
in readiness, swinging from ropes made of liana vines above the
ancient pool.
Fray Sepulveda sent the Indians away, for their terror was a
menace to the holy work he planned.
* Padre,' said the young Spaniard hoarsely, 'will not God under-
stand that if the Princess Huitzlin sinned, it was for love? Surely
such faithfulness as hers . . . '
The priest sternly bade him be silent, and look to the steeling of
his own soul against unsanctified beauty.
They awaited the slow coming of darkness, the passage of hours
that were torture. And at midnight, the old padre muttered deeply,
and whispered prayers through clenched teeth. For the jungle was
becoming luminous with golden light. Humming-birds began to
flutter and cry out, 'Huifczlinl Huitzlin!' The fireflies swirled up-
ward in dazzling clouds of blue-green sparks. And the chiming
sound of little golden bells came nearer and nearer.
'Now!' cried the old priest, and he tugged strongly upon the
vine rope that held the copper bells.
Their metallic voices rang out in a shouted, holy command.
'Come kith-exl Come hithr&rl' they seemed to clamor.
Don Alva's heart was like a thing on fire. For through the cloud
of swaying light he saw the lovely golden-haired Princess, drifting
towards the steps of the pool as if an oarless boat carried her.
Horror was in her blue eyes, and she pressed her clenched hands
over her ears to shut out the sound of the bells. Then her eyes found
THE PLACE OF FIREFLIES 71
Ms, and her red lips moved wordlessly, but with agonized pleading.
The clanging bells drew her nearer, nearer to the very brink
of the bubbling pool. And suddenly, with a cry of anguish, Don Alva
sprang forward, knife uplifted and cut the rope that held the
bells!
They went plunging down, down into the bubbling water. Fray
Sepulveda uttered a shriek of anathema. But the golden light
eddied in a blinding, coruscating whirlpool of sparkling globules
that rose and burst like bubbles. In the midst of them, the slender
phantom Princess stood, her hands outstretched, her lips smiling
with grateful love. Then she vanished. And Don Alva sank down
in a death-like swoon.
' It is said the young Spaniard became a priest,' the old Indio
said in his slow, measured voice, 'and for many years made his
flesh do penance for the mortal sin he had committed that night.
The worthy Fray Sepulveda caused the balustrade to be shattered,
the waters diverted, and pronounced a curse on all who should
seek to worship at the pool.
'And yet, my people say that on one night every year, the jungle
trees grow again around the sacred place. The waters well up again,
and the humming-birds waken in the darkness to cry out, "Huitz-
lin! Huitzlin!" They say she still comes to renew her immortal
beauty. And though I have never seen her, I have heard the hum-
ming-birds cry out her name, and have heard the chiming of the
golden bells. I would not dare look upon her face, I am not as
brave as that young Don Alva, who risked Ms soul for the sake of
love!'
OF
MAZATLAN Isn't real it couldn't be. It is too theatrical, too
spectacular. It is like a painted backdrop for a Graustarkian mus-
ical comedy. The sea is bluer than any water could possibly be,
the jutting promontory that thrusts itself upward, balancing a
tiny lighthouse on its nose, is much too tawny a yellow. The small
adobe houses that cling to the steepness of the slopes are violently
green, and blue, and pink, and tan the scene-painter should have
known better. The tall rearing coco palms make a silhouette as
of bursting green rockets; against the hot cobalt sky. You feel
that if the whole flamboyant vista should suddenly be whisked
up out of sight, it would be kinder than to have it permanently
there, forcing you to believe it.
Mazatlan has always been extraordinary. Even the meaning of
Its name, *The Place of the Deer,' suggests that it was probably,
in the days of the Aztecs, a hunter's paradise. During the days
of the Conquest, when the west coast was colonized, this was the
chief port of entry for the great treasure galleons coming to the
New World with cargoes of Oriental wares. They came to anchor
In the landlocked harbor, while burro trains came shuffling down
from the near-by hills with loads of silver bullion to ballast their
emptied holds.
Up to the time of the Revolution, the prosperity of this coastal
city was as bright as the shining silver ingots that were her chief
contribution to the outside world. But the disastrous civil wars
swept away all the wealth that centuries had accumulated. Many
of the silver mines were confiscated by the Government; others
were gutted of their available treasure by those sporadic * patriots'
who were one day generals, the next bandits, and who in death
were designated either as 'martyrs' or 'traitors,' according to the
party then in power.
Foreign capital withdrew in a panic. Mazatlan was like a once
pampered child, stripped of all her finery. The city was left breath-
less and desolated in the lap of the blue Gulf of California and the
arms of the golden sunshine.
MEMORIES OF BLOOD AND SILVER 73
The perfect climate is still there, however; warm, luscious days
tempered with cool sea breeze. The soil is amazingly fertile, the
mineral resources have been barely surface-scratched. After the
storm, life rides along once more on a leisurely, placid keel. I
believe that in days to come, Mazatlan will again take her proper
place as one of the most important ports of western North America.
For in addition to having rail connection with the United States,
it is a mining center, a cattle-raising area, and exports enormous
quantities of tomatoes, coconuts, and hides.
Mary and I were conveyed from the station to the beautiful
Hotel Belinar, not by a Fordingo this time, but in one of the old-
fashioned two-wheel carriages called, for some unknown reason,
aranas 1 (spiders!).
The open coaches are equipped with bicycle bells that emit a
feeble 'tink, tink,' at every crossing. They are adapted to the
narrowness of the streets so that they can be turned on the prover-
bial dime, and when they do, the horse is practically in your
lap.
Here, as in almost every part of Mexico, the 'Imperial Yankee 5
has penetrated with his movies, his jazz, and his motor vehicles.
There are plenty of automobiles in Mazatlan. But to ride in a
native arana is still the best and most delightful way to see the
city; and it is gratifying to realize that it is just as pictorial from
the inside looking out, as from the outside looking in.
The streets are narrow, cobblestoned, and have no consistency
about keeping to one level. Through the open doorways of the
painted houses you catch tantalizing glimpses of little patios that
are luxuriant tropical worlds in miniature. A hurdy-gurdy, Mexican
style, comes past, the big organ mounted on wheels, and drawn
by a very small burro. One man turns the crank of the machine,
which is reedily grinding out 'Cuatro Milpas,' the other pulls and
pushes at the little donkey, who has his own ideas as to when he
wants to go ahead or stop. They accept a silver ten-centavo
piece with a surprised and grateful smile. Evidently it is not the
custom to give so much.
A funeral now occupies the street a mournful, humble pro-
cession, the cheap, hand-made coffin carried on the shoulders of
1 Ah-rahn'yahs.
74 GRINGA
four barefooted, white-clad peons, and followed by a group of
black-veiled women and bareheaded men.
Our cochero removes Ms hat. So do all the other men on the street.
The procession of sorrow goes slowly towards the church at the top
of a short flight of rocky steps.
Our driver turns, puts on his hat, and says cheerfully, 'It is very
sad. But' (with a typical shrug of the shoulders) 'it is the will of
God!'
And that, we found all through Mexico, was the prevailing
attitude towards death. In a country where cremation is against
the popular religion, and embalming almost unknown, the law is
that burial must follow within twenty-four hours after death. The
ceremonials of mourning are varied throughout the republic, and
are mixed with ancient Indian superstitions that four hundred
years of Catholicism have not been able to eradicate.
The 'Feast of the Dead,' celebrated in the fall, is a cross between
a wake, a country fair, and a Hallowe'en celebration. Everyone
buys little cakes made in the forms of skulls; the children play with
toy skeletons (cdaveras) ; and families carry food and lighted tapers
out to the graves of their departed ones for an all-night picnic.
Some of the food is for the living; and some of it is left to be
consumed by the spirits of the deadl
We had our driver deposit us at the plaza so that we could
wander about on foot. We visited the big cathedral briefly, and then
went over to the odoriferous market that occupies an entire square.
It is a fascinating place, reeking with the mingled smells of meat
and fish, tortillas being cooked, tuberoses in great white sheaves,
pineapples in mountainous reddish-yellow piles, and thousands of
leather hides, rather sketchily cured.
A Mexican market practically eliminates the middleman. You
will not see great trucks loaded with beans, or lettuce, or corn
husks, you will not see anything in tremendous quantities unless
it be such articles as leather sandals, straw sombreros, or machine-
made rebozos.
The produce from garden and field and huerta (orchard) is
brought in by the producers themselves. One peon may have
only a few handfuls of peanuts to sell. But he makes them artistic
by arranging them on a woven mat in little pyramids. Perhaps he
MEMORIES OF BLOOD AND SILVER 75
Is selling wild plums, or potatoes, or limes. He spreads out his
humble wares and squats beside them all day if need be. If you
want a great deal of any one thing, you may have to go from stall
to stall; or your need will be called out, and willing messengers
from other vendors will come running.
We found, while trying to buy some panocha, that paper was
difficult to get. You were expected to have a woven shopping bag
or have a mozo to carry your purchases.
We pushed our way with the rest of the marketing crowd through
aisles so narrow that there was not room for the continuous surge of
shoppers. And presently we were standing before a small booth
completely hung with herbs. There was a pungent, pleasantly
fresh odor that emanated from the dried bunches of gray-green
plants. And as we fingered some of them wondering what they were,
and what they were used for, a Juno-like Indian girl leaned over
the counter and smiled at us. Her black hair hung in braids across
her shoulders, twisted at the ends with narrow ribbons.
* What will you buy, Senoritas? Something for a cold? A charm
against the evil eye? Or will you buy a love charm guaranteed? *
Mary and I looked at each other.
'I dare you!' she said.
So I, with as much casualness as possible, considering that I
had never shopped for amorous aid before, said, 'If you have a
very good love charm, I might buy it.'
'Oh, yes, Senorita, I have the best love charms in Mazatlan!
Anyone will tell you! My mother is a famous curandera, 1 and she
taught me how to make them!'
We squeezed inside her tiny place and commenced the bargain-
ing. Did I want a charm for just one man or something so po-
tent that no one could resist me?
I cautiously asked the price, and found that the all-powerful
charm was seventy-five centavos. The one-man enchantment was
twenty-five. I haggled for a while and got the 'best one' down to
sixty centavos, then we watched carefully while she made it.
She took two small pieces of paper, and from cigar boxes picked
out various ingredients, as carefully as if she were compounding a
prescription. There was a dried humming-bird; some black vol-
1 A combination sorcerer and healer.
76 GRINGA
canlc dust; some * female' beans; two tiny bits of stone with glint-
ing silver ore, and a separate stone that looked like an agate. The
humming-bird was wrapped by itself, and the beans, pebbles, and
volcanic dust in the other bit of paper. Then the two were tied
together with a red cord knotted at intervals in itself a powerful
charm, she assured me.
The rest was up to me. I was to wear the packet inside my stock-
ing, 4 at the bend of the knee.' The stone was una piedra de amor,
a stone of love; and it was to be given a bath in wine every nine
days. As I removed it from the alcoholic immersion, I was to say to
it, 'Now that I have given you a drink, you must give me the heart
of the one I desire.'
Mary, just to be different, bought a charm against the evil eye.
The herb saleswoman declared it was an ossified deer's eye; but it
looked to us like the seed of some kind of plant. It was large and
round, black in the center, was hung on a bright red woolen cord,
and ornamented with little tassels and gilt beads.
She also purchased an amulet very highly recommended against
the venom of the night air. It was a stone enclosed in a tiny woven
ball of reeds.
It is a curious Old World heritage, that deep-rooted distrust of
atmosphere after dark. We were to have our troubles with it too.
Of that, more anon. But for the'time being, we felt amply protected.
Mary was immune to evil eyes and night airs; and I, for sixty
centavos, had become a resistless charmer of men!
The Hotel Belmar, on the wide avenue that follows the contour
of the ocean frontage, was considerably more American in style
than our glamorous residence in Culiacan. But even here there was
a tiled patio in which potted palms and dwarfed orange trees made
little dots of greenery.
Confidently we asked for mail at the desk. Mary received a large
bundle of letters without any trouble. But there was nothing for
me. Nothing at all for 'Squier.'
I felt rather stunned. Had John forgotten me so soon? And
Mother? And all my friends who swore they were going to have let-
ters waiting for me at Mazatlan?
'But there must be something,' I insisted, 'please look again.
The name is Emma Lindsay Squier.'
MEMORIES OF BLOOD AND SILVER 77
The clerk listened attentively.
4 Ah! 5 he said, with that beam of triumph the Latin always gives
when he comprehends, 6 Mees Leendsayl Si! Hay mucho correo!'
(There is lots of mail.)
And with that, he pulled out a bulky package of letters, and
handed them to me with a flourish.
I must have looked my astonishment. For a Mexican gentleman
standing near-by hastened to explain.
'Down here we use our mother's maiden name for a last name.
Sometimes we only add the first letter of it. For example, my name
is Alberto Rodriguez Martin. But my father's name is " Rodriguez.**
Any mail that came for me here would be put in the box marked
"R." In your case, now, the clerk thought your name was " Lind-
say," and that your mother's name was "Squier." You might
remember that, Seiiorita, it may save you difficulty elsewhere.'
And it did. I found all through Mexico that my name was
thought to be 'Lindsay.' I finally got accustomed to asking for
mail in that way, and was never disappointed.
The Hotel Belmar has at least two claims to fame. Instead of
stairways, it has ramps. And it used to have a pet boa con-
strictor in the patio. His name was Pancho, And he lived there
for many years, curled up in the daytime like an enormous rubber
hose, stirring at night to predatory life, and slithering about on
the highly praiseworthy task of catching rats.
It may be difficult for you to believe, but guests used to go into
hysterics when they stumbled over him late at night in the patio
or the corridors. One American lady actually had a nervous break-
down when Pancho came sliding into her room on the peaceable
lookout for a bit of midnight supper. Her terrified shrieks aroused
the whole hotel, and sent Pancho, shivering with fright, under her
bed.
The management reluctantly disposed of him after that. It was
too bad, our camerero told us as he carried our bags up the wide
ramp to our second-story room. Pancho was a serpiente muy
simpatico (a very nice snake) who harmed no one. Was it true, he
asked, that all Americanas were so nerviosasd Mary and I tried
to explain that in the United States hardly any of the hotels
kept boa constrictors in the lobbies. Our camerero was polite
78 GRINGA
about It, but he shrugged Ms shoulders a bit scornfully. These
Gringos 1
We were Indebted for much of the pleasure of our four-day so-
journ in Mazatlan to Dr. Audrain and his wife. He was a genial
American surgeon who owned a sanitarium there. In spite of the
numerous revolutions with overnight changes of Presidents and
the local despotism of temporary dictators, the Audrains had
weathered the storm with their lives and personal property scrupu-
lously respected by all factions.
Their 'sanitarium' was actually a house of generous proportions,
Iron-barred door flush with the street, Iron-barred windows as well
The huge, high-ceilinged rooms opened on a flower-filled palio.
More than once, when the fierce tides of battle ebbed and flowed
along the narrow streets outside, the house had been a fortress and
a place of sanctuary for the wives and families of politicians who
happened at the moment to be on the losing side.
Throughout the terrific years of the revolution and counter-
revolution, Dr. Audrain went about his medical duties with calm
fearlessness. He attended difficult cases of childbirth in outlying
parts of the city and made long journeys into the hills where ban-
ditry had succeeded even the pretense of law and order. Always he
carried two satchels with him. One contained surgical Instruments
and medicines; the other was filled with paper money issued by
various * Generals' who controlled small areas, and who enforced
their worthless currency on the suffering people in that district.
Across the line from their petty kingdoms, another General's
'money' would be used.
Sometimes these brigand dictators slipped up. One of them
systematically robbed the burro trains that carried silver bullion
from a rich mine down to the seacoast. From this, he minted his
own pesos. But having no definite ideas as to how much silver one
coin should contain, about. two pesos' worth of silver got into
each one and were eagerly purchased by thrifty foreigners in the
city.
Dr. Audrain gave me one of these bandit-minted pesos for a
souvenir. It is a dark, thick piece of silver, not at all symmetrical
in shape, with a crude liberty cap stamped on one side.
I asked what became of that particular outlaw.
MEMORIES OF BLOOD AND SILVER 79
*0h, ? said the doctor, 'he was finally caught, and put up against
a wall before a firing squad. He asked for two things before he
died. He wanted a cigarette and he asked them not to shoot
at Ms face.'
In the sanitarium at the time of our visit was a striking-looking
woman with haggard black eyes, a thin white face, and vividly
yellow hair. She was the widow of a General who had died under
such suspicious circumstances that all signs pointed to foul play on
the part of one of his political adversaries. And she was living at
the Audrains' establishment not only because of ill health, but also
because she thought she was going to be poisoned.
Just what were the circumstances behind her story, I never
learned. But I remember well that one day a basket of fruit was
brought to the door by a mozo, addressed to the Senora. Before
she could touch any of it, however, Dr. Audrain carried the basket
and contents peremptorily off to his laboratory for analysis. We
thought it best not to inquire as to the results.
One afternoon a young boy, about eleven years old, called to see
the widowed lady. They talked together long and earnestly, with
every evidence of mutual affection. When he left, he kissed her
hand, and called her Mamacita. (Little Mama.)
'Was that her son?' I asked the doctor.
* No,' he answered, 'it is the son of one of the queridas (mistresses)
of her late husband.'
He smiled at my shocked face.
'Oh, that's one of those "old Spanish customs" you hear about
down here. Usually the wife accepts the situation gracefully.
This lady, for instance, had no children of her own. She is devoted
to that little boy, and he to her. It is no uncommon thing for a
man of wealth to have three or four establishments sometimes
in the same city. In the matter of an estate, unless otherwise
specified, the illegitimate children share equally with the legitimos.
You'll get used to it...*
And as a matter of fact, I did. It is a common situation which
makes one realize how completely Mexico is a man's world, despite
all incoming modem ideas of sex equality. It made us understand
a little more fully the vast gulf between the American woman,
with her casual independence and her nonchalant habits of going
80 GRINGA
anywhere, any time, and the Mexican woman who still lives in the
shadow of the Moorish harem.
So deeply is the idea implanted in the very core of the feminine
soul in Mexico that, although a wife may suffer bitterly from the
pangs of jealousy, or even die with sorrow, she rarely opposes her
husband's will. It is considered a necessary feminine virtue to
suffer thus, nobly, and in silence.
You will find many Mexican women married to foreigners
Germans especially: and the combination is usually a happy one.
When you have been raised practically in a harem and have always
been taught that the word of the lordly male is like something
out of Holy Writ it must be like finding out there is a Santa
Glaus to be married to a man who is generous, not too much of a
dictator, and yet withal faithful!
Best of all the stories we heard about the Revolution was one
told us by the manager of the hotel. It had in it all the elements of
opera bouffe; yet it actually happened!
There is a little town near Mazatlan that was in the path of the
advancing and retreating armies. It was customary to signify
occupancy by marching three times around the plaza, and as Gen-
eral A entered the place, he made a ceremony of parading his troops
about the small park in the correct military manner.
Soon, however, along came General B in the vanguard of a
temporarily victorious army. He sent word to General A that since
the tide of battle had changed, what was the use of fighting about
possession of one insignificant town. What about General A with-
drawing in order to save precious ammunition which could be
used to so much better advantage for a regular battle later on?
General A thought the idea an admirable one. He withdrew to
the hills, and his courteous adversary walked his troops around the
plaza three times and 'took' the town.
But up in the hills, General A met a large detachment that was
coming to his relief. He immediately sent back word to General B ;
what about it? Would he leave the town peaceably now, or would
they have to waste some of that precious ammunition they were
saving up for a really good battle?
General B immediately evacuated. And General A came back,
inarched around the plaza, and sent out bulletins describing fche
MEMORIES OF BLOOD AND SILVER 81
6 bloodless victory. 5 No less than six times was this particular
village 'captured' back and forth by these two debonair Generals,
without a shot being fired!
'How relieved the inhabitants must have been!' I said.
The manager of the hotel looked at me haughtily.
4 Not at all!' he answered sternly. "It was an insult! Would
you like to live in a town that wasn't worth fighting for?'
IX.
MAZATLAN is so incredibly picturesque that it did not surprise us
to learn that motion-picture companies had invaded it several
times, to transfer Mexican atmosphere to the screen. The results
were typical of Hollywood.
The harbor of Mazatlan curved in sharply behind the shelter of
the great fortress-like promontory that faces the sea. And across
this circular bay is the most beautiful coconut grove I have seen in
Mexico. The long deliberate trunks rear upward, thin and bare,
like the elongated handles of ragged green umbrellas, each of which
has imprisoned beneath its top a bunch of small green balloons.
A well-known director brought his whole company, cameramen
and all, down to Mazatlan to make a 'real' picture of Mexico that
would give the lie to those carping critics who were always accusing
Hollywood of obvious fakery.
He saw the coconut grove, and raved about it. He wandered
about the streets of Mazatlan, and was enchanted. So. , .
He obtained special permission from the telephone company to
use their poles. Then he sent a score of natives over to the lovely
grove, cut down armfuls of coconut branches, brought them back
to town, and wired them to the poles! There are never any flag-
stone front yards for Mexican houses, but the Hollywood gentleman
thought there should be so he had them painted on the sidewalks.
It is not a daily custom to hang embroidered mantillas over the
iron railings of the balconies except for fiesta occasions, but the
director ordered it done. Somehow the hundreds of Mexicans hired
as * extras' didn't look genuine to him.j Most of them had shoes
on, and none of them wore earrings or carried stilettoes so he
had the wardrobe department fix them up. Then, although the
story was a modern one, the heroine was dressed in one of the long
tight-bodiced gowns with long ruffled skirts that they stopped wear-
ing in Mexico about a hundred years ago, and the hero was poured
into a velvet caballero suit with gold-braided bolero jacket and
slashed trousers a style considered very hot around the year
1860.
COCONUTS AND LEGENDS 83
Everyone was happy, except a few thousand Mexicans who saw
the picture, and wrote indignant letters asking^why it hadn't been
made in Mexico! ~ -
There was certainly no dearth of stories in Mazatlan. From the
grim tales of revolutionary days to simple, homespun legends with
the smell of the soil about them, was only a step. We listened to
both in the hospitable household of the Audrains.
Their cook, Josefina, was a mestizo, x girl with big, laughing eyes,
a fine set of teeth, and a devout belief in all the saints of the calen-
dar. Her one lapse from admirable conduct had been when she and
another servant had a catch-as-catch-can fight, no holds barred.
The quarrel was concerned with a small image of the Christ Child
that the other girl had * borrowed ' from the arms of Saint Anthony's
statue in some church. The idea was that if she kept the statue for
nine days, Saint Anthony would answer her prayer and find a sweet-
heart for her, in order to get back the precious figure of the Child.
But Josefina wanted a sweetheart too, so she * borrowed ' the
image from her friend only the latter called it stealing; and
there was a violent session of hair-pulling, biting, and name-calling
before the argument was settled.
Mrs. Audrain took the image away from both of them, returned
it to the church, and made both girls confess to the priest. At the
time Mary and I visited there, they were both happy; Josefina
had a uniformed policeman for a sweetheart, and the other had
won the heart of a cochero who owned a shiny black arana.
We asked Josefina if she knew any of the legends of her people.
She answered, with a flash of white teeth, that she did. So while
she roasted coffee on the pottery plate of a comal, she told us the
story of why the Raven and the Hawk are deadly enemies:
Long, long ago, when the birds could talk, the Senora Raven was
not black, but snow-white. She and the Senor Hawk were the best
of friends. The Hawk was always hungry, and every morning he
flew out and picked himself off a couple of fledglings from some nest.
The lady Raven was afraid that he would take her children; bat he
swore to her he would never touch them.
'However/ he added, 'you had better describe them to me so
that I won't eat them by mistake.'
1 One of mixed Indian and Spanish blood.
84 GRINGA
4 Oh,' cried the Infatuated mother, 'you will know them because
they are the most beautiful baby birds in the whole world!'
The next morning, the Senor Hawk feeling very empty, flew out
to get Ms morning meal. He perched on the branch of a tree, and
peeping down between the leaves, saw two downy white little fledg-
lings who cooed softly to each other.
'Now those must be the beautiful babies of the Senora Raven,*
he mused to himself. And despite his hunger, flew honorably away
without molesting them.
Then he came to a flowering vine. And in a tiny nest lined with
the silk of the ceiba tree, he saw two miniature birds, with feathers
so shimmering and iridescent that they gleamed like little opals.
'No/ said the enchanted Hawk, admiring the baby birds, 'these
must be her children!' And again he flew away.
Finally, getting hungrier and hungrier, he came at last to a dead
pine tree on a steep mountain. And on a dirty, untidy platform
made of sticks loosely put together, he saw two ugly, half-naked
fledglings with scrawny necks and beaks that seemed larger than
their heads.
* Gracias a Dios,' said the Hawk, who was a very pious fellow, 'I
can eat these without a quiver of conscience!'
So he did. And the Senora Raven, flying home later, found noth-
ing but scattered sticks, two beaks, and a couple of tail feathers.
In anguish and fury she went rushing to find the Senor Hawk and
accused him of base treachery and falsehood.
'My babies in the pine tree! ' she moaned; 'my beautiful, beauti-
ful babies!'
'What!' cried the astounded Hawk, 'those ugly things?'
The Senora Raven^drew herself up, every feather quivering with
rage.
'Senor,' she said in a shaking voice, *I might have forgiven you
for eating my children. But calling them ugly, I will never, never
forgive ! '
Neither did she. Her white feathers turned black with sorrow,
and she still wears mourning for her precious babies, who in her
eyes were the most beautiful in the world!
It was possible to go from Mazatlan over to the coconut grove in
a launch. But Mary and I preferred doing it the native way, in a
COCONUTS AND LEGENDS ,85
dugout canoe with a pleasant-faced peon wielding the paddle that
sent our narrow craft skimming across the blue stillness of the water.
I was very anxious to get a motion picture, with my sixteen
millimeter camera, of a small boy climbing a coconut palm. After a
good deal of haggling with the youngsters on the beach, we engaged
Julio, aged ten, and his younger brother, Chato, aged four.
Julio was a thin-faced little boy with enormous black eyes, and
a wardrobe that consisted of a pair of white cotton pants and a
pair of suspenders. Chato was little and round, with curly brown
hair, and his pants had no suspenders. They kept threatening to
slip, and were saved only from so doing by the rotundity of his
small stomach.
At firs V I could only think of my camera and the picture I was
going,to get. But when Julio's thin little pipestem legs went up out
of my vision along the smooth bare trunk of the coco palm and he
climbed higher and higher, his tumed-in toes gripping the bark with
a technique almost simian, I began to realize that for fif ty centavos
I had sent a child to what might be disaster.
He went up, and still up. I got panicky, and tried to think of the
Spanish command for ' Come down/
'Subate! Subate!' I called.
He turned, looked down on me from a tremendous height and
kept on climbing.
'I think,' said Mary nervously, 'that you told him to go on up!'
I fumbled for my dictionary. By the time I had found the right
verb, Julio had reached the swaying top of the coco palm, and
seemed no larger than one of the clinging nuts. He reached out, got
a precarious hold on one of them, while I managed to enunciate,
'Bajate! Bajate!' 1
'Si, Senora,' he called down patiently, and went on twisting the
tough stem, no doubt thinking it was the coconut I wanted to
'Come down.'
By the time he had hurled the large coconut earthward, and had
slid down himself, I was in a perspiration. And although little
Chato wanted to do his share of palm climbing for the promised re-
ward, I got my verbs well in hand, and allowed him to go only a
few feet upward.
i Bah'lia-tay!
86 GRINGA
Then I gave both boys fifty centavos apiece. They disappeared
with loud whoops towards a palm-thatched store on the beach;
while Mary and I wandered around in that shadow-mottled, trop-
ical forest that seemed to be composed of mammoth tent poles sup-
porting a rustling green ceiling.
We did not see our young friends again for two or three hours.
And when we did, we realized fully the curse of sudden wealth.
Only a pair of foolish Gringas would give two small boys fifty
centavos apiece to squander recklessly and recklessly is what I
mean. They had each bought the maximum amount of poisonous-
looking magenta candies, and had eaten the whole nauseatingly
sweet mess! Chato's small round stomach was distended like an in-
flated balloon. He was howling lustily. And although Julio was
not crying, he looked most peculiar as well as uncomfortable, with
a vivid cerise color around the lower part of his face, and I felt that
if he and his magenta dulces had not already parted company, it
would not be long until they did.
Julio said, rather dully, that he was afraid to go home. His
Mamacita would beat him for not bringing the money to her. I
could see reason in that, but still it seemed only decent to go along
with Mm as a kind of bodyguard, and try to explain that it was
really our fault.
So we did. Chato continued to howl, and Julio parted with at
least thirty centavos' worth of magenta poison on the way. A few
fishermen and coconut-pickers regarded our progress with laughter
and murmured comment. They seemed not at all concerned by
the distress of the little boys, and thought our anxiety very funny.
When we arrived at last at Julio's home, we found his Mamacita
was no female ogre such as he had pictured. She was a young,
brown-eyed Indian Madonna, black-haired, barefooted, and with a
blue rebozo wrapped about her head and shoulders in the artless
folds that elsewhere would mean studied preparation, but which
Mexican women achieve with a careless flip of the wrist.
She received the woe-begone Julio and the sobbing little Chato
with amused tenderness. But even in the midst of listening to their
incoherent stories of how it all happened, she did not forget her
manners.
'Come in, Senoras,' she said graciously, 'this is your house/
COCONUTS AND LEGENDS 87
We entered into a humble little place indeed, the home of a peon
who made a precarious living by climbing the coco palms and bring-
ing down the coconuts for something like two cents apiece.
There was only one room. The floor was of pounded earth; the
walls were bamboo poles stuck upright in the ground, and lashed to-
gether with hand-made rope. The roof was of palm thatch, and the
'furniture' consisted of the usual charcoal pot with its clay comal,
two or three woven mats, a broom made of twigs tied together, a
half-dozen pottery cups and bowls, and a tiny colored picture of the
Virgin, before which a lighted wick floated in a coconut shell filled
with its own oil.
We apologized for the squandered money but the young mo-
ther only smiled gently.
*0h, no, Senora, you gave them happiness. It is not your fault
that they are little pigs.'
And she commenced placidly to pat out moist corn paste into
tortillas.
I tried to think of some way in which I could offer her a gift.
Remembering Josefina and her fund of folk-tales gave me an idea.
* Perhaps you know a little story you could tell us,' I said ea-
gerly. 'Something like../ and then I related, as best I could, the
legend of the Senora and the Senor Hawk.
She listened intently, sliding the flattened tortillas expertly onto
the glazed platter of the comal, and filling the little hut with an
inviting popcorny fragrance. The glow of the charcoal flushed her
brown cheeks with rosy light.
*I could tell you the story of Pajaro Cu,' l she said tentatively,
and Chato forgot his pain and raised himself from the mat where he
had thrown himself face downward.
*0h, yes, Mamacita!' his shrill little voice piped up excitedly,
'tell us about why the owl says "Cul Cu!'"
At that, I remembered how a teacher in one of the primary
grades of a school in San Diego told me that her small Mexican
pupils always insisted that it was not the pigeon who says ' Coo, coo,*
it is Tecolote, 2 the owl. The teacher wondered, rather bewilderedly,
if little Mexican children were deficient in sorting out sounds. I
told her I thought not. But it was not until that evening in the
* Pah'hali-ro Coo. 2 Tec-o-lo'tay.
88 GRINGA
lengthening shadows of the coconut grove of Mazatlan that I
understood fully why the little brown-faced ninos insist on their
version of the owl's call. The story that the young Indian Madonna
told us that evening explains it.
'Pajaro Cu' is the pet name for the tropical pigeon. Evidently
he has plumage of brilliant colors, quite unlike that of his dull
northern cousin. Yet there was a time, said the young mother,
when he was colorless and not at all beautiful. He came to every
council that the birds held, always complaining in loud and mourn-
ful tones that it was unjust for him to be so ugly.
'Look at the cardinal,' he moaned. 'He is as red as fire! See
how the humming-bird glistens! Only look at the rose-colored
flamingo and the flame-crested macaw! Of all the birds, I am alone
without beauty!'
The eagle, who was the Jefe of the birds, said wearily,
* But what can we do about it, Pajaro Cu? We cannot help what
we are, asi es la vida! (That is life!) But perhaps Tecolote the owl
can think of some way to help you. What do you say, oh, bird of
wisdom?'
Now Tecolote the owl wasn't really so wise, but he had acquired
a reputation merely by saying nothing, and blinking his eyes as if
he knew everything worth knowing. Thus called upon for advice,
he answered pompously,
*If each bird here gave Pajaro Cu one feather, then he would
have the beauty of them all, and no one would miss such a small
amount of plumage.'
The silly pigeon thought that a wonderful idea. But the other
birds chattered angrily.
'What has Pajaro Cu done for us that we should each give him
one of our lovely feathers?'
The owl thought deeply for a moment. Then he said weightily,
'We have always needed a messenger to do our errands for us.
Pajaro Cu, if everyone here gives you a feather, will you serve us
faithfully ?'
'Oh, yes!' cried the overjoyed pigeon.
So each bird plucked out a select feather and bestowed it upon
him. When they had finished, he was garbed in rainbow raiment.
He had in his plumage the colors of earth, and sky, and water.
COCONUTS AND LEGENDS 89
But it was not in Ms shallow nature to remember a promise that
involved any work. Instead of remaining in sight where the birds
could find Mm when they wanted Mm to go on an errand, he hid
himself deep in the jungle where there was a limpid pool of water,
He spent Ms entire time looking at Ms reflection in the water and
preening Mmself, saying over and over, 'Ay, que bonito soy! Que
bonito soy!' (How pretty I am!)
The birds got angrier and angrier. Since they could not find
Pajaro Cu, they attacked Tecolote the owl, and tried to pick out
Ms eyes. They abused Mm so that he was afraid to come out in the
daytime.
And that is why he waits 'til night time to venture forth, when all
the other birds have gone to sleep.
Poor old Tecolote! He was not so very wise after all. He still
thinks that Pajaro Cu misunderstood the bargain, and that every-
tMng will be made right if he can only find Mm. So he goes through
the night mournfully calling, ' Cu! Cu!' But the silly pigeon never
answers.
The young mother sang us a little song that is as old as the Con-
quest of Mexico perhaps as old as Mexico itself. For the word
'Tecolote' is not Spanish, it is Aztec. And it is said that tMs lul-
laby was first sung to brown Indian cMldren in an ancient tongue,
long before the wMte man knew of the land of Mexitili. 1
1 'The Story of Pajaro Cu,' in Good Housekeeping.
Tecolote, donde vienes?
Tecolote, donde vienes?
(Owl, where do you come from?)
Yo vengo del Colorido . . . ay!
(I come from the Colorido.)
Cu-cu-ri cu, cu, cu,
Cu-cu-ri cu, cu, cu,
Pobrecito animalito,
(Poor little animal,)
Buscas, lloras,
(You search, you weep,)
Tecolotito, ay I
(Little Owl!)
X. AT
WE WERE glad, and yet a bit sorry, to see the Washington again.
We felt that our Mexican adventure had just started. There were
so many interesting things and places ahead. We were reluctant to
leave beautiful Mazatlan and the friends we had made there
yes, we were even soft enough to regret our cool, beautiful room at
the Hotel Belmar, overlooking the blue Pacific, and the shining
white of the sandy beach.
However, getting back to the narrow, smelly decks of the little
Mexican freighter had all the excitement of homecoming about it.
Everyone was so delighted to see us and to tell us everything that
had happened. A new dog had come aboard at some port, and
Popi had resented the interloper. They had fought to an ex-
hausted draw. Now Popi held the rear portion of the ship, and
the new dog (a dirty white mongrel whom we named 'Blanco' be-
cause he was anything but) assumed control over the forward decks
as far as the galley door.
My old friend of the engine-room described graphically an under-
water biting match between two sharks, and wanted me to put it
in a book; while my English student had distinguished himself by
getting drunk at two ports and had to be carried aboard.
Perrico the parrot was apathetic about our return. By that time
he thought he belonged to Chato, and resented Mary's efforts to re-
establish her ownership of him. He had increased his vocabulary
somewhat a mumble of what we suspected were very dirty
words. But since everyone was too polite to tell us what they
meant, and he didn't say them very plainly anyway, we let it pass
without comment.
Five days later we came into the port of Manzanillo, farther
down the west coast, and said Adios to the Washington for good.
We were amazed to realize how attached we had become to its
grimy, hospitable personality, and it was a wrench to say good-bye
to our friends of the crew. And as for the dear old man of the engine-
room he went ashore early that morning and didn't come back
until after we had gone. He left with little Alesandro, the steward,
THREE HORSEMEN AT MIDNIGHT 91
a small packet for me. It contained eleven small but Yery beautiful
pearls.
Getting into Mexico is not at all difficult. Indeed it is surpris-
ingly simple for a country that is so keen about form and ceremony.
N6 passport is necessary. You have a tourist card made out by the
nearest Mexican Consul, for which you pay one dollar. That is all
that is necessary for six months' residence in Mexico, but if you
stay longer, you must re-register with the proper authorities.
Since such regulations may change, however, from time to time, it
is well to check up on the very latest requirements. Customs
officials in Mexico are usually courteous and helpful. They seem to
be actually glad that you are going to visit their country!
There may be filthier places in the world than Manzanillo, but I
have not yet seen them* Its natural setting is superb. Tall, gaunt
hills surround the amphitheater in which the town sits like an un-
washed martyr, awaiting a lion who isn't too particular about
getting dirt in his teeth.
After Mazatlan and the other picturesque towns we had visited,
Manzanillo was a shock. When we saw the good old S.S. Washing-
ton heave up her anchor and go steaming out into the wide expanse
of the Pacific Ocean, we knew how mutinous seamen must have
felt when they were marooned on a desert island. The daily train
had gone. We had to stay overnight. And when we looked the
hotel situation over, we wondered if the beach wouldn't be the
nicest place.
There were two hotels, and the only difference between them was
that one was dirtier than the other but not much. Mary was not
at all well, and the terrific heat made her feel even worse. So we
finally made a choice of the two hostelries, and tried to be as
pleasant about the next twenty-four hours as possible.
Our room had two beds in it, but neither one had mattresses.
The Chinese proprietor explained that he had removed them be-
cause they had bugs in them. What he had not removed, however,
was the bugs. They remained, crawling over the walls, the frame-
work of the beds, and the mosquito nettings. We went out and
bought some insect powder, not without difficulty, as it did not
seem to be in my polite Castilian dictionary. We dusted every-
thing as thoroughly as possible, and went downstairs to a meal as
92 GRINGA
unappetizing as the tablecloth was foul. Even Perrlco drooped,
and sat silently with ruffled feathers.
We tried to take our minds off the hours we would have to spend
in alleged sleep by walking around the town. The streets were nar-
row, unpaved, inexpressibly filthy. Saloons dominated the com-
merce, and we noticed that the natives here seemed sullen and evil-
eyed. Many of them were drunk. Mary and I were warned by a
pleasant-looking German not to go out alone at night.
Even so, we heard a grand story about Manzanillo in the time of
the Revolution. It was almost worth the twenty-four hours' so-
journ.
It seems that Manzanillo, being a seaport, was important to all
factions I cannot imagine anyone wanting it for anything else!
so that for a while it was in a state of siege. The attackers camped
on the surrounding hills and bombarded the town below.
This, however, was not as deadly as it sounds, since they rarely
had much ammunition, and Mexican marksmanship is only danger-
ous if you are an innocent bystander. If no one is shooting at you,
you are very likely to get shot.
There was a well-established hour for the bombardment. It
commenced at three o'clock just at the finish of the siesta, con-
tinued for an hour, and stopped. During that time the inhabitants
would stay inside their houses, close the heavy wooden shutters and
the doors and that would be that. Outside of a few holes dug in
the streets and a few adobe bricks knocked down, no damage was
done.
One day at the usual hour there was complete silence on the sur-
rounding Mils. The residents, having become accustomed to the
regularity of roaring cannons and spitting bullets, were uneasy and
worried. What in the world could be wrong with the enemy?
Half an hour later, down the main street wandered a small woolly
burro, with a tinkling bell attached to his neck. He also bore a
placard strapped around his middle. And as he stopped to graze
here and there, the inhabitants of Manzanillo, peeping from behind
barred shutters, saw what was written thereon. In extremely
polite phrases the dwellers of the town were notified that the Gen-
eral of the besieging force was having a birthday ; in honor of which,
there would be no bombardment that afternoon.
THREE HORSEMEN AT MIDNIGHT 93
Not to be outdone in civility, the Presidente Municipal sent back
word that the General's health would be drunk with ceremony that
evening. Happy birthday!
The night we endured in the hotel was one of those things that
would undoubtedly furnish amusing reminiscences a year later, but
which at the time was not so awfully funny. The mattressless beds,
the swarming of sturdy vermin that lived through the application
of insect powder, the large holes in the nets through which came a
horde of carnivorous mosquitoes, will give you an idea of what I
mean.
The partitions were paper-thin, and an ugly brawl started in the
room next door that threatened several times to break through the
wall and come on into our bailiwick. Mary was feeling sicker. In
any other place, I would have gone out to get a doctor for her. But
she insisted that she'd rather do without medical attention than be
left alone in that room with the prospect of the fight bursting in at
any moment.
The next day, in a rather groggy frame of mind, we took a train
at fifteen o'clock (three P.M.) and set out for Colima, the halfway
stop on the road to Guadalajara. 1 This time Perrico was with us in
the ' First-Class' coach, and regaled the various passengers at in-
tervals by murmuring some of the more obscene phrases of his
vocabulary. We tried to shush him by giving him big green pods of
guamuchil nuts, which are really beans, and for which parrots have
a yearning that amounts almost to an obsession.
Somehow we thought that the Mexico we had seen was represent-
ative of all the country: barren hills, cactus, dusty deserts, tremen-
dous spaces made fertile only by irrigation. How wrong we were!
When we left Manzanillo, we plunged straightway into wild, trop-
ical jungle country, breath-taking in its tangled, primitive beauty.
Oor little train on its narrow-gauge track crept across bridges
that spanned vast arroyos and deep canyons. It threaded its smoky
way through a green world of great plumy ferns, and vines that
hung in lacy portieres from interlaced branches of tall dark trees.
Parrots flew up in chattering swarms like green ashes disturbed by
a breeze. Every little while we caught a glimpse of scarlet orchids,
erect as windless candle flames, in the crotches of vine-smothered
1 Waii-dah-lah-liah'rah.
94 GR1NGA
trees. Here and there a shattered rainbow disengaged itself from the
thick greenery and became a gorgeous macaw with all the coloring
of the legendary Pajaro Cu.
Now and then a tiny village would appear suddenly in the midst
of the riotous jungle growth. A cluster of white adobe houses roofed
with the red tiles that Spanish priests had taught the Indians of
Mexico to make; each humble casita with its adjacent patch of corn
and beans and squashes. We began to see more variety in the gar-
ments of the people. The women wore combinations of magenta
blouses and blue skirts, and the Indians, riding past on burros,
carried folded sarapes that seemed to have got their idea of adorn-
ment from the brilliance of the macaws' plumage.
And Colima whenever I think of it, I think of color; so bewil-
dering, so polychrome, so gloriously defiant of all that we Nordics
regard as ' good taste/ that I can still feel that curious sensation in
the pit of my stomach that was like the punch of a fist.
In Colima, Dame Nature has never heard that certain colors
*go together' and that others do not. She has scraped everything
off her palette here without worrying about 'tone values' and
'composition.' The result is a terrific, marvelous melange that
fairly shouts aloud with joyous, barbaric abandon.
The window-shutters and doorways of the adobe houses are
painted with blue and violet, the walls with rose and purple and
green. Above and around them flourish tropical palms, and
fringed banana plants with swinging, upside-down bunches of
green fruit. The tavacbin trees are ablaze with coral-colored torches,
and purple bougainvillea is stamped in royal filigree over the red-
tiled roofs. Mango trees droop with their thick yellow blobs, and
from every patio comes the intoxicating fragrance of jasmine and
sun-distilled roses.
The station faces a tiny plaza where a fountain throws up a
weak silvery plume, and placid-faced Mexican women, wearing
blue rebozos, come with large brown jars called ollas l to dip up the
water. The platform is alive with color and motion. Shout-
ing vendors hurry along, pausing at the train windows to offer
trays of dulces, pineapples, coconuts, and cooked foods. Tall,
black-eyed men in peaked sombreros stroll in groups or lounge in
* O'yahs.
THREE HORSEMEN AT MIDNIGHT 95
the slate-gray shadows of the station. Their long white cotton
calzones are bound at the ankles with fiber, and their brown feet
are shod in native sandals. Most of them, despite the heat of the
day, carry crimson sarapes against the coining of the ' poisonous '
night air.
Old women squat unblinking and expressionless, with a bevy of
corn-husk dolls around them. In this town, the tourists * specialty,'
as it were, is the making of interesting little pigmy people out of
corn husks. They are wonderfully real, these munecas de hojas, 1
with their painted faces, corn-silk hair, and tiny panniers of mes-
quite wood, containing vivid pink candies.
And beyond the brazen heat and clamoring color of the town,
the grim old volcano Colima lifts its conical head, smoke drifting
from its summit as from the pouched mouth of a baboon. That is
where the god Colima lives, who is an angry giant, and sometimes
revenges himself for fancied grievances by belching forth smoke
and lava and red-hot cinders.
The little corn-husk dolls were originally made by the Indians as
effigies of human beings, to throw into the molten lava streams as
propitiating sacrifices to the dangerous deity. Now, however, the
custom has lapsed. But from it I got another legend, called 'The
Angry God and the People of Corn.' 2
I was so completely enamored with the unexpected beauty of the
town that I decided to stop off for two or three days. But Mary,
with an intuition perhaps of what was to happen to her, decided to
go on the next day. She was so ill that it was an effort for her to
move or to enjoy the unusual aspect of the place. She looked
forward to the cooler climate of Guadalajara, in a higher altitude.
That afternoon, however 5/ she became the unwilling heroine of one
of those typically Mexican situations which a man wouldn't mind
at all, but which subjects a feminine traveler to a shock of embar-
rassment at least for the first time.
The Hotel Carabanchel was one of those palatial old houses
that in colonial times had probably belonged to some high dignitary
of Church or State. The rooms were massive, each one with its
separate balcony, and the patio was a small paradise for flowers
and parrots and singing birds.
1 Moon-yay'cahs day o'hahs. * Good Housekeeping.
96 GRINGA
Despite Its advanced years, it was advertised by the proprietor
as being strictly up to date because of its American bathtub. An
excusado (toilet) was also mentioned in the advertisement with
proud candor. We were to find that, except in the big cities, the
possession of a modern bathroom with real plumbing was considered
the last word in luxury.
While Mary got fresh lingerie and bath powder and towels
together preparatory to taking a shower, I went downstairs at her
request to find the location of what we would call in the States the
'bathroom.'
I couldn't find any of my own sex about, so I penetrated to the
kitchen, where a fat, good-natured cocinera was plucking a chicken
for dinner.
I asked her in the low, guarded tones, where the ladies' excusado
was. And she, lifting her voice in a piercing call, shrilled to a mozo
in the patio,
Tepe! La Senora quiere el excusado!'
It seems there was only one. Pepe, an Indian boy, came running.
'The excusado? This way, Senora!'
By that time Mary appeared, her arms filled with clean clothes
and bath appurtenances, looking rather startled when she saw my
masculine escort.
Pepe tried the door of a room that opened on the patio, but it
was locked from inside. He shook the knob vigorously.
'Who is in there?' he called. *A lady wants to come in!'
A muffled voice answered from within.
Pepe made an impatient sound.
'Well, but hurry, hombreF
Mary and I stood at a discreet distance, feeling a warm red be-
ginning to singe our ears. No tiptoed withdrawal was possible.
For in another moment the portly proprietor arrived on the scene,
much worried about the situation, then the waiter emerged from
somewhere, followed by a couple of boys who acted as camereros.
They all grouped around the closed door, working themselves up
into a frenzy of indignation, interspersed with peremptory pound-
ings on the door. The cook, with her half-plucked fowl, joined the
crowd and added her shrill voice to the medley of sounds.
At long last, the door opened slowly. The portly proprietor
THREE HORSEMEN AT MIDNIGHT 97
swelled up like a turkey cock, ready to vent Ms wrath on whatever
inconsiderate person was holding up a lady guest and out came
a small, scared little Mexican boy, still hitching his suspenders
over his shoulders. He shrunk in size almost visibly under the
scathing barrage of words flung at him by the assembled group.
'I couldn't help it,' he quavered, close to tears. 'Mamacita gave
me a purga!' (Laxative.)
A couple of the boys continued to berate him, dramatically point-
ing at Mary, just to make him feel worse. But the proprietor flung
wide the door, bowed gallantly to Mary and with a triumphant
'AhoraF (Now!) he stalked in ahead of her, pointed out the bath,
the shower, the toilet, and finally withdrew, with more bows
to a dull red glow that had as its core a lady from Hollywood.
Mexico teaches you to forget about many puritanical repressions
that you learned at your mother's knee. Inside a month, I was
accepting effervescent laxatives offered by hospitable gentlemen,
and had learned not to gasp when one of them asked to be excused
for a minute, please, as he had taken a purga that morning. In time
it gives you the comfortable realization that bodily functions are
considered in Mexico as natural and inevitable. You do not have
to pretend that the human physique ends at the waist.
Mary went on to Guadalajara the next day. I remained, having
a wonderful time riding in a street car drawn by two sturdy mules,
and getting acquainted with a little dressmaker who took me to her
house and fed me with delicious chiles rellenos (stuffed chilis)
and fried black beans. I also visited a huerta, 1 or garden-orchard,
where pineapples, bananas, and coconuts were growing in effortless
profusion.
That night the little plaza by the station flared with kerosene
torches, girdling the darkness with plaques of tarnished gold. I
saw for the first time the paseo as it used to be observed in all
Mexican towns or cities. Under the ruffled swaying of the lights
a group of strolling musicians called mariaches 2 were singing and
playing. Their soft voices trailed through the jasmine-fragrant air
plaintive and almost unbearably sweet.
The paseo is another of those 'old Spanish customs' that began
in Spain and have been carried on ever since in Mexico. The men
i Wer'tah. 2 Mah-ree-ah'chays.
98 GRINGA
walk around the plaza in one direction, and the girls, in giggling
twos and threes, walk in the other. They may smile at each other in
passing and exchange a bantering word or two, but never stop to
talk. The married couples sit on benches near-by, kindly but
watchful chaperons. Small children sleep on the bare ground, or
play at bull-fighting, or wander happily about through the crowd.
Two hours of this, and the paseo is officially over for the evening.
There was plenty of caste here. The peons who wore sandals
were a cut above those who did not; the possessors of shoes were
even more aristocratic; while the middle classes, those who dressed
in the American fashion, gazed with supercilious good humor at their
humble compadres.
There was a little merry-go-round near the fountain, with bright
blue caballitos (little horses) that went round and round urged by
the 'horse-power' of one small woolly burro. The music was fur-
nished by the obliging mariaches. The fee per ride was one centavo,
I walked back to the hotel that night through darkness that had
jasmine fragrance clinging to it. The blue-green fireflies of the
tropics winked like friendly eyes. I felt at peace with all the world;
completely saturated with glamour and beauty and peace.
I awoke at midnight suddenly. It was as if a whole arsenal
were being blown up, cannon by cannon, not more than two or
three blocks away, amid an infernal din of huge pans being beaten
with mallets. The open window of my second-story room began to
glow redly, as with false dawn.
Laugh if you like but I thought it was a revolution, and that
the church bells were sounding the alarm. I jumped out of bed and
went out on the balcony, peering anxiously down the street. The
sky above the plaza was red with a blaze that burned out the light
of the stars. There was a confused tumult and a shouting, punctu-
ated at intervals with rifle-shots, and the more frightening roar of
what seemed to be bursting bombs.
But there were no terrified people running about, and the hotel
itself was as silent within its great barred doors as a mummy in a
sarcophagus.
Then around the corner of the narrow thoroughfare three horse-
men came riding abreast. They were only silhouettes against the
lurid half-light that filtered down the street; but I could see the
THREE HORSEMEN AT MIDNIGHT 99
high cone of their sombreros, the folds of the sarapes flung across
their shoulders, and catch a glimpse of bridles that glinted with
silver. I could see also the menacing outline of long guns across the
saddle pommels.
They came slowly, hoofs clopping on the cobblestones, bridles
and spurs jingling musically. They went past their figures be-
came more sharply outlined under a weazened electric light at the
corner then they vanished into deep shadows.
That was all. The firing and the clanging and the * bursting
bombs' that were really skyrockets, continued for almost an
hour. Eventually, I went back to bed. And learned the next morn-
ing that all the fuss was merely a birthday celebration given at the
barracks by the soldiers in honor of their Comandante's birthday.
But I had had a thrill that I will not soon forget. Everything
was so peaceable yet there was a certain menace behind it.
It was like the slumbering volcano, Colima. It was like yes,
like Mexico. Always, there is a feel of something unexpected just
around the corner. The three horsemen may be Violence, and
Revolution, and Death. Or they may be, as they were that night,
peaceful riders under summer star si
XL A WISH COMES STRANGELY TRUE
IT ISN'T very often that a wish made at random comes so strictly
true that the desire and the fulfillment dovetail like the pieces of a
jigsaw puzzle. Mary had said, apropos of the nervousness and
irritability that had driven her from Hollywood, ' I wish I could
be in some place where I would have to " stay put ' ' for three or four
months ! '
Well she did 'stay put/ almost four months to the day, in a
hospital in Guadalajara!
When I arrived there, after a few days in Colima, she managed to
meet me at the train, but her face was flushed with fever, and she
was in such pain that I was alarmed. She had already called in an
American doctor, a dapper, delightful elderly person who always
looked like a walking fashion plate and who never made charges
for his services; he merely accepted whatever you wanted to give
him and passed it along to needy families. Dr. William Walker
did not actually wear a visible halo, but he was an angel, just the
same. Without him, I think Mary would have died.
I do not know the technical name for what was wrong with her,
but it was a dangerous internal condition that had been coming on
for several months, even before she left the States. The only
fortunate thing about it was that the climax was reached in Gua-
dalajara rather than well, in Manzanillo, for instance.
Mary had already chosen a hotel for us, the Cosmopolita, very
near the railway station* It was not as modern as some of the
others, and lacked running water in the rooms. But it was a huge,
rambling old building with wide, shady galleries enclosing the two
enormous patios. The rooms were cool, and spotlessly clean. The
food was a Mexican-German combination that*appealed to us both.
Mary did not have long to enjoy it, however. The day after I
arrived, she was too ill to sit up. Dr. Walker sent me a tall, gaunt-
faced mestiza girl who was one of the best nurses in town, but
whose background in comparison with that of trained nurses in
Anglo-Saxon countries was sadly deficient.
Almost before I knew the way from the hotel to the main plaza,
I was plunged into the necessity of learning medical Spanish. For
A WISH COMES STRANGELY TRUE 101
Dorotea, the nurse, depended on me to tell her when Mary's
temperature should be taken, what she should be given to eat, at
what time a hypodermic was necessary, and how often she should
be bathed.
The city was full of little drugstores 'Droguerfas,' and
'Farmacias' with bottles full of weird-looking powders and
herbs in the windows, but it was a problem to find plain, old-fash-
ioned witch-hazel! On Sundays only a few pharmacies stayed
open. It was necessary to look in the paper to find which ones were
delegated to do business that day.
Coming from a country where pharmacies deal in everything
from club sandwiches to cut-rate books and automobile accessories,
I was astonished to find that in Mexico drugstores sell nothing but
drugs! They mafe up for lack of variety, however, by the unex-
pectedness of some of their wares. The Mexican pharmacopeia
includes such things as live leeches, powdered vipers, and herbs
with ancient Aztec names.
You can get most of the well-known medicines of America and
Germany too, of course although, since the stock of any one
store is small, you may have to do quite a bit of shopping before
collecting everything you want.
Great emphasis is put on purgas: mild laxatives and strong
cathartics, as well as various stomach medicines. For despite their
ability to endure a great deal, Mexicans as a whole do not seem to
be healthy people. Judging from the medicines advertised on
startlingly frank posters depicting young manhood in the writhing
grip of a serpent marked 'Gonorrea 5 or 'Sifilis,' social diseases
are prevalent. Probably no more so than in other countries, but
they are called to your attention here. Mexicans have a way of
accepting conditions as they are, and see no reason for trying to
conceal either the cause or the cure.
Drugstores in Mexico surprise you too with their nice names.
You will find such colorful appellations as 'Farmacia Jesus, Maria,
y Todo La Santa Familia' (Pharmacy of Jesus, Mary, and all the
Holy Family). 'Flor de Salud' (Flower of Health) is another;
and one I particularly liked was ' Drogueria Digo " No " Al Muerte'
(I Say 'No' to Death).
The first few days were so occupied with sick-room problems
102 GRINGA
that my impressions of the place itself were a bit jumbled, and not
entirely pleasant Had I stayed there four days as planned, in-
stead of four months, I would have missed much; and I would
always have thought of Guadalajara as a bourgeois, second-rate
city, neither Mexican nor American, mixing the qualities of both
races in a confusing, unsatisfactory sort of way,
If you have shied away from that long name, you had better
face it now, as I will have to use it fairly often in the next few
chapters. Take It slowly, remembering that the Spanish a is always
pronounced softly, as in 'father/ and that j is sounded like h
' Wah-dah-lah-hah'-rah.' Or, if you really want to, you can shorten
it as many of the 'foreigners' there do, and call it 'Guad.'
In size, it rants second among Mexico's cities, has a population
of about 180,000, and is the capital of the State of Jalisco. 1 Its
climate is well-nigh perfect, since it has an altitude of almost six
thousand feet. It is never too hot, except in the middle of the day
when everyone takes a siesta anyhow, and it is never too cold.
There are winter months, but they are only used for celebrating
Christmas and other holidays in a tropical manner that has nothing
to do with sleighbells and frost and snowy skies.
It was founded in 1530, and named for the Moorish city in
Spain that was the birthplace of the Comandante Nuno de Guzman,
who conquered this region. It was settled by wealthy colonists,
many of them being nobles of Spain. And even today, after the
vicissitudes of the Revolution, the pride of race is very apparent
here.
There is a university that was founded when North America
was still a wilderness. There are beautiful plazas and jardines,
or public gardens, interspersed through the city. There are mu-
seums, churches adorned with rare old paintings and statues, and
lovely houses filled with colonial Spanish furniture. There are
people of such culture and refinement that in meeting them one has
a sense of stepping back into a more stately, grandiose age. That
is the Guadalajara that has survived from olden times.
There are also street cars and paved streets, thousands of auto-
mobiles whose drivers enjoy open cutouts, and honk lustily at
every intersection. There are cheap, tawdry houses of stucco,
* HaMee'skGk
A WISH COMES STRANGELY TRUE 103
motion-picture theaters, stores, radios, cheap saloons called
pulquerias, 1 millions of phonographs that shriek jazz from morning
until night. There are labor riots and several virulently political
newspapers, and an inchoate mass of people halfway between the
peon and the middle class who have an idea that to wear shoes
and factory-made overalls is to achieve complete civilization.
Those are some of the modern aspects.
The women of Guadalajara are justly famous for their beauty,
with creamy skins and gazelle-like eyes. Yet as seen on the street,
they are rather somber and melancholy looking. For many of them
dress entirely in black black dresses, black shoes and stockings,
black gloves; and their heads are covered with long black veils,
minus the high comb that Hollywood believes in. One of the rea-
sons for this is because mourning is worn not only for near and
distant relatives, but also for friends, and the relatives of Mends.
Mexicans take such obligations very seriously.
After a few weeks I learned that life there has as many facets as a
cut diamond. But in those first days I was curiously impressed
with two things; the city had somehow escaped its Mexican
moorings; and that, with a few exceptions, the American colony
had a very stand-offish way of regarding new arrivals.
It was Dr. Walker who explained the latter situation to me.
He came daily to see Mary professionally, and then spent an hour
with me smoking American cigarettes. We sat outside on the cool
shaded gallery, and Perrico amused himself by cEmbing up and
down the wrought-iron trellis.
* I am writing John that I don't care much for your town on
first acquaintance,' I told Mm one day.
He tilted his straw hat a little more debonairly over one ear and
tapped Ms cane reflectively on the tiled floor.
'Well, now, I'd wait a couple of days more to be sure about that.
TMs place takes a bit of knowing, and you have to get acquainted
gradually particularly with your own countrymen.' He looked
at me sharply, Ms blue eyes twinkling. 'Haven't asked anyone to
cash a check for you yet, have you?'
4 No, but '
'Well, don't,' he said positively, 'It's a darned queer thing,
1 Pool-kay-ree'ahs.
104 GRINGA
but Guad always seems to be a backwash for people who don't
want their real names known la the States. I have a whole collection
of worthless checks I've cashed all for nice-looking people too.
And as for Impostors, I've seen the weirdest things happen down
here. There was an Englishman, for Instance, who claimed to be
Lord Somebody or other ; he had papers and whatnots to prove it
even had a stiff finger that was a result of the Boer War. Believe
It or not, he turned the British Consul here out of his own office
and took over the reins. He made a fortune out of accepting
"contributions" from various merchants whom he promised to
help in the way of tariff laws. Well, he quietly disappeared, and
was next heard of in Cuba, roaring drunk, and talking with a
cockney accent. It was found out then that he was the real noble-
man's valet, who had taken his master's papers when he died, cut
the tendon of his own finger, and carried on the other's identity for
several years.'
I imagine that my face was quite pink. I actually had been
going to ask Dr. Walker to endorse a check for me, that very day!
I decided instead to take my identification to one of the banks, and
start an account.
Banking in Mexico is as simple and safe as in the United States.
You may be startled just at first when you cash a check for fifty
dollars to see the number of silver coins that are pushed out at you
through the teller's window, and you may wonder how on earth
you are expected to carry them. The usual way is in heavy canvas
bags; and since no one of quality carries any large parcel by hand,
the custom is to hire a mozo to take your wealth back to the hotel
for you. You may be even more astounded when you see open
coches being loaded with great bags of gold and silver from a bank
vault, to be transported perhaps across the city. Strangely enough,
there are very few cases of attempted bank robbery. Perhaps it is
because a thief who tried to steal a hundred pesos would find him-
self so weighted down by the silver that he could very easily be
overtaken and caught.
That night, Mary became delirious. Dr. Walker sent for a Swiss
surgeon; a cold, impersonal man, who said briefly that an interior
abscess had formed and that an operation would be necessary.
He recommended that I get Mary to a hospital at once.
A WISH COMES STRANGELY TRUE 105
There Is now a modem, thoroughly equipped hospital In Gua-
dalajara, one with the very latest scientific appliances. But at that
time, it was just being built. The only available place was a con-
vent, kept up by a nursing order of nuns. It was a building almost
as old as the Conquest. It had been built by Spanish nuns while
Cortes was still alive, and had a four-hundred-year record for
deeds of mercy that will surely make good reading on the books
of the Judgment Day.
like most Mexican edifices, it presented a stolid front to the
street. The long windows were iron-barred, and could be closely
shuttered. The great doors, studded with hand wrought iron
knobs, had more than once been flung shut against savage, uncon-
verted Indians; and later, in the days of the Revolution, against
sporadic looters.
But inside, it was a place of beauty and serenity. Rooms opened
onto a courtyard in which a fountain spurted up through a purple
carpet of water hyacinths. Beyond this was the chapel and to the
right and left, other patios, vivid with flowers, where convalescent
patients could be brought in wheel chairs to enjoy the sunshine
and the music of many caged birds.
A governmental decree had made these nuns' vocation in Mexico
illegal. However, the authorities blandly called the place a hospital
instead of a convent, and the sisters reciprocated by wearing ordi-
nary black clothes instead of the habits for their order. The sweep-
ing mandate against the Church had not yet been enforced. But
murmurs of it were in the air, and the nuns stayed closely within
the cloister walls.
Mary's room opened on one of the small patios. An ideal place in
many respects. The bed linen was always freshly laundered, the
nuns were assiduous and kindly in their care. Nevertheless there
were problems.
Mary spoke very little Spanish. And in her condition it was
very difficult to express her wants in a foreign language. I spent
several hours there with her every day, but the evenings were long,
and the nights must have been pretty terrible.
One morning, before visiting hours, I was called to the telephone.
The telephone system is by no means perfect in Mexico, so it was an
effort to understand the rapid, almost incoherent monologue at the
106 GR1NGA
other end of the line. But I understood enough to know that it
was the Mother Superior talking; I was to come at once. Dona
Maria was weeping.
When 1 arrived by taxi, the good sisters were as alarmed as
children about Mary's tears. They poured out an agitated tale of
woe. They could not seem to find out what she wanted to eat;
and every night before they left her, she said *No! No!' violently,
and made motions that they could not understand. Now she was
crying! I must tell them at once what was wrong.
Poor Mary! If she had been less the heroic Spartan, I would
have known days before what was wrong. But she had never so
much as hinted that she was not perfectly comfortable. She felt
terribly about my staying on in Guadalajara, although I had told
her over and over, that I was getting loads of material and found
time to do some writing every day. She never complained about
her own condition. But that morning her superb courage cracked
for the first time.
She was still crying when I came in ; a weak, pitiful whimper like
a child in distress. The tears ran down her cheeks unchecked.
I stopped in the doorway, realizing for the first time that the room
was unscreened. The flies were crawling all over the bed and over
her face and hands. She was so weak that she simply lay there,
sobbing jerkily, not even able to lift her hands to brush them away.
I sat down beside her and started fanning her perspiring face;
and the whole story came out, incoherently, bit by bit. The nuns
insisted on giving her three large meals a day with quantities of
meat and potatoes. She had tried to make them understand that
she wanted nothing but green vegetables and fruits. They had
assented readily, but had cooked the peas until they were like little
pebbles and had brought her strawberries with sour cream. Also,
she was badly in need of a laxative. She tried to ask for mineral oil
but they had no idea what she was talking about.
Worst of all were the flies; and the fact that the room was closed
up every night so that it was as nearly airtight as possible. Her
violent motions had been gestures indicating that she wanted the
door and the windows left open. The gentle sisters didn't under-
stand; because, of course, everyone knows that the night air is
poisonous even Americans must know that much!
A WISH COMES STRANGELY TRUE 107
Up to that time I had relied on the Swiss surgeon, who now
had full charge of Mary's case. But he was as cold as Dr. Walker
was warm-hearted. He told me directly and brutally, that Mary
would probably die anyway; that in her weakened condition she
had only a thousand to one chance of surviving the approaching
operation. I gathered that to Mm it didn't matter whether her
diet was regulated or not. He was only interested in being certain
that he would get his fee for his services.
So I, having been given carte blanche by the nuns, went to the
market every day to purchase green vegetables.
The mercado is a large wooden structure that occupies an entire
block. Inside, sections are set aside for various commodities, but
outside, nature is allowed to take its course.
The interior stalls are arranged along narrow aisles surely
not for the convenience of shoppers; more probably so that the
vendors can chat cozily back and forth without having to raise
their voices.
It was my first -view of the way meat is exhibited for sale, and I
must admit it almost induced me to become a vegetarian. For there
are no fancy partitionings of a Mexican beef into chops and filets
and steaks. Apparently he is simply cut up by the butcher begin-
ning at the tail and whacking off every six inches or so. The result-
ing hunks are none too appetizing in appearance.
There are booths where nothing but Indian-made chairs of
cowhide and mesquite wood are sold; booths filled with daisies
and fragrant tuberoses; booths for dry goods, jewelry novelties,
ice-cream cones, and atole.
I came here daily to do my c hospital shopping.' I could buy
a handful of shelled peas for five centavos, crisp lettuce and spinach,
small but delicious avocados. There were tropical fruits of all
kinds, and the most flavorsome pineapples and strawberries that I
have ever eaten.
I was regarded with surprise by the market women, who watched
me furtively from the shadow of their blue rebozos. No lady of the
genie decente (decent class) does her household buying unaccom-
panied by a mozo to carry her purchases. I learned after a while
that I could actually get better bargains by hiring a boy for ten
centavos to come behind me with a market-basket balanced non-
108 ^ GRINGA
chalantly on Ms head, and so carry my vegetables to the convent
kitchen.
In the Mg, thick-walled coclna of the convent hospital I learned
to cook in the Mexican way, using charcoal instead of wood, gas,
or electricity. The stove was an enormous affair of beautifully
glazed Talavera tiles; and like the huge oven that once had baked
pastries for a hundred nuns, was built into the wall, so that it was a
part of the room. The compartments are separate from each other,
so that there is no need of heating the entire surface when only one
hole is needed. The charcoal is ignited by bits of resinous pine
wood, and makes a clear, steady heat that is easily managed.
One whole side of the great kitchen wall was hung with cooking
utensils, aH made of brown glazed pottery. For although iron
skilleis, aluminum, and enamel ware are used in the homes of
many foreigners, the average Mexican cook still prefers the feel
of the cool, brittle casuelas 1 that her Indian ancestors used hun-
dreds of years ago,
I soon found out why the peas had been so tough. The nuns had
been boiling them in a quart or two of water, for at least an hour!
The sour cream, too, was finally explained. Dona Maria desired
strawberries with crema. Now, according to the dictionary, the
word crema means 'cream,* and does in other parts of Mexico.
But here, a localism made it 'sour cream/ What Mary really
wanted and got as soon as the misunderstanding was rectified
was gordo de la leche, fat of the milk.
The one thing impossible to buy was fresh butter. I had noticed
on the boat tins of a very artificial yellow substance that was labeled
* Danish Butter.' The taste was not appetizing, and I had taken
It for granted that it was only to be considered as a substitute
until we reached some certain point in our journey. We soon dis-
covered, however, that fresh butter in Mexico is almost non-exist-
ent. In a country where millions of cattle are raised and where
milk is usually obtainable, the by-products seem to have been
totally disregarded. Personally, I did not mind it. I found the
Mexican substitute guacamole very delicious. It is made of mashed-
up avocados, chopped onion, olive oil, and a dash of chile powder.
I bought many yards of mosquito netting, and the sisters made a
1 Cah-soo-ay'lafis.
A WISH COMES STRANGELY TRUE * 109
pavilion that covered the bed, and ended the torture of the crawling
flies. But the matter of door and windows being kept open at
night was not so easily managed. The nuns fought the idea vehe-
mently.
Did I wish Dona Maria to be 'poisoned* by the bad night air?
It was very dangerous ! It must be kept out !
I finally won by insisting over and over, much as Perrico might
have done, *But really, it will be all right. It Is the custom of our
country!'
They finally gave up. The argument was considered valid,
although they had many sorrowful things to say about the probable
results of exposing her to el malo de la noche (the evil of the night).
The day before Mary was operated on, I passed the chapel,
and saw the sisters at prayer, kneeling on the brown-tiled floor
that has become scooped out in spots by the supplicating knees of
four centuries of devotion. One of the nuns made a gesture of
'wait/ and came to the door. Her dark eyes were big and earnest
and she carried a rosary in her hand.
'You are not a Catholic, Dona Emilia?*
* No, but I like the religion very much/
* Would you not wish to burn a candle for Dona Maria's recovery?
The Senor Doctor says she may not live through the operation.
We are praying for her now.*
I went in silently through the group of kneeling nuns and put
a lighted candle under the radiant image of Our Lady of Guadalupe.
Then I, too, knelt with them for a moment. And when I came out
from the cool, incense-permeated chapel into the blinding light of
the sun, I had a deep conviction that Mary would pull through.
Those kindly, warm-hearted nuns may not have been expert
dietitians, but their goodness and faith went far beyond mundane
things until it touched the very hand of God.
XII. IS
MABY lived through the ordeal, but Death had stood very close
beside her. It became apparent within a few weeks that another
operation would be necessary; and despite the faith of the nuns, 1
was panicky with fear. She could scarcely speak. And her limbs
were so emaciated that they were like long dangling strings. Yet
she could still joke about them!
* I've lost my Mexican sex appeal,' she whispered one day. * Gen-
eral Obregon will never look at me again ! '
It was during those trying days that I learned how charming
people in Guadalajara could be. I was ashamed of my first snap
judgment. For just as soon as it was established that Mary was
really ill, and that I was who I said I was (not having asked any-
body to cash a check), the American families opened their hearts
and homes to us both. I was invited to all kinds of festivities, and
taken to many Mexican weddings and christenings and dances;
while Mary was visited and given all sorts of dainties that might
tempt her appetite.
Gratefully I remember the hospitable family of Dr. Purnefl, an
American dentist. He with his wife, two charming daughters, and
a son, had lived for many years in Guadalajara. They knew
Mexico's faults to the core. Yet they only wanted to go to the
United States for occasional visits. The fascination of that complex,
colorful land always called them back.
They told me there would soon be a gubernatorial election.
'Watch it/ they advised; 'it's the greatest comedy in the world
when it doesn't turn into tragedy.'
Most of the servants at the hotel were ardent 'Laboristas/
and were going to vote for Senor R, the 'people's friend.' A few
of them suspected of snobbery favored the governmental can-
didate, Doctor M, who also proclaimed himself to be 'the people's
friend 1 i
There were flaming posters all over town. Bands played nightly
in the plaza, subsidized first by one candidate, then the other.
The factional newspapers dusted off their choicest political epithets
and hurled them stinging and smoking into the rival camps. And
GOD IS TAKEN AWAY 111
for good strong adjectives, goaianteedTto knock the ground out
from any but another Mexican adjective, I can recommend the
brand used in Guadalajara. They are composed of chile and brim-
stone in equal quantities, with a dash of vitriol for sweetening.
I was sitting in my cool, delightful room at the Cosmopolita-
one afternoon, writing of all things a Christmas story! I
was just in the midst of stars, and snow, and peace on earth, when
all of a sudden 'Bang! Bang!' came the spitting explosion of
bullets directly under my window.
I jumped up and rushed out on the balcony. The street below
was a frightened scramble of people running to cover. On the side-
walk, at a distance of not more than twenty yards apart, two men
were blazing away at each other with automatics. They were not
of the peon class. Both were well dressed obviously men of
position.
A laborer, huddled in a doorway, shouted up to me*
'Lie down, Senora, you will be killed!'
It seemed to me that I was in an extremely safe place, since the
duelists were aiming at each other and not at a second-story bal-
cony. It was only later, when they had emptied the contents of their
automatics, that I realized that I might have been in danger after
all. For neither of them was touched. But the adobe walls of a
near-by cantina had some of its pink plaster knocked off, a bullet
had gone into the upper reaches of a telephone pole breaking one of
the glass insulators, and a shredding branch of an acacia tree
showed where at least one of the shots had lodged.
Now that the guns were empty, the street filled up with people
as if a magician had tipped them out of his box: gesticulating men,
hysterical women, peons who left their baskets of wares and came
running to see what had happened. The street was a bedlam of
shouting voices ; and around each enraged combatant was a surging
group of friends. Amidst hats and sombreros I could see the wav-
ing arms and distorted faces of the two who had just tried to kill each
other. But little by little, the groups somehow got nearer together;
adherents of one and then the other would detach themselves and
rush over to the other tangled knot of arms and verbiage. In a few
minutes the rival clusters had merged. There was a confused
tumult of epithets, oratory, explanations and finally, of recon-
112 GRINGA
dilation. About the time that the small-sized policemen arrived,
bulging with six-shooters and importance, the erstwhile enemies
began pounding each other on die back, laughing and shouting.
The last I saw of them, they were going into the cantina, arm in
arm, followed by a crowd of adherents.
I asked Jose, the doorkeeper of the hotel, what it was all about.
He shrugged indifferently.
'Who knows, Senora just two politicos disputing../
r Well, that was comedy; a burlesque of politics and marksman-
ship, such as you might see on a stage. The next day, however, I
saw the other side of the violent, irrational game as it is played in
Mexico.
I was working on the same Christmas story the sweetness and
light having been considerably damaged by the ballistic interlude
and again I was startled by the sound of shots; this time from
the front of the hotel.
I arrived just in time to see the end of another vicious pistol
duel; another pair of enraged politicos standing on opposite sides of
the street, their leveled automatics still smoking. They had missed
each other completely. But in a doorway where he had tried to take
shelter lay a rotund, sprawling figure. It was a cargador, a porter,
a man who makes a hard-earned living by carrying trunks on his
back or delivering merchandise and furniture.
There he lay, dead, the innocent bystander, blood staining the
broad expanse of his white cotton shirt. His big straw sombrero
had fallen at a little distance from Mm. One hand was outstretched
towards it as if he had been trying to retrieve it.
The inevitable crowd gathered and the politicians disappeared.
From the high balcony where I stood, the thing seemed theatrical,
unreal. There was even a touch of grotesquerie in it, furnished by
the undersized policemen who came running up, and with little
whips flicked the bare legs of the peons, trying to clear a way for
the ambulance, which appeared with a furious clanging of bells.
It took a great many people to lift the dead cargador, for he was a
big man. Like ants tugging at a beetle they pulled and shoved.
It still wasn't real; death couldn't be like that, without dignity,
without reverence. And then a ragged little boy pushed his way
through the dense crowd.
GOD IS TAKEN AWAY 113
Tapacita! PapacitaP He screamed, * Nome dejas solo!' (Little
Papa, do not leave me alone!)
He flung himself with childish, abandon on the limp, blood-
spattered body. The police forced him away so that the corpse
could be put into the ambulance. I felt sick ; and turned to go in.
My camarera, Obtulia, standing in the doorway, was weeping.
'The poor little one! Now he is an orphan. His mother died
only three months ago!*
'You will see,* said Dr. Walker, 'there won't be any mention
of the duel in any of the papers.'
And there wasn't. Just a line, saying that a certain cargador had
*had the misfortune to get in the way of a stray bullet!'
In between the comedy and tragedy of that hotly contested
gubernatorial election were the manifestaciones. These consisted
of gathering together hundreds of ignorant peons and their families
from adjoining villages, or from the country, bringing them packed
like sardines in huge trucks, outfitting them with banners, then
marching them in a parade where they shouted lusty * Vivas!' for
a certain candidate. They were paid ten centavos apiece for their
'patriotism.'
One such manifestadon formed under my windows, where there
was a polling booth. Tke street was choked with brown-faced, un-
sophisticated Indians with straggling black hair, bare feet thrust
into leather sandals, their shoulders draped with a scrap of red
blanket or a gaily colored sarape. They looked solemn, very much
aware of their dignity as voters. They chatted with each other in
soft, plaintive voices, mostly about lie floods, and the newest
miracle at Zapopan.
Down the street came a little family carrying a long banner
extolling the virtues of Senor R, the 'Laborista' candidate. The
father was typically Indian, slender and dark, dressed all in white
cotton homespun belted with a red sash. A strip of red blanket
hung over Ms left shoulder. His sombrero had an enormous brim,
and some limes and red chiles were rolling about in it. The mother
was fat, barefooted, decked out in blue blouse and a faded red
skirt, her hair wound in tight braids around her head, and the
rebozo was used as a cradle for the baby on her back. Between the
father and mother came a little boy, a miniature peon, even to the
114 GRINGA
sombrero and the scrap of a red blanket for a sarape. He was
dragging a kid goat that bleated continuously. His little sister, a
replica of her mother, blouse, full skirt and braids, carried a smaller
sister sit ling athwart her hip. They were all eating bananas. And
the banner dipped and crinkled, some of its fine patriotic senti-
ments concerning Senor R being blotted out as the carriers forgot
their candidate in the silent joy of staring at the churches, the
buildings, and the honking automobiles.
That night I came upon the same family tired kid goat and
all. This time they were carrying box lanterns, and their dark faces
were blurred by the jogging lights and shadows. But the name on
the cloth sides was that of Dr. M the Government candidate 1
Election day climaxed an orgy of stump speeches and * demon-
strations* and pistol duels. But when the smoke finally cleared
away, which one of the two candidates do you suppose was elected?
Why, neither one! A 'dark horse' had suddenly popped up, so
unheralded that his posters had scarcely been noticed. But it
seemed that he had won the gubernatorial office * by a popular
victory!*
The papers burbled like mad about 'treachery,' 'scandalous
subterfuge,' and so forth. Only a few people behind the scenes
knew what had really happened, and they were most discreet in not
telling!
About the same time of the exciting campaign, a more serious
disturbance was beginning to make itself felt. The Federal Govern-
ment in Mexico City was threatening the Catholic Church with the
enforcement of the constitutional decrees of 1917 which had been
promulgated to back up the earlier laws (Leyes de Reforma) estab-
lished by Juarez in 1860.
State and Church had long been divorced Benito Juarez
had seen to that. He had curtailed the power of the clergy, dis-
solved religious orders as detrimental to the public welfare, and had
declared the vast property of the Church to belong to the nation.
Political necessity had actuated the drastic step. For in the time
of Juarez it was estimated that the Church possessed at least one
third of all the wealth in Mexico. It has always been a matter of
wonder to visitors that in every Mexican hamlet and village, no
matter how small or remote, there is a sizable church, and generally,
GOD IS TAKEN AWAY 115
several stately buildings that were once monasteries or nunneries.
All of these edifices were built, so claimed the Federal authorities,
by the enforced or unpaid work of Indian converts. An oppressive
tithing system supported them. Property belonging to the Church
was free from taxation, and the clergy themselves were not bound
by civil laws in the matter of debts.
The city of Puebla had a church for every Sunday of the year.
Mexico City was more like a great religious encampment than the
capital of a country. So tremendous was the influence of Rome
exerted at will in matters of Government policies that Juarez
declared it e a cancerous growth/ and attacked it as such.
Now, with much of her ancient power stripped away, her mon-
asteries closed and confiscated, her foreign priests and orders
driven out, the Church has still remained militant and defiant. In
a land where ninety per cent of the people are Catholics, at least
nominally, the religion is a very part of the warp and woof of
Mexican life. Fiestas and celebrations revolve around it. 'Birth-
days/ as we know them, are celebrated on the natal day of one's
personal saint. And regardless of governmental decrees, the great
untutored masses, mi] linns of them, believe that the vital sacra-
ments of existence birth, marriage, and death are still the
undisputed province of the Holy Mother Church.
The authorities themselves had been amiably blind to certain
evasions of the Articles of 1917, as witness the continuance of the
convent where Mary was being treated. But now, however, the law
was showing its teeth. It would bite if necessary.
All priests must be of Mexican birth, must register, and submit
to various specified conditions or the churches would be closed.
That at least had never happened. And the prospect of it moved
like a sinister shadow. To cut off the Church from her devout
worshipers would be like amputating a much-needed arm. Even
though the member might be infected, it would be sorely missed.
A growing excitement was noticeable in Guadalajara. The
papers were full of speculation as to what would happen. It was
freely predicted that there would be an impasse. And after that
revolution.
I noticed a curious thing about the tense situation. Most of the
men upheld the viewpoint of the Government. But the women
116 GRINGA
were staunchly devoted to the rights and tenets of their faith.
One day when I left the hotel to take a street car out to the
hospital, I passed the largest motion-picture theater in town,
and saw a group of black-dressed, black-veiled women standing in
front of it. I paused, to see what picture was being shown. One of
the ladies, tall and dark-eyed, approached me.
4 Your pardon, Senora, do you speak Spanish? 5
*Yes, Senora, a little.'
I must have looked my surprise. For she said apologetically:
*We ask you not to go into the theater, Senora; this is a protest
against the threatened closing of the churches. We are giving up
luxuries; silk stockings, theaters, new clothes. And we ask all
friends of religion to do the same.'
4 1 am not a Catholic/ I told her, 'but I have great sympathy
for your cause. I hope that the churches will not be closed.'
The others clustered around us, mournful as recent widows.
* Surely the United States will intervene? ' one of them demanded
passionately.
*I doubt it,' I answered. 'In the United States the Church and
the Government are separate.*
*0h, but, Senora! 5 cried another, * there are so many Catholics
there! How could they let us suffer this "barbaridad"? The
Government is trying to take God away!'
I found that t intervention' was being discussed all over the city,
and by all factions, bitterly. Uncle Sam was certain to be un-
popular, whatever happened. A crass meddler in other people's
affairs if he did step in, and a brutal, unfeeling ogre if he did not.
The tension increased. There were riots, arrests, ugly rumors of
summary executions. Mexican chivalry was finally conquered by
the pleas of various merchants who complained that the funereal
groups of women were injuring business. The ladies were taken off
to the police station amid hysterical war-cries of the pro-Church
press. Many of the damas were from old, aristocratic families.
Their spirit was the more remarkable when you realize that Mexican
ft'omen do not ordinarily go in for picketing. They believe sincerely
,hat woman's place is the home.
Editorials against the 'Colossus of the North' sputtered and
exploded like firecrackers. Inflammatory posters, crudely drawn
GOD IS TAKEN AWAY 117
and lettered with red paint, appeared overnight on walls and tele-
phone posts.
4 Down with the Gringos!' 'Death to the enemies of Mexican
liberty!'
On the door of the cathedral one morning, a manifesto was
found nailed. It threatened a general massacre of Americans the
next Saturday night.
I asked Dr. Walker about it when he appeared that day, cool
and trim and jaunty, Ms straw hat cocked over one ear, a carnation
in his buttonhole. He only laughed.
'You can always be certain in Mexico that what you expect
won't happen. No, there won't be any massacre. ..'
And of course there wasn't. Saturday night passed quielly,
without even a manifestation*
When I sat on the balcony that overlooked the street, it seemed
incredible that an undercurrent of violence perhaps of tragedy
was in the air. The morning trains still poured forth their
streams of arriving people, men and women of the middle and
upper classes in modern dress no different from our own, peons in
homespun calzones, picturesque men in charro costume with dec-
orated felt sombreros, leather jackets, and long, tight-fitting trou-
sers, barefooted mestiza women with braided hair balancing tied-
up bundles of clothing or household effects on their heads, and
carrying sleeping babies in the rebozo slung across their backs.
The air was filled with the shouting of cargadores imploring
jobs of carrying baggage, the honking of taxi horns, the barking of
. dogs, the bleating of goats. There was only one note of possible
menace. Every train disgorged soldiers more than the ordinary
quota which accompanies every passenger train.
They came marching down the street, small, Indian-looking men
with olive drab uniforms that did not fit, and their faces were
stolid, expressionless masks. I felt that they would kill or be killed
with the same remote unfeeling vacuity of countenance.
Then all at once, it was the last day of grace. The clergy stood
sullenly and stubbornly upon their rights, demanding the untram-
meled freedom of the Church, Only a few of them had registered.
The streets outside the great cathedral were solidly blocked
with* humanity. There was a silent desperate mob of men and
118 GRINGA
women around the open doors, dark-faced Indians most of them,
carrying their babies on hips or backs, trying to force their way
forward against the surging swarm of people trying to get out.
Outside in the hot sunshine it was like something being done in
pantomime. But from the Inside of the enormous building there
came a droning as from a troubled wasp nest, and a queer wailing
that was strangely frightening.
'What Is it?' I asked one of the small policemen who stood apa-
thetically watching the ever-Increasing crowds.
He shrugged.
'They are trying to get In to haA r e their babies baptized. To-
morrow, It will be too late.*
I managed to get In through a side door. And as I left the clean
warmth of the sunshine, a close-packed smell of sweating bodies
overwhelmed me in a nauseating wave. The droning swelled up Into
a horrible, bulbous cry of despair that threatened to burst through
walls and pillars of stone.
The cool, spacious nave of the great cathedral no longer suggested
the aloof immensity of eternity. It was packed, jammed, with
human maggots all crushing and struggling towards one focal
point the high altar. In the dim haze of blue-gray incense,
through which candles glimmered weakly like stars In a fog, a
perspiring priest with two acolytes went striding back and forth
inside the railing, flinging drops of baptismal water towards the
heads of copper-colored babies whose squirming bodies were thrust
upward from the stem-like rigidity of naked brown arms.
The writhing, pushing, shrieking mass surged backward and
forward. The priest's eyes were glazed, as If he were in a living
dream of hell. His arm went stiffly, continuously, in mechanical
arcs. The acolytes followed him closely like small, frightened dogs.
If the altar railing should break, they would be engulfed in that
frantic, insane wave of humanity.
Now and then a woman's piercing scream leaped above the
tumult, a wild screech of frenzy. Children went down underfoot , and
let out choking yells. The men and women pressing from behind
were sobbing. They were calling out the names of saints, shouting
at the priest, trying to fight through, holding their babies high
over their heads to receive one of the precious scattered drops
that would mean salvation.
GOD IS TAKEN AWAY 119
I forced my way back through the side door, and stood there
with my legs shaking, a heavy sickness at the pit of my stomach.
In front of the cathedral, the mob was filling the plaza. It was no
longer silent. It was becoming a milling torrent of agonized terror.
What if the holy water should give out? What if they could not
get inside with their unbaptized nifios?
Soldiers were coming on the run, rifles in their hands. I could
not bear to see what I knew must follow. I managed to make my
way back to the hotel, and lay down, physically ill. From afar I
could hear cries, and shots, and women screaming.
The next day the papers carried cautious accounts of the 'un-
fortunate incident.* Three babies had been smothered ; two children
so injured in the crush that they probably would not live. A woman
had gone insane, a man had died of heart failure. Several specta-
tors had been injured by 'stray bullets.*
And yet, when the churches were actually closed, there was no
violence. The city was silent* the streets were deserted. Guadala-
jara was like a woman who has fought to the point of exhaustion;
and who now stares at the victorious enemy with dazed eyes that
have no tears left to shed.
XIIL OF
IN MEXICO, unconquerable gaiety and joy of life float like iridescent
bubbles upon the deep undercurrent of passive sorrow.
It is not strange that this should be so. For the Spaniard brought
to the New World an emotional abandon tempered with the somber
reticence and the fierce pride of the Moor. In Mexico he found
Indians with a culture no less ancient than his own, a pride just as
tremendous, a courage which matched Ms, a vital love for nature, a
great feeling of veneration for a higher power, admiration for skill
of all kinds whether it was of the mind or the body; passionate love
of music and flowers, bright colors, drinking, games, dancing, and
athletic sports.
In other words, he found a race that startlingly reflected Ms
own virtues and vices. The union of those two was a welding of
like to Eke. And it produced a virile hybrid such as you will not
find elsewhere in Latin America.
The Spaniard's capacity for endurance of physical suffering
was amazing and so was the Indian's. The Spaniards were a
sensual people and so were the Mexican Indians. The Spaniards
could be moved to quick tears by the singing of an old love song of
Castile or the throb of a guitar: the Indians had always looked upon
poesy as one of the greatest gifts of the gods.
Today, the modern Mexican feels the clash of outside forces,
the noisy tumult of a civilization pressing onward to an unknown
goal. He will go along with the crowd, he will even rush ahead in
erratic spurts to see if he cannot get there first. But deep within
Mmself is a withdrawal to the ancient forces wMch molded Ms
character. A pain, a trisleza, wMch he expresses in a morbid venera-
tion of Christ crucified; an aching melancholy wMch comes out in
the words of a tango, or even the rollicking melody of a ranchero
song. He must be gay too, because that is a part of Ms heritage.
He must make friends with death, because death is an integral
part of existence. And he must love, as Ms ancestors of Spain and
Mexico have ever loved: quickly, passionately, possessively
but not always faithfully.
LANGUAGE OF LOVE 121
I was amazed at the quick * comeback' from the profundity of
sorrow caused by the closing of the churches. It expressed itself in
many ways. There were revolutionary disturbances, but they were
so sternly and competently suppressed that it showed clearly the
strength and power of the Government. Various bandits, how-
ever, seized the opportunity to shout 'Viva El Cristo Rey!' (Long
live Christ the King!) and to attack trains and burn haciendas
under the guise of being loyal sons of the Church.
Masses ceased, but the side doors of the churches remained open,
and worshipers were not forbidden to enter for prayers. In the
remote villages the Indians calmly went ahead with their own
ceremonies, dressed themselves in fantastic costumes representing
Conquistadores and Moors and Roman centurions, and performed
their ancient dances to the music of instruments made of armadillo
shell.
In Guadalajara, a few of the most devout Catholic women re-
mained aloof from the theater and the movies and refused invita-
tions to weddings, christenings, and dias de fiesta. But to youth, it
was unthinkable that merrymaking should stop just because the
Government was having an argument with the priests. It seemed
to me that there were more parties and dances than before the re-
ligious conflict.
Mary's second operation was successful, but left her in such a
weakened condition that I was worried for fear she would not have
the right kind of care at the convent. Then, through the generos-
ity of Senor Puig, the head of the street-car company of Guadala-
jara, she was moved to the small but modem hospital built by the
company for its employees. The rooms were all blessedly screened.
So I left the mosquito net at the convent, as a donation to the com-
fort of other sufferers. The nuns gave Mary their heartfelt bene-
diction. And several times after that, the Mother Superior risked
the danger of appearing on the streets in defiance of the Govern-
ment edict, to come and visit her in the new establishment.
One of the Mexican doctors here promptly fell in love with me.
And remember, I use the word love* in the eruptive, volcanic
sense. While it lasts, it is terrific. When it is over not even cold
ashes remain.
As Mary got better, and was able to do justice to the culinary
122 GRINGA
efforts of the capable cook, the doctor insisted on having me re-
main for lunch, a meal which usually had six courses, and always
champagne!
He made verbal love to me in front of Mary quite as if she had
lost her hearing as well as her strength.
4 Ah, your eyes are like stars! Blue stars! When you smile, I am
in sunshine. When you frown, I hear the rumbling of thunder!'
I tried to be polite and impersonal. I knew that the doctor was
married and had several children. But it was difficult to strike a
medium that would neither encourage him nor arouse an enmity
that might react on Mary.
'When you get back to the United States/ he said, 'you must
put into your book that Mexican men make the most wonderful
lovers in the world!'
*I will say that they make charming friends and the most won-
derful dancers,' I countered.
4 Is it true that in your country women can get divorces as
easily as men?'
4 Yes, indeed. Why not?'
He shook Ms head decisively.
'No, no, no! That is not right! A woman should have charm,
graciousness, faithfulness.'
'And a man?' I asked.
He looked at me, smiling.
'Freedom,' he answered decisively.
He used to call me up from the hospital. And since the telephone
was in the main office which opened on the patio, and the con-
nection so bad that he had to shout to make himself heard, the re-
sult was somewhat embarrassing.
'Where are the blue stars?' would come the blurred bellow. I
would pretend to misunderstand Mm, and try to change the con-
versation into English, wMch he spoke fairly well. But he would
not be put off.
'Why have you not come today? Are you trying to kill me with
your cruelty?'
The nurses would meet me with subdued giggles.
*Ah! Here come the blue stars!' they would murmur with
exaggerated tenderness. But although I was most uncomfortable
LANGUAGE OF LOVE 123
about the situation, I found that I was regarded with great ad-
miration because of my * conquest.'
There were times when I could not refuse his offer to drive me
back to the hotel in Ms flashy new car. And one day he made a
circuit to show me Ms house in one of the fashionable colonias, and
to point out his wife, who was sitting on the American-style porch.
6 What would she think,* I asked him seriously, 'if she knew all
of the extravagant things you say to me?'
He laughed outright at my naivete.
'A good wife never thinks about such things/ he answered, 'and
I have a very good wife!*
With the new friends I was making, I began really to get ac-
quainted with the city that I had first condemned as ' bourgeois,'
Perhaps one of my letters to John will give an idea as to the variety
of things that one can see and do in Guadalajara:
* I drive the Pumell car in the paseo almost every day in the
afternoon from five to seven. It is very different here from the
simple walk-around paseo I saw in Colima. And at first it seems a
rather stupid form of entertainment. The cars circle the plaza in
slow, crowded lines, go up and down the main streets by the por-
tales, and come back again. You wiggle your fingers interminably
at friends in the opposite line of cars, and you say "Adios-n ?
Adios-n," at least six thousand times. " Adios" means "hello" as
well as "good-bye," and that final n they put on the word here is
characteristic of Jalisco. I am finding out that there are almost as
many ways of speaking Spanish in Mexico as there are "dialects' 9
in the United States. And maybe I haven't told you about the
peculiar wiggle of the fingers, with the palm of your hand held
toward your face. It is the friendly gesture for both "hail" and
"farewell"
'Two hours of this, the families in their cars, and the unattached
males lounging along the sidewalks to bow elaborately and call
greetings to the various senoritas and then everyone scurries for
home, to eat an eight-course dinner and begin the real life of the
day; the serious business of going to bailes, or wooing, or strolling,
or eating again.'
And again, a few days later
'Today the Huichol l Indians came in to Guadalajara. Strange,
i Wee-chol'.
124 GRINGA
savage*looldng men with long hair, dirty homespun trousers cut
knee length, a row of hand-woven pouches at the belt. Their hats
are Chinese in shape, like those which coolies wear. Their black
slanted eyes and high cheek-bones are Oriental as well. They wear
no sancials, and carry bows and arrows slung over their naked
shoulders. They do not hunt with firearms, but shoot at their
game with arrows, and then run it down. I assure you that they
created quite as much attention here as they would in New York
City.
* Their destination was the Palacio Municipal. For the tribe has
some kind of treaty with the Mexican Government. White men are
to stay out of their territory about four days' journey from the
city unless specially permitted to enter. And they in turn agree
to keep the peace and to come to the capital of Jalisco once a year
for reports and instructions. WMe in Guadalajara, they are the
guests of the city.
*Idella Purnell and I wanted to trade some ribbons and cheap
jewelry for a set of bows and arrows and a couple of the woven bags.
At first tbey refused even to speak to us. They stood aloof and
haughty on the steps of the great building and stared over our
heads. Gradually our conversational efforts collected a crowd; the
usual good-natured crowd that instantly takes upon itself the task
of seeing that you get what you want.
*The poor Indians were beset from all sides with urgings. " Come,
hombre! Don't you hear the lady asking you to trade something?
Look at this beautiful ribbon! " (Business of snatching it out of my
hand and dangling it before the Indian's stolid eyes like a worm in
front of an indifferent fish.) "Look at these beautiful earrings!
Caray, man, haven't you a church in your village? Wouldn't your
Virgin love to wear these?"
* We finally concentrated on one handsome (by comparison) fem-
inine-looking person. We praised the "SenoritaV* rows of beads,
bracelets, and gaudy trinkets. Finally one of the older Indians
broke into a ramble of laughter.
***No es Senorita, es Senorito!" The handsome "young lady"
was a young buck; a bachelor, entitled to wear all possible amount
of finery until his wedding day!
*The incident broke down the frigid restraint. Only two of the
LANGUAGE OF LOVE 125
Huicholes could speak Spanish, but they translated for us to the
others of their tribe. We finally traded for several extremely dirty
pouches, still filled with the seeds on which the men had subsisted
while traveling, and a sheaf of the arrows which I will send to you
hoping they are not poisoned!
* We noticed that two of the Indians carried tiny, crudely made
violins. The strings were of wire, the bow was of gut. Upon these
weird little instruments they sawed with primitive vigor, and
drew forth unmusical wailings as of cats on back-yard fences.
* "Where did the violins come from?" I asked the interpreter.
'"We made them."
* "No, I didn't mean that, where did your people first get the idea
of making them?"
'" There was no first time. They have always been.'*
'The conversation progressed to a point where they were willing
to tell me one of the stories of their tribe. Tonight we are going to
the meson l where they are staying. It is a combination hotel and
stable for country people who bring their animals into town. I am
promised a legend of the Huichol tribe, but I cannot imagine that
it will be anything I can use.'
I was quite wrong. One of the most delicate, yet most deeply
symbolical folk-tales I got in Mexico came from our visit to the
primitive Huicholes that night. The story of the Princess Yellow
Rose, who was loved by the Black Tiger of Darkness, and who was
saved by her lover, the Sim. 2
Mary and I had become accustomed at the very start of our trip
to the fixed stares which a Latin male levels upon an unattached
female. But it was while I was exploring some of the less-frequented
streets of Guadalajara all by myself that I was followed for the first
time.
I noticed a rather tal young chap in white flannels, who passed
me several times. He would go ahead a short distance, stare in-
tently at a window display, then, as I came abreast of Mm, would
murmur something under Ms breath.
Of course I was insulted! Who wouldn't be? At first I tried ig-
noring him. It didn't work. When I passed Mm for the fifth time
1 May-sohn'.
* 'Rosa Amarilla,* in Good Housekeeping.
126 GRINGA
with my chin very high In the air, he whispered something and
trailed along behind me like a well-trained poodle.
I became a little frightened and almost inarticulate with rage. I
finally turned on Mm and demanded in a choked voice that he cease
to annoy me.
He swept off his American straw hat with the air of a grandee.
* Little Princess,' lie said and I a good two inches taller than
lie * blessed be the mother who gave you birth ! '
Well ! I dare say my mouth opened and closed a few times, like a
movie that has lost its sound track.
Then I turned, and almost ran down the street without looking
back. I ended up at the American Club, where I found Dr. Walker
having a cocktail, and ordering a chop suey from Juan, the Chinese
cook.
* Great Scott!' he exclaimed when he saw my face, *are you as
sunburned as al that?'
I sank into a chair beside Mm and managed a sputtering explana-
tion. I had never been so insulted in all my life. . . these Mexican
men were absolutely horrible... he could consider Mmself lucky
that I didn't take a swing at Mm...
Dr. Walker put a calming hand on my knee.
*Now wait a minute! This is Mexico. The young man was ex-
pressing Ms admiration for you in quite the orthodox manner.
You probably scared him off by your violence, and now you won't
get a serenade under your balcony window tonight. 9
I glared at Mm.
*I don't want one!*
He smiled maliciously.
'You'd love it! What woman wouldn't? Now the customary
thing is to pay absolutely no attention to the remarks made to you
by unintroduced gentlemen. Even if you are followed, you still
don't see or don't hear anything. That proves that you are genteel
and desirable. Then some night about twelve, you may wake up
with the most delicious strains of music coining from beneath your
balcony window. Don't get up and rush out and don't bury
your head in the pillows. Turn the light on for a moment that
means that the concert is heard and appreciated/
My first real beaux were introduced formally and properly, at a
LANGUAGE OF LOVE 127
dance given at the American Club. Amaldo del Rio was not as tall
as I, but vividly handsome, and had a singing voice that would
melt icicles in a cold-storage plant. Rufio Maranza was tall, had a
thin Spanish face, and was the most perfect dancer I have ever en-
countered.
There was some kind of a mixnp in my dance program , and
Rufio and Araaldo both claimed the tango that was starting.
I got up, uncertain as to which name was scribbled down for that
particular dance and suddenly found myself snarled over like a
bone between two extremely angry dogs. Arnaldo got one hand,
Rufio the other. I was pulled first towards one, then jerked back
to the oilier. I tried to protest, but found that my Spanish was not
equal to the emergency.
Frances Purnel took pity on me and over settled the
argument. I was allotted to Rufio for the tango, to Amaldo for
the next dance plus the encore.
The near-fracas raised my stock considerably. The Mexican
girls watched with envious eyes, and whispered beMnd their fans.
As for the young men, probably each one thought that the other
fellow wanted me; so they both became instantly determined
suitors after the Mexican fashion.
Rufio got Hie out on one of the balconies of the club alone, and
talked in a low, impassioned tone unfortunately so low that I
could not understand all he said. To this day I do not know
whether he was making a proposal or a proposition. I said 4 No ? *
just to be on the safe side, and explained that I had a nodo (sweet-
heart) back in California whose name was John. He had a violent
temper, and had once killed a man for trying to hold my hand.
I was being very crudely facetious. But Rufio took it seriously.
He said John was quite right and then tried to kiss me.
I noticed that it was customary for engaged couples to dance
only with each other. But one pretty German-Mexican girl had
had a quarrel with her sweetheart. He would not come near her for
the rest of the evening. So she sat and gloomed while lie danced and
flirted with the other Senoritas. Did she arise in her wrath and
walk out on him? No, indeed, she just sat there and sulked and
took it!
Arnaldo asked me to go to the movies with Mm the next night.
128 GRINGA
In my innocence I accepted the invitation. But Dr. Walker sternly
forbade it.
'He's trying to take advantage of you because you're an Amer-
ican, and he knows that it's customary in the United States for
young men and women to go to the theater unchaperoned. But re-
member, it isn't proper here! You'd be looked down on as well,
perhaps not really immoral, but very close to it! Don't you do it!
Make Arnaldo live up to the customs of Ms own country!'
I took Ms advice, and asked Idella down to dinner with me at the
hotel When Arnaldo appeared, superbly groomed, quite the man
of the world ready to enjoy forbidden fruit there was Idella!
In all decency, he had to ask her to go along. He engineered the
seating arrangements so that he sat next to me, and paid less at-
tention to the picture than to gripping my hand and whispering
fiercely, 'Ah, you are cruel! Why did you do that?' It gave me a
pleasantly sinister feeling all evening.
The Mexican system of courting is strangely at odds with the im-
petuosity of the Latin temperament. It may extend over a period
of years, with a faithfulness that too often dissolves after the first
year of marriage. In Mexico City, the old-fasMoned courtsMp ways
have lapsed somewhat. But in Guadalajara, and smaller towns,
the rigorous 4 old Spanish customs* are still favored.
The preliminary step is to 'play bear.' The lovesick caballero
stations himself across the street where he can see Ms adored one's
window. He keeps up Ms vigil there, night after night, sometimes
for hours at a time. And if the young lady is interested, she finds
it convenient to come out on the balcony to look at the stars, or, if
her room is on the ground floor with barred windows, she sits there,
sweet and aloof, fanning herself, pointedly unconscious that across
the street burning eyes are mutely imploring her for a word, a nod,
a smile.
In time, such patience is rewarded. (And of course she probably
knows the young man anyhow.) She permits herself to be spoken
to about the kind of weather now being had in Mexico, and from
there the conversation rapidly becomes personal.
Soon the ardent swain is spending the greater part of Ms evenings
outside her window on the same side of the street, tMs time.
There are wMspered colloquies. Hands are held and kisses are ex-
LANGUAGE OF LOVE 129
changed between the bars. Sometimes he brings his guitar and
sings of love and passion and faithfulness undying. Or else he hires
a group of musicians to do his musical work for him.
If Papa approves of the young man, he is invited to call and sub-
mit to the ordeal of a family conclave. This time there is no com-
fortable, cool darkness. He sits hot and perspiring under shadeless
electric light globes in the formal sala. Papa is there, and Mama,
Grandmama, a couple of widowed aunts, an assortment of cousins,
and as many brothers who can spare time from their own courtship
duties.
The young man is seated far, far from his inamorata. He dis-
cusses politics with Papa, the probabilities of floods for the coming
rainy season, the latest assassination. If after these preliminary
skirmishes he is accepted as a fianc6, he is still no closer a t^le-a-tete
with his betrothed bride than he was before. He may escort her to
dances but with a couple of chaperoning relatives. He may ask
her to go to a theater if he takes the whole family as well. His
only moments alone with her, until the very night of their wedding,
will be those when he plays bear outside her window in the jasmine-
scented darkness, and whispered trivialities become precious,
glamorous jewels of thought.
Once in Guadalajara I saw an ingenious arrangement rigged up
by two lovers so that the young caballero could communicate with
his sweetheart on the second floor. It was a home-made telephone 1
And what do they say to each other, these lovers under a tropical
moon? I admit I listened in one night.
He said, sighing, * Ah, mi encanto, your eyes are like jewels!'
She (fluttering): * Ay, quo tonto!' (Oh, how foolish!)
He (persisting): 'And your lips are like red, fragrant roses!*
She (thrilled): 4 Ay, que tonterfaP (What foolishness!)
He (warming to the subject) : * Your hair is a net that has trapped
my heart!*
She (with a little squeal of delight) : *Ay, que tonto eresP (How
foolish thou art!)
And so on, far into the night. The words and music are familiar*
The story is very old. But it is also very good. It always gets re-
sults.
XIV. IT TO BE
MEXICO is a quick-change artiste. One moment she sweeps across
the stage of your vision exquisitely gowned, the sensuous smile of
the tropics of her lips, and the sophistication of Paris in the click of
her high heels. Another instant she comes in the guise of an Indian :
patient, back-bent under a load of past and present burdens. Or
she dons the blue overalls and yellow shoes of the workman, who
has just commenced to learn about unions and strikes, and who
thinks it is sensible to carry a banner protesting against the
4 Assassinations of the Haymarket Riots in Chicago 1886!'
She comes with laughter, too, and song that is sweeter and more
heart-breaking than in any other land in the world. She may whirl
upon the stage one instant in the flashing, glorious dance of the
Jarabe. 1 Or she may come in a choking cloud of pistol-smoke, a
wild, insane fury of revolution.
What phase of Mexico you see depends on what part of the
country you visit, how long you remain, and how sensitive you are
to her moods. Plenty of people see nothing but 'poverty and de-
gradation.' Others come back impressed with the 'childlike sim-
plicity' of the natives. Still others, who have seen Mexico from the
shelter of an English-speaking hotel, will maintain that there is
nothing primitive left in the country. You can be sure of only one
thing. Whatever impression of Mexico you have gained through
books, or through another's eyes, she will still surprise you. And
what is more, she will continue to surprise you as long as you re-
main in her embrace.
It was during the religious disturbances that a train was wrecked
and burned between Guadalajara and Mexico City. The leader in
the outrage had been seen and recognized, a notorious desperado
nicknamed 'El Catorce' (The Fourteenth), and who was said to
have a hideout somewhere in the wild barrancas of Jalisco's moun-
tains.
One day I was driving the Purnell car to an outlying village.
And on one of the remote, traffic-forsaken roads, a tire subsided
with a dismal plop. I climbed out into the hot afternoon sunshine
1 Hah-rah'bay.
HOW IT FEELS TO BE KIDNAPED 131
and stood there regarding the discouraging spectacle. I had helped
to change a tire several times, but never before had I been faced
with the necessity of prying it off the rim, getting the spare off the
rack, and fitting it on the wheel all by myself.
If a lady in distress ever needed a knight-errant, it was I. And, as
if in answer to a prayer, over the brow of a grassy hill there came
riding a figure that might have graced a tourist booklet, or a mu-
sical comedy, or a maiden's dream of Romance.
He was wearing an elaborate charro suit. The black tightly fitting
trousers glinted with silver ornaments from thigh to ankle. His
silken blouse was embroidered in festive colors, and Ms sombrero
was the fanciest I had yet seen. It was of white felt, richly em-
bellished with silver, and had a painted medallion of the Virgin
ornamenting the exaggerated crown. A sarape of the diamond-
shaped Saltillo pattern was strapped across his saddle.
The black horse he rode was as finely accoutered as his master;
the bridle jingled with silver, the high-horned Spanish saddle was
thickly inlaid with the same metal. And both horse and rider knew
perfectly well how picturesque and dashing they looked!
The caballero reined in Ms prancing mount, swept off his wMte
felt hat, and asked if he could be of service. He was lithely hand-
some, with clear olive skin, aquiline nose, and beautiful dark, heav-
ily lashed eyes. The only flaw was a scar that ran from forehead to
upper lip. But even that defect added to his charm, Eke a dash of
bitters in a cocktail.
I murmured hesitantly that I had to change a tire, but that he
could not possibly help me without soiling Ms beautiful costume.
He flung out Ms arm in an extravagant gesture. The clothes?
They were nothing! They did not matter! I should see what a very
little effort it took!
Then he dismounted, knelt down in the sun-beaten dust of the
road, sweated and pulled and tugged. I wondered what hacienda
he owned, for I felt sure that he was a wealthy rural hacendado.
But although he asked me all about myself, he volunteered no in-
formation about himself. When he found out that I was living at
the Cosmopolita, he said gallantly, * Mark your balcony railing with
wMte chalk, and some night I will give you a " galio ! " ' (A serenade.)
I said I would be delighted.
132 GRINGA
Finally lie stood up, mopped Ms streaming brow, and brushed
himself somewhat. He disclaimed all need for thanks, and swung
himself up on Ms coal-black horse, making the sleek animal rear up
so he could exhibit Ms own mastery.
Then, with many mutual compliments, and long-drawn-out
'Adios-ns' after the manner of Jalisco, off he went at a furious gal-
lop. And I, staring after Mm, felt tingling and a little lonesome.
It is not often that into one's life comes riding a mysterious, dashing
hero!
But when I got back to Guadalajara and described the handsome
unknown caballero, Dr. Walker looked positively startled.
* Never mind about marking up your balcony with chalk. I don't
tMnk your boy friend will really come around to serenade you.*
"On account of the tire, you mean?' I asked sadly. j
He grinned.
*No, but do you want to see Ms picture?*
He led me outside the hotel. There on the wall were pasted some
police placards with rewards offered for wanted criminals. Among
the photographs there displayed was my herol Yes, even to the
magnificent silver-embroidered sombrero with the medallion of the
Virgin on the front. My handsome tire-changer had been none
other than 'El Catorce,' the bloodthirsty bandit who had attacked
and set fire to a passenger train!
Don't ask me to explain Ms courtesy to an unknown female on a
lonely road. Perhaps he was taking an off day from banditing; per-
haps it was an interlude that appealed to that love of the spectacular
which every true Mexican possesses. At any rate, I felt a trifle
breathless. It was like walking along the street and having a hod
of bricks come crashing down upon the very spot where you your-
self had been an instant before.
At the Puxnell home, a few evenings later, I related my ex-
perience.
* Just think, 1 might have been kidnaped! I wonder how that
would have felt?'
Dr. Puniell, wMte-haired and rather frail-looking, smiled a bit
queerly.
* I can tell you exactly how it feels. I was kidnaped and held for
ransom myself.*
HOW IT FEELS TO BE KIDNAPED 133
It was during a period when Mrs. Pumell aad the family were
visiting in the States. Dr. Purnell cm Bed an unusual piece of pro-
perty in the bottom of a deep barranca about thirty miles away
from Guadalajara, a place where the Spaniards had worked a cop-
per mine in the early sixteen-hundreds. But the most interest-
ing thing about it from a modern standpoint are the numerous
springs of curative value; mineral water both hot and cold, con-
taining properties that would be valuable in treating rheumatism.
There is a comfortable house on the property. And a fairly well-
to-do widow, Senora L, a friend of many years, was considering
establishing a small sanitarium there.
Dr. Purnell was recovering from a bad cold and had been in bed a
few days. But he thought that a motor trip down into the barranca
would do Mm a world of good. So he invited the Senora, her pretty
fifteen-year-old daughter Alicia, and her ten-year-old son to go
down with Mm and see the property. The chauffeur Jose drove the
car, and a young mechanic rode in front with Mm.
The road down into the barranca is very far away from the main
highway, or even from the fairly well-traveled ox-cart and burro
trails of the Mil country. To reach it, one drives through the semi-
ruins of a beautiful old hacienda, and from there goes careening
down a grade that is rather appalling because of its steepness. It is
so narrow that to turn a car around would be impossible.
They got down safely, however, inspected the property, had a
picnic lunch, and late in the afternoon started back on the long up-
Mll grade. Suddenly from the ledge of an overhanging cliff came
the loud crack of a bullet. It came Mssing through the top of the
car. The mechanic gave a coughing grunt, bounced spasmodically,
and slumped forward dead.
Jose yanked the brake, snatched a short-barreled rifle loose from
its pocket on the door y leaped out on the running-board, and
started firing at what was visible of a group of men lying face down-
ward on the rocky protuberance above. He had the satisfaction of
seeing one of them throw up Ms hands and sink forward, even as
Ms own friend had done.
But the satisfaction was short-lived. For the bandits leaped to
their feet and directed such a murderous stream of bullets at the
stalled car that Dr. Pumell got out, hands above Ms head, and
134 GRINGA
shouted, * What are you doing, hombres? There is a lady here with
her children!'
At that the firing ceased. But while one of the outlaws covered
the party with a long rifle, the others slid down the steep embank-
ment and surrounded them.
There were four of them; stupid, degraded types, the Mud you
would see staggering out of a cantina, or lying sodden drunk in a
sour-smelling pulqueria. Their eyes had the blurred, centerless
stare of marahuana addicts. Their sombreros were torn and bat-
tered, and their peon shirts were crossed in a menacing 4 X' of
cartridge belts. They all carried pistols in holsters, and long heavy
machetes in leather scabbards.
It was a frightful moment ; like the ghastly horror of a nightmare.
The Senora got shakily out of the car, her little boy and young
daughter clinging to her, wordless with terror. One of the bandits
concentrated on Alicia with avid, lustful eyes.
The dead mechanic was slumped in the front seat, blood soaking
down into the upholstery from the gaping hole in his head. Jose, the
chauffeur, stood with the rifle still in his hands, frozen desperation
in Ms eyes. Dr. Purnell, white-haired, none too strong of physique,
picked out the bandit who seemed to be the Jefe.
* What do you mean by this outrage?*
The leader, a paunchy, pockmarked man in a soldier's faded
uniform, answered sullenly: 'We were only going to take you with
us and hold you for ransom. But now that this fellow has killed
one of my men, we'll shoot Mm first and talk about the other busi-
ness later.*
The young Jose stood stunned and speechless. But quick as a
flash, the Senora said, 'If you do that, then who will drive the car
back to Guadalajara to get the money for you?'
How well that clever, courageous woman understood the Mex-
ican temperament. Gain a moment for arguing, and much may be
avoided or accomplished.
The Jefe stared black-browed at the rigidly waiting Jose, and
then turned to Ms followers.
"That is true/ he admitted, * someone must drive the car/
He scratched Ms head, consecutive thought struggling with the
mingled alcoholic and drug fumes that possessed his brain.
HOW IT FEELS TO BE KIDNAPED 135
One of Ms followers spoke up.
* Yes, but we must shoot him; he killed Luis/
And again the quick-witted Sefiora, 'But, hombre, you have al-
ready killed the mechanic that makes you even.'
They debated the matter uncertainly, talking in low tones to-
gether, the one who coveted Alicia never taking Ms eyes from her.
The young girl shrank tremblingly behind her mother.
At last the Jefe said: * All right, the driver can go back to Guad-
alajara and take you and your cMldren. Then you send a thousand
pesos to us, or the Americano will be killed. But,' he added, with
that unbelievable naivete characteristic of Ms class, 'the chauffeur
must conie back with the money and be shot, for he was the one who
fired at us. The mechanic didn't.'
The Senora looked at Dr. Purnell, who was standing there white
and shaken. She knew he had teen ill ; she knew that the trip down
to the barranca had already sapped his strength.
'You can send my children back/ she said boldly, s but I stay
with my husband!*
They had no way of knowing that she was not Ms wife. And
even to their depraved minds, it seemed logical that she should
make such a decision.
The outlaw who wanted Alicia, jogged Ms cMef s elbow,
'Keep the girl. Let me have her.*
The Senora turned on Mm scornfully.
"That is ridiculous! Can you hope to raise a thousand pesos by
sending a mozo back to Guadalajara with a little ten-year-old boy?
Who would believe them? My daughter knows our friends the
driver does not. If you want the money, she will have to get it for
you!*
Clever woman, to keep harping on the subject that was nearest
their rotten hearts; to keep dangling before their eyes the mental
picture of a bag of silver pesos, a thousand of them clinking with
the promise of bigger and wilder debauches.
For almost an hour she pleaded, argued, and harangued. And
finally, she had her way. The trembling Jose climbed back into the
car beside Ms dead companion. The young girl and the sobbing
little boy huddled on the back seat. The car crept like a stunned
turtle up the steep, narrow road of the lonely barranca. The bandits
136 GRINGA
made a circle around the frail, white-haired dentist and the plucky
Mexican woman.
* Come,' said the Jefe, * you'll have to ride together; we only have
one horse.'
The next two days and nights were phantasmic, unreal. The
bandits with their two prisoners left the thread of road that was the
slender line of communication with the city. They cut across deep
arroyos and plunged through tangled jungle growth. They climbed
op into the higher, more inaccessible mountains, where vultures
circled hopefully overhead and the sun beat down with blistering
force.
The Doctor and the Senora, neither of them accustomed to the
saddle, endured agonies. Only a few drops of water were given
them from time to time, and all the food that the outlaws had
brought with them was a stack of cold tortillas, wrapped in a dirty
bandanna handkerchief.
At night it was bitterly cold. The Jefe gave a filthy, vermin-in-
fested red blanket to the Senora, but she claimed that she did not
need it and wrapped it around Dr. Purnell, who had relapsed into a
feverish coma.
As the bandits huddled around a small fire, the Mexican woman
overheard them discussing further plans.
* How will the mozo know where to find us to bring the money?
We should have stayed in the barranca.'
* And had the soldiers swarming around us? No, we must keep
going/
'But suppose the old one dies? Then he will be worthless.*
The outlaw who had wanted Alicia growled out,
4 Why didn't you bring the girl? By God, she was the prettiest
one I've ever seen!*
The Jefe swore at him.
4 We're burdened enough with the old one's wife. I know you!
You get a girl in your head and you forget all about business!'
During the night, when the other three bandits slept, the fourth
one came creeping tti the side of the shivering woman.
'Senora,* he whispered, *I love you. You have courage and a
great heart. Listen! If you will go away with me, I will kill the
Jefe now, as he sleeps, and you and I will escape together.'
HOW IT FEELS TO BE KIDNAPED 137
She repressed the horror and loathing she felt.
'I cannot desert my husband/ she whispered back. 'But If you
are wise, you will tell the Jefe that he should send me into Guadala-
jara to get the money and bring it back to you. I am afraid my
husband is going to die, and all your trouble will be for nothing!*
The next day they circled around in the mountains so that they
were about twenty miles from the city. But the only way to reach
it was to cross a turbulent river, swollen by the summer rains, and
thence through wild, uninhabited country where there was not
even an ox-cart road.
However, they put the Senora on the old swayback horse that
they had stolen from the corral of an isolated farmhouse. And she,
knowing very well that the Doctor's life would pay the penalty if
she did not return quickly, urged her unwilling mount into the
river and made Mm swim across ! Then, wet and bedraggled, saddle-
sore and almost exhausted from lack of food, she forced him to his
utmost speed; he stumbled and galloped through the night, and
reached Guadalajara at two o'clock in the morning!
By that time she was too hysterical to think clearly. Police
soldiers all that could come later. She beat frenziedly against
the doors of friends* houses, and aroused them to be received
as if back from the dead. The news of the atrocious murder and
kidnaping had created a wave of wildest excitement. Soldiers were
searching for them everywhere. She was advised to go to the
Governor and let him, send troops back with her.
4 No!' she cried desperately, *I must go back alone with the
money. If they saw anyone with me, the Doctor would be killed
that instant!'
To collect a thousand pesos at that hour was utterly impossible.
With all the frantic searching and scurrying of messengers to vari-
ous friends, the utmost that could be scraped together was four
hundred pesos many of the coins being of even smaller denomi-
nation.
It made a sizable bag, however. And that gallant woman, with-
out even delaying to see her son and daughter, knowing only that
they were safe and cared for, started on her lonely trip back, through
the blackness of early morning, swam the river again, and got to the
bandit encampment before noon!
138 GRINGA
The outlaws had stolen a jug of fiery mescal, and the Jefe was
very drunk.
'Are there a thousand pesos in there?' he demanded, thickly,
groggily testing the weight of the canvas bag.
'Not quite/ replied the Senora, 'but, as you see, there is a great
deal of money. You had better let us go now. The soldiers are com-
ing this way, and if you don't hurry, you will be captured.'
The bandits scrambled to their feet. But a sore point still lin-
gered in the Jefe's mind.
* Very well, you can take the Doctor and the horse. But tell that
mozo that we will come to Guadalajara one of these days and kill
Mm!'
With the remaining vestige of a strength that must have come
from some superhuman reservoir, the Doctor and the Senora both
got astride the poor old horse, and across the river they went, barely
escaping drowning when the tired beast floundered and began to sink.
A few miles farther on, they met a detachment of soldiers and
were given fresh mounts. They reached the city more dead than
alive; and the Doctor was seriously ill for many weeks thereafter.
I was eager to meet that wonderful woman. Somehow I pictured
her as tall and beautiful, flashing-eyed and slender: a story-book
heroine.
But when Dr. Purnell took us to see her, she turned out to be a
small, rather plump middle-aged Mexican lady, with pleasant but
not remarkable features, her hair drawn simply back from around
her face and twisted into a knot at the back. She wore the usual
widow's black, and was the type that one sees by the thousands
shopping in the markets, sitting with folded hands on a bench in the
plaza when the band plays, or going to church of mornings with a
decorous black manton over the head.
The daughter Alicia was very pretty; and the young chauffeur,
Jose, was still going about with a gun strapped to his hip in readiness
for the bandits to carry out their threat.
*But I thought they had been captured and shot/ I said.
He shrugged.
*0h, someone was captured and shot that always happens.
But it isn't always the real bandits. The police have to make an
announcement, you know. ..*
HOW IT FEELS TO BE KIDNAPED 139
'And yet/ I exclaimed to Dr. Pumell, 'you still want to Eve in
Mexico I 5
He looked at me, smiling mockingly.
'Let me see; you come from the United States, don't you?
There are no kidnapings there, of course? '
I picked up the pieces of my glass house and put away my rock.
It is amazing how alike are glass houses all orer the world!
XV. AND A
MEXICANS can make anything picturesque, even the humdrum
routine of buying and selling. In a country where the manufacture
of milagros l (little metal representations of various parts of the
body) is a serious business, because of the thousands of devotees
who buy them to hang up in churches after they have been cured of
an illness, and where smelly pulquerias are blessed with names such
as 'Get Out If You Can,' and 'Mouth of a Goddess,' there is no
danger yet awhile of commerce becoming Babbittized.
In the offices you will find expert stenographers. And outside,
you will find expert typists too. But whereas in the office a prim,
bobbed-haired Senorita will be clicking out such banalities as
'Very estimable sir ; may I call to your attention. . .' the sombreroed
typist in the pla^a under the shade of an acacia tree may be dashing
off something of this sort: ' My life, my soul, my absence from you
is a continued torture. I long for the touch of your hand, one glance
from your lustrous eyes!' He is writing this effusion for the illiter-
ate peon who sits humbly beside him, having bargained for a ' burn-
ing letter of love for ten centavos.' Very possibly the sweetheart
who receives it will not be able to read it. But she will find someone
who can. And the typist does his best, knowing that his composi-
tion will be read aloud to a group of enchanted listeners. It will
probably bring him other customers!
IB Guadalajara the infinite variety of business, sometimes primi-
tive and sometimes modern, is as fascinating as any other phase of
her many-sided life.
The most exclusive stores are those in the central part of the city.
You may window-shop in comfort here, for the high arcades spread
above a wide, shady sidewalk that is cool even when the sun out-
side is warm.
You will find goods from all over the world. American products
are high because of the duty, and French, German, Chinese, and
Japanese importations are correspondingly cheap. In the matter
1 Mee-la&'groiis.
BUSINESS AND A BLOODLESS BULLFIGHT 141
of perfumes, particularly, you can be so luxurious for such a
small amount!
I found certain things rather difficult to obtain. Most of the
ready-made dresses looked as if they dared you to try and be styl-
ish, and it was impossible to buy a pair of shoes to accommo-
date my Anglo-Saxon feet.
But I had clothes made by a little Mexican modiste, who got my
ideas without the need for a pattern, and who turned out exqui-
sitely embroidered garments for a fraction of what they would have
cost in the States. And I began to wear braided-leather Indian san-
dals in my room to save precious American shoe leather. I was told
that I could be fitted perfectly in Mexico City. With Mary's slow
convalescence, however, I did not know when I would be leaving
Guadalajara.
The masculine visitor in Mexico may think of commerce only in
terms of cotton and shoe and overall factories, of which there are
many. Or he will translate it in terms of the enormous quantities
of automobiles sold, oil wells, cattle, hardwood, or minerals. But
to a woman traveler, it will perhaps seem quite as commercially im-
portant to be able to buy wonderful drawnwork at rock-bottom
prices.
Usually the vendadoras selling this type of merchandise come to
your hotel. Dark-faced, polite mestiza women soberly dressed in
black, their heads covered with the black manton. It takes time to
buy correctly, but it is worth it. For if you pay the first "asking
price,' you are immediately classed as a bloated plutocrat, one of
the capitalistas whom it is a joy to overcharge and cheat.
In the big stores there are "Fredas fijos, 7 fixed prices. But any-
where else, you are expected to bargain; and the more adept you
are at this sort of thing, the more you will be respected.
If, for instance, a saleswoman comes to your room displaying an
exquisite tablecloth and napkins which you are desirous of possess-
ing, the technique of the transaction runs somewhat like this:
She mentions a price which will be just a chance shot, to see
how gullible you are. You stiffen, drop the elaborate dinner cloth as
if it would bite, and gasp, A Ay, que caro ! ' (Oh, how expensive 1) Or,
if you can't manage the Spanish, simply gasp and shake your head.
She will understand perfectly.
142 GRIN6A
At least she knows then that you are interested. She will begin
volubly to point out the merits of the drawnwork. Look how fine
It is! How lacy! What workmanship! She is offering it to you at
such a low price that it practically is a gift!
You continue to shake the head, sadly. No, it is much too dear.
Well, then, a pause, and a deep sigh take it for a peso less!
No, you still couldn't consider it. But if you turn reluctantly
away, the eager question usually comes, 'How much will you give?
Tell me something! '
That puts the negotiation into your hands. You mention a very
low sum, a third or one half of what was originally asked. It is then
the saleswoman's turn to look outraged. No, no, no, that is im-
possible! And she tells you why, for ten minutes.
You shrug, come up a little, perhaps fifty centavos at a time; she
comes down. There is always the ultima palabra, the last word,
which finishes the deal one way or the other. And regardless of how
much of a bargain you think you have got, the little vendadora
will still have made to her thinking, a good profit. We Nordics
count time as an element of value in workmanship. Mexicans
count the cost of materials only.
If you are interested in the handcraft of beautiful glassware,
don't fail to visit the glass factory in Guadalajara. The word may
suggest to your mind a prosaic building with machines molding
and dumping out goblets and tumblers by the thousands, each
thousand an exact replica of the one before it.
But not so! The 'Fabrica de Vidrio* is old and quaint, the out-
side walls painted with a once feverish cerise, but mellowed now
into softer, more dulcet tones. Inside therfe are showrooms filled
with the colorful glimmer of pitchers and plates and goblets and
fanciful birds and animals, all of glass. You feel as if you were
surrounded by the fragments of a brittle rainbow. Here are cups
and candlesticks of deepest, most sapphire blue; crooked water
bottles of pallid green; vases and goblets of luscious amethyst;
bowls and wine glasses of vibrant ruby red.
The prices well, a glass plate costs ten centavos; a gorgeous
bowl may be as high as one peso. There are dozens of bins where
you can poke around and make up your own sets, always with a
reduction in price for quantity!
BUSINESS AND A BLOODLESS BULLFIGHT 143
Behind the showroom and the storerooms is a patio through
which peafowls strut and bantam hens fussily escort their miniature
broods. And beyond that is the long low factory where the glass is
made.
It is a dark, stiffingly hot shed, spottily illumined by the white
glare of furnace holes. Slender, sweating men, naked to the waist,
hurry through the hot gloom, thrust long poles into the round
maws of the furnace, withdrawing them with what look to be
fiery oranges on the end. The poles turn out to be hollow tubes
through which the workmen blow, whirling them with a skillful
certainty that expands the fiery oranges into glowing pink balloons.
If the balloon is to be a vase, a water bottle, or a cup, the tube is
rolled with one hand and a long pair of pincers applied with the
other, to shape the still molten globule into its ultimate form. If
it is to be a plate, the pincers puncture the bubble, spread it apart.
The tube keeps whirling in the expert brown hand, the pincers
guide it. Gradually the furnace glow dies out of it. The color
emerges: blue, red, watery green, or amethyst, speckled with
tiny air bubbles. Then a quick blow and it is released from
the parent tube which had blown life into it. The test of hand-
made glass articles is to feel underneath them. If there is a slight
roughness, no machine had a part in its fashioning.
There are towns in Mexico where the entire communal life
is concentrated on one industry. There is such a village less than
an hour's street-car ride from Guadalajara, the little city of San
Pedro Tlaquepaque*
Oh, yes, it can be pronounced. But if you will just call it 'San
Pedro,' as most residents do, you will save your tonsils a lot of
work; for those Indian names come from deep in the throat. It
is one thing that makes Spanish hard to understand in certain
regions where the adapted Castilian of the conquerors is still a
mere overlay upon a guttural, more ancient language.
San Pedro revolves upon a hub of clay. It is the most important
pottery center in Mexico. There are dozens of factories where
molds are used and where machinery plays a certain part. But
there are dozens of others where every piece is made entirely by
hand: fashioned, painted, baked, and glazed by patient, pains-
taking natives.
144 GRINGA '
You will see whole families at work, in the patio of a small
factory, or in their own humble thatched houses. You will see
little four-year-old girls and boys bending industriously over
water jars or cups on which they are painting unorthodox but
happy-looking flowers. You will see old men squatting in the shade,
mammoth vases between their knees, intent on working out elabo-
rate Persian-looking designs, which, however, are purely, truly
Mexican: as indigenous to the soil as black beans and chile.
Few of the Indian workmen use patterns. They rely on the inspira-
tion of the moment. And you may be surprised when you receive
a teaset, ordered very carefully with specifications as to the size
of cups, saucers, and pot to find that in your cupboard they do
not pile neatly, and that there are no two designs exactly alike.
The 'factories' are also salesrooms. And you will find yourself
in a world of objects which through the medium of pottery are
faithful representations of almost everything in the larger world
outside.
Extremely practical things, such as every Mexican housewife
uses in her kitchen; sets of those graduated bowls called casuelas,
cups, plates, clay stoves, water jugs, ollas, and platters for baking
tortillas.
Then there are the more decorative things, such as vases and ash-
trays; whimsical clay pig banks, foolishly and delightfully painted;
purple cows with smug grins and no purpose in life save to be
amusing. There are statuettes, busts of notables, bas-reliefs,
daggers and pistols of deceptive reality, and little figures showing
every type of native with costumes meticulously correct.
Those who like to think of the working classes as 'childlike
and simple' will rejoice in the sentimental birds and improbable
swans that adorn the humblest pottery cups and bowls, and the
heart-throbs that have gone into the badly scrawled words
baked along with the rest of the design *My soul, my life*;
'little dear*; 'Beautiful Lolita'; 'Beloved Ricardo.'
Those who are on the lookout for depravity will find plenty of
evidence in obscene clay monstrosities, reproductions of human
excrement, and pottery portraits of scenes that should be sacred to
the privacy of the excusado.
As with all types of handiwork, things are cheap. And you can
BUSINESS AND A BLOODLESS BULLFIGHT 145
have them packed for sending back to the United States, knowing
that the native workman will do a careful job of crating. So
brittle is the clay, however, that it is well to buy a few duplicates
of things you like the best just in case of accidents.
Farther out from San Pedro is the small village of Tonala,
interesting historically because Cortes encountered a blonde
Indian queen there and made a treaty of peace with her. Now,
alas, the tradition concerning her is almost blotted out. Pottery is
more important to the upkeep of the town than the memory of an
Indian queen even a beautiful blonde.
About twenty miles east of Guadalajara is the famous Lake
Chapala. 1 It is by way of being the Mexican Riviera; one which
lacks, however, the Continental touch. It tries hard to be sophisti-
cated, but I did not find the purple and pink stucco castles of the
millionaires either interesting or in good taste. Mexico is^at her
best when she caps herself with red tile, drapes bougainvillea
vines over her painted adobe panniers, and smilingly challenges the
world to produce anything more pictorial
The thing which did interest me profoundly was that the Aztecs
had lingered here for several hundreds of years, during their migra-
tory wanderings from that northern place they called 'Aztlan/
* The Place of Reeds.' They either conquered or made treaties with
the Indians they found in this region, and might have stayed in
this pleasant plateau paradise forever had not their priests claimed
that their tribal god Mexitli 2 commanded them to move on. He
promised to let them know when they arrived at the place where
he wished them to build a city and found a mighty nation which
should bear Ms name. The sign was to be an eagle that would
come to rest on a cactus, holding a writhing serpent in Ms beak.
Some of the tribe obeyed the dictates of god and priests, and
started out on another long, weary pilgrimage. But some of them
rebelled against leaving the place that was so fair. Today, the
blue waters of the lake and burial mounds on the surrounding Mils
are constantly yielding up primitive, distorted little clay images
that are thought to be mementoes of that far-gone time. The
Indians say that these small people of barro (clay) are those of the
Aztec tribe who would not desert Chapala, and for their disobe-
i CMh-pahlak 2 May-heetlee.
146 GRINGA
dience were turned into soulless effigies. They say, too, that the
fireflies one sees at night, drifting up from the marshy shores in
clouds of golden stars, are the spirits of those repentant ones who
are belatedly trying to follow their Mnsmen to glories that have
long been swallowed up in the tragedies of the past. 1
There is a small Indian village at the head of the lake that I
decided to visit by myself. But Dr. Walker would not hear of it.
'The last time you went out driving alone/ he said in his jaunty,
didactic manner, 'you nearly got into trouble. "El Catorce" is a
great dude, and he probably enjoyed your admiration of his clothes.
But the next bad hombre you meet you might not care about how
he looked. No, I don't think your John will mind if I spend the
day with you at JocotepecP 2
We drove from the village of Chapala along a narrow sandy
road that follows the lake. Now and then through the interlaced
greenery of trees and shrubbery we could see long primitive fishing
boats scooped out of logs propelled by triangular orange-colored
sails, skimming across the blue water. The smell of nets drying on
the beach mingled with the fragrance of lime blossoms. On the
other side of the road, in fields, bounded by fences made of piled
stones, small but powerful-looking cattle grazed, and white-
garmented peons dozed in the shade of coral-flowered tavachin
trees.
The farther we drew away from the town of Chapala with its
rococo castles and its air of pseudo-sophistication, the closer we
came to a Mexico unspoiled, untainted by self-conciousness.
And when we bumped along a cobblestoned road that led to
the plaza of Jocotepec, a wave of color and movement and music
engulfed us. It was as if we stepped out of the twentieth century
into the life of a hundred years ago.
We had driven squarely into the midst of a fiesta; one of those
unpublicized, unheralded outbursts of native enjoyment that are
the spice of Mexican life. The town itself was small, insignificant-
looking, with the usual red-tiled adobe houses, the oversized church
with its two towers pointing upward like the thumb and little
finger of a mammoth stone hand, the usual number of cantinas and
1 * little Lost Stars of Chapala,* in Good Housekeeping.
* Ho-ko'tay-peck.
BUSINESS AND A BLOODLESS BULLFIGHT 147
pulquerias, the customary street vendors squatting beside their
small piles of peanuts, wild plums, or beside green mountains of
watermelons.
But the central square was an almost compact mass of peons in
freshly white garments, shirts that were stiff with starch, and long,
wide cotton trousers that had been pleated in diagonal lozenges by
the patient application of heavy charcoal-heated irons.
The sombreros they wore lacked the high crowns I had seen
elsewhere. But the brims made up for the lack of height. They
were tremendously wide, curved upward at the edges just the
least bit, and two long black cords came down from the shallow-
crowned hat and held it under the owner's chin or dangled down
the back of Ms neck al gusto.
Few of them wore shoes. Their brown feet were encased in
finely woven sandals. But every mother's son of them in that
bobbing, undulating throng was carrying a sarape over his shoulder,
the kind you will see only in this remote Indian village, one with a
dark brown background of well-carded wool and a woven border of
vivid flowers. The boca (mouth) is ornamented thus as well. When
the wide opening is slipped over the owner's head, he is wearing a
fringed brown cloak, decorated with flowers, so closely woven
that the tropical rain can scarcely seep through.
There were mariache bands on every corner of the plaza, groups
of three to seven men, whose instruments were guitars, harps,
violins, and 'cellos. The gently mulling throngs gravitated with
silent enjoyment from one concert to another. One group was
singing a giddy ranchero song about a young bull that had made
monkeys out of more than four vaqueros (Mexican cowboys) who
tried to ride Mm. * Que risa me da! * (What a laugh that gives me!)
came the long-drawn-out repetition while the guitars strummed a
steady accompaniment, and someone in the crowd gave a yipping
grito and went into a sandaled shuffle, body bent forward, hands
locked behind the back.
Many of the peons carried pistols strapped to their Mps. Yet it
was an orderly, fun-loving crowd. They greeted us pleasantly,
hid their curiosity if they felt any, and directed us with the utmost
courtesy to the home of the Presidente Municipal, who was an
erstwMle patient of Dr, Walker.
148 GRINGA
The worthy Presidents a small-town mayor, was portly, jovial,
and very much in his cups. He had finished a six-course meal in
the middle of the day, and despite the heat was dressed in black,
with a thick gold watch chain spread across the ample rotundity of
Ms stomach. He greeted Dr. Walker with many embrazos, lusty
slaps on the back first with one hand and then the other, and when
presented to me, poured forth a torrent of beautifully phrased if
somewhat alcoholic compliments. I know he thought I was Dr.
Walker's querida. . . . Would I be seen abroad with Mm if I weren't?
But that did not lessen Ms courtesy, or Ms strenuous desire to
please.
He presented Ms wife, a smiling, plump matron, and Ms daughter,
who was dressed in the frills and flounces of a century ago, her
black hair piled high on her head, fastened with a huge tortoise-
shell comb, and covered with a filmy wMte mantilla. The reason
for the costume was that there was to be a bullfight in the after-
noon, and she was the Queen of the Corrida.
I asked a question about it the Presidente fairly leaped from
Ms chair. We should see it! And I should sit in the box with Ms
daughter, as guest of honor!
Those who remember my reaction to the small part of the only
bullfight I had ever seen, can imagine how I suddenly curled up
inside. I looked at Dr. Walker and managed to get a whispered
word to Mm. He shook Ms head dubiously.
Tm afraid you'll have to go through with it unless, of course,
you want to offend the Presidente and Ms daughter. It's a very
great honor they are offering...'
Sick at heart, I gave in. I asked for a fan. With that, I thought,
I could Mde my face if tMngs got too bad. For the rest, I determined
that I would make my mind a blank. I would look up, down, but
never at the torture in the arena.
As usual in Mexico the expected did not happen. The bull-
ring, to wMch we were escorted by a blaring brass band of bare-
footed peons, was a humble little Plaza de Toros indeed; more like
a Western corral, with a few tiers of shaky seats to give the sem-
blance of a stadium.
I managed to keep a bright, fixed smile on my face during the
preliminaries, when the Presidente made a speech, the crowd
BUSINESS AND A BLOODLESS BULLFIGHT 149
cheered, and the band played an introductory number. When a
procession of solemn-looking toreros entered, each with a bright
red cape, and saluted the Queen of the Corrida, I took a deep breath
and shut my eyes. For the gates at the opposite side of the arena
were opening. The bloody bull-baiting and horse-butchery would
soon begin.
I heard a shout of delirious laughter rise up above the clashing
of the brass band's cymbals. I risked one eye. And saw, in the
middle of the ring, a furious, spunky little bull pitching forward
and backward Eke an enraged hobby-horse, trying to dislodge
the encumbrance on his back, a white-trousered Indian, who clung
to Mm like a determined mollusk.
Around the arena he went, snorting and bellowing. One of the
peons flicked a red cape before him; the toro charged it, head down
and the white-pantalooned legs of the rider suddenly shot
upward and outward.
Amid a roar of applause, riotous laughter, and the blare of the
band playing a phrase of the Jarabe called the s Diana/ the bull
went galloping out of the open gates, and the erstwhile rider
picked himself up from the dust, grinning sheepishly at Ms own
downfall*
I began to breathe easier.
'Then they won't kill any of the bulls?* I managed to ask the
4 Queen* beside me.
She turned wondering dark eyes on mine.
4 Oh, no, Senora, not here. That is for the big cities where they
have toros that are raised for the corrida. These are our own
animalitos. We do not kill them for sport, only we tease them a
little to make a fiesta. Anyone who can ride one of them for two
minutes is given a present. 5
The affair lasted until almost dark; a jolly, homespun rodeo in
which feats of riding were exhibited, yanking a bull down by twist-
ing his tail, and of roping steers and horses. Not one drop of blood
was spilled except that of some of the riders, who took rather
nasty falls. At the end of the fiesta, everyone stood up while the
Mexican national anthem was played. Then, to the intoxicating
rhythm of the Jarabe, a young girl in red and green china poblana
costume and a slim, black-eyed boy in a charro suit whirled into
150 GRINGA
the ring and began that glorious, wild 'horseback dance' that is
the very essence of Mexican joy of Hying.
I have seen it danced since, many times. But nowhere so happily 9
with such swift abandon, as in that isolated little Indian town.
The sun was setting redly over the tawny mountains beyond. It
tinged the towers of the church, made the tavachin trees flame
with fiercer scarlet. It touched the white garments of the enthralled
peons, tinted their wide-brimmed sombreros with rose. Near the
finish of the dance, the charro's sombrero was flung on the ground.
The young girl, her black braids flying, leaped into it, dancing
heel and toe around the crown, and the crowd went wild with
applause.
* Viva chinita ! * * Viva charro ! *
The accelerated tempo of the 'Diana* brought the music and the
dance to a smashing climax. The straw sombreros of the crowd
sailed like white pancakes into the ring. The young girl and her
partner stood laughing, breathless, flinging them back the very
boards shook with the lusty shouts and yells of approval.
The pretty * Queen/ having tossed a bouquet of flowers down to
the young girl, turned apologetically to me.
'I'm afraid you were disappointed about the bulls not being
killed!*
I could only reply, most sincerely, that I had been immensely
overjoyed. But I imagine that the Presidente's daughter will
always think that I was fibbing politely about having such a grand
time at a bloodless bullfight.
XVI. OF
THE Guadalajara chapter ended. Mary finally recovered enough
to make the trip back to California and her John. I went back
soon after and married my John. But the lure of Mexico was like
an invisible rope that kept pulling, puling, until the tug of it
was irresistible.
Fortunately, John was just as eager to see the country as I was
to tell him about it. In a State where almost everyone is from
somewhere else, he was one of those rare 'native sons' of California,
and had always spoken Mexican Spanish.
We were offered the opportunity of making a motion picture
in Mexico, a travelogue, which should touch on as many phases of
life as possible. So southward we went, accompanied by a big
Akeley camera, a tremendous amount of picture impedimenta,
and several complimentary letters saying we were not from Holly-
wood.
Now it was Mary's turn to receive letters, describing places
she had not seen. For in spite of her intense longing, she had not
been able to go on to the capital.
There is so much of Mexico City that I am appalled when I
realize that I have to say something about it, and that anything
less than a volume will be totally inadequate. I would much rather
give you a list of books, beginning with Terry's Guide to Mexico,
and finishing with the delightful letters of Madame Calderon de la
Barca, who lived there at the time of Maximilian. Then you would
know that there is a legend to be found on every street corner,
a contradiction to every statement you hear made; that there are
joy and tragedy, ugliness and beauty, patriotism and greed: in
other words, that it is like every other large city in the world
except that it is entirely different!
You can reach Mexico City by many different routes. You
can fly, or go by train, or take a boat to Vera Cruz and have one of
the most thrilling rides of your life in a luxurious electric train
that climbs from sea-level up to the high Valley of Mexico, over
seven thousand feet in altitude.
If you approach it in this way, after twelve hours of startlingly
152 GRINGA
beautiful scenery that rans the gamut of variety from tropical
jungles to sparsely treed plateau land, you will be in the proper
mood for its cosmopolitan noise and bigness. But if you enter
by way of Guadalajara, you may be unpleasantly impressed by
the dinginess of the outlying environs, their closely pressed houses
and general air of squalor.
The impression soon disappears, however, and the longer
you remain in the Mexican capital, the more you wonder at the
stateliness of the buildings, the energy of the people, and the
determination of the city as a whole to be on a par with the other
great metropoli of the world.
Its natural setting is superb. At the edges of the vast, flat
valley, mountain ranges trail their brown crumpled lengths or
thrust spectacularly up at the transparent blue sky. On one side is
Popocatepetl (most people call it 'Popo'), the smoking Mountain,
a volcano that like Mexico is full of smouldering subterranean fires
that may only blow harmless smoke-rings or may vomit red-hot
lava.
On the opposite horizon is the companion mountain Ixtaccihuatl
pronounceable, but more easily spoken of as 'The Sleeping
Woman.' And all around the city are roads and street-car tracks
that will lead you forth to discover strange little towns with Aztec
names and customs that were old when Cortes came to visit the
Emperor Moctezuma.
At &st it is difficult to believe the census figures, which assign
to Mexico City a population of very close to a million inhabitants.
Your thought is, * Where could that many people be?' For the
capital has no skyscraper apartment houses there are too many
earthquakes for that and there are no sardine-packed tenement
areas. But when you start jaunting about the suburbs and travel
miles and miles through colonias and small towns that are now
included within its limits, the estimate gradually becomes believ-
able.
The older streets are narrow, the newer ones wide and hand-
somely shaded with trees. There are many distinct regions in the
capital; the governmental and departmental area around the great
square called the Zocalo; 1 the business district, where stores and
1 So'cah-Io.
CITY OF MOCTEZUMA 153
hotels are alternated with churches and theaters; the residential
sections, which radiate in all directions from the central streets.
And at one end of the Paseo de la Reforma, a wide avenue carved
out by the order of the Empress Carlota, is beautiful Chapultepec
Park, with its 'castle' that was built on the site of Moctezuma's
palace and which has always been the official home of Mexico's
many Presidents. There are things which you will see as a matter
of course. No one could miss them: the National Theater with its
glass curtain that cost fifty thousand dollars; the National Museum
with its famous calendar stone and its hideous Aztec idols; the
great Cathedral, the Church of Our Lady of Guadalupe, the curio
stores, and the intriguing booths on the Alameda where native
handiwork is shown.
The mountain air is keen and bracing, the nights are cold. If
you are subject to 'altitude sickness,* the height may affect you
adversely. If not, you will find that being so close to Mexican
stars imparts a buoyant lightness to your step that was lacking in
the languorous hot lowlands.
I remember that once, when John and I were in the office of the
Mexican Vice-Consul in New York City, the worthy gentleman
was torn between disgust and amusement because a lady tourist
had just come to ask Mm if there were street cars in Mexico City
or if she would have to get about on burros!
'Don't people read newspapers and magazines?' he demanded
despairingly. 'Will you believe that twenty times a day I answer
such questions as "Will I find anyone in Mexico City who can
speak English?" "Do people in Mexico City wear the same kind
of clothes that we do here?" "Are there any stores in Mexico
City?" "Can I get anything to eat there besides tamales and
chile con carne? " *
Yes, we could well believe it; for many of those same questions
had been asked of me when I got back to the States from my first
trip. I do not know how to explain the peculiar and continued
ignorance prevalent in America concerning conditions in the
neighbor republic to the south. Tourist travel is increasing as-
toundingly from year to year. The University of Mexico receives
hundreds of American teachers each summer for a six weeks* semi-
nar. And yet every day visitors arrive in a comfortable modern
154 GRINGA
train and exclaim wide-eyed, 'Look! Taxis! Paved streets! Tele-
phone poles! Traffic policemen!'
The first five minutes in the capital will answer most of the
questions that so annoyed our friend the Vice-Consul, and another
half-hour will answer the rest. Modern stores, exquisite clothes,
stream-line automobiles the town is full of them. As for English
being spoken, a tourist can get along in the capital without know-
ing a word of Spanish. There are several elegantly appointed
hotels where the suave, olive-tinged clerks will high-hat you if you
address them in the father tongue of Mexico. Almost every store
displays a sign 'English spoken here,' and if you want to go up to
the American Club, you will meet plenty of your countrymen. The
average Mexican, whether he be the man of the city street or the
peon of the village, has a happy faculty of being able to guess at
what you are trying to say, no matter how badly you mangle the
language. I know people who have traveled the length and breadth
of the country with a vocabulary of less than twenty words and
who have been able to manage all sorts of transactions, both
social and commercial.
As to the question of food, it is merely a question of what kind
you like and what price you wish to pay. Most hotels have their
own dining-rooms with menus printed in both Spanish and English,
and there are excellent restaurants all over the city.
But if you want tamales well, there are a few places that
serve them now in deference to the determined Anglo-Saxon
belief that they are the national dish of Mexico. But normally,
you will get them only after five o'clock in the afternoon, and then
from small 4 holes in the wall* that make specialties of such
Indian dishes as tortas compuestas, sandwiches made of tortillas
and filled with mashed boiled beans, meat and chile; tacos, fried
tortillas filled with highly seasoned meat; tinga, hashed pork or
chicken. In the Capital, tamales are regarded much as we regard
*hot dogs* and hamburger sandwiches up North.
It is impossible to tell you just how much you will have to pay
for hotel accommodations, for the rates vary with the location,
the amount of tourist trade, and with the monetary exchange.
But is is safe to say that you will pay less than in the States, and
more than in any other part of Mexico, Houses can be reasonably
CITY OF MOCTEZUMA 155
rented for a period of a few months, and servants are cheap. Any
of the railroad lines or boat companies will have reliable lists
with up-to-date price quotations, or you can write direct to the
American Chamber of Commerce, Mexico, D.F., or to Wells Fargo
Company, Mexico, D.F.
It is much better to have your money changed into pesos than
to try to do business in dollars. The rate of exchange is never less
than two to one, and sometimes almost goes as high as four to
one. The banks will give you the proper rate of exchange; the
hotels usually will not. You get more if you take silver instead of
gold, but it is bulkier, and you may feel a bit embarrassed the first
time you go down the street with a clanking canvas sack of pesos,
until you realize that it is quite the * custom of the country/
There is very little paper money used in Mexico. Too many rev-
olutions have made the people exceedingly chary of accepting any
money that does not ring w r ell or bite welL We were told that in
the early days some of the Yankee builders of railroads helped the
good work along by paying generously for things with cigar
coupons!
John and I arrived in Mexico City at dusk, having made the day
trip up from Vera Cruz. We wanted to find a good, medium-
priced hotel that catered to natives rather than tourists. And
after we had bargained with a couple of taxi-drivers to transport
us and our load of baggage, we took them into our confidence and
put the problem up to them. Where was the best place to go?
They conferred together at length. And then . . .
'Follow me!' one of them told the other, and off we went at a
breakneck speed, drawing up with a flourish before a modest-
looking hostelry on a side street.
Hardly had the first taxi arrived, however, when the other one
came hastily alongside.
'Wait, hombre! I don't think they will like that hotel, it isn't
good enough for them!'
They argued it out, hotly, while John and I sat passively and
waited to see what they would decide. The Nays had it. It wasn't
good enough. So off we went again, careening around corners on
two wheels or less, and this time pulled up in front of the Hotel del
Bazaar, which both of our drivers assured us would be exactly right.
156 GRINGA
And it was. The rooms were large, clean, overlooking the street,
and the prices were most moderate for the capital. And although
there was no private bath, the banos were close at hand and were
kept scrupulously sanitary.
The taxi-drivers were as pleased as we were; and as far as I know
got no rake-off from the hotel on account of bringing us there.
After that, they belonged to us, and we, most definitely, to them.
I will never forget the afternoon when one of them chased the
strange taxi in which I happened to be riding, peremptorily signaled
the driver over to the curb, explained that I was his patrona and
that he wanted me back. I was relinquished without a struggle;
and the old family retainer of almost a week beamed on me as if I
were a kidnaped child returned to hearth and home.
The next day after our arrival, we presented our credentials to
the Secretary of Education, and explained our ideas about taking a
motion picture that would present Mexico as she really is.
He was enthusiastically interested.
'Yes! We have suffered as a nation from misrepresentation of
two kinds: from the absurd melodramas that always choose a Mex-
ican for the villain, and from the pictures that tourists have taken
of the worst features of our country. I know there is poverty here,
and illiteracy, and conditions that are deplorable. But that is true
of any country, and the Government is making every effort to
change them. It is not easy, in a land as large as this; or with so
many various races. Our task has just begun. And it is no more
just to take a picture showing our worst qualities and label it " Mex-
ico" than it would be for us to bring back a photograph of the
slums of New York and call it "America!"'
There was to be a school fiesta in memory of ex-President Obre-
gon in the 'Palace ' of Education. We were cordially invited to at-
tend and bring our cameras.
It was a strange thing for me to see the bronze bust of the
friendly warrior statesman who had taught Mary and me to sing
'Estrellita, 5 and who had promenaded with us that night of the
ball in Culiacn.
Destiny had caught up with him. He was elected President for
the second time, by a vote as nearly ' popular ' as any vote in Mexico
can be. But before he could take the oath of office, an assassin's
CITY OF MOCTEZUMA 157
bullet had found bis heart. Whatever may have been Ms faults or
Ms political errors, his memory today is revered and cherished. He
had an ideal ; that of a prosperous, peaceable country, one in which
education was to wipe out all the darkness of the past.
The huge building sacred to the advancement of Education is a
relic of Spanish colonial times as indeed are most of the great
edifices of the capital. You can scarcely go into one of them that
is not permeated with traditions of romance or intrigue or epoch-
making history.
But whatever the great three-story building has had to its
credit in former times, it will surely be most famous in years to
come as the repository of Diego Rivera's genius. His murals cover
tremendous wall space, not of inside rooms, but of the shaded gal-
leries outside, where all the world can walk, and pause, and gaze
with wonder and reverence, or in some cases with scornful criticism.
They are arresting, somber panels, crowded with figures that to
the novice in art seem crude and stiff. But even the layman must
be astounded at the power, the intensity of feeling in them.
Rivera is part Indian. And over all that he has learned in Paris oJ
modern art is superimposed the direct, primitive appeal of an
ancient race. You could not possibly mistake his paintings for be-
ing French or Spanish or American Indian. They are distinctly
thoroughly, Mexican; simple yet complex, devious with symbolism,
yet as naively direct as comic strips. He is always the storm centei
of discussion in the capital ; he has probably as many bitter enemies
as he has devoted friends. But the magnitude of his genius over-
shadows them all. He will be remembered when detractors and de-
fenders alike are quite forgotten.
The Fiesta de Educacion took place in the enormous patio of the
one-time palace. Underneath the bronze bust of Obregon, a stage
had been erected, with an orchestra pit for the musicians. There
were seats for three thousand school-children, and I am sure that a
thousand more found standing-room. The galleries were packed
to suffocation with invited guests. The blue sky above was like a
stretched canopy. And when the crashing strains of the Mexican
national anthem announced the advent of the President and his
cabinet, the lively mingling of music, color, applause of clapping
hands and shouted 'Vivas' made a vibrant, inspiring scene.
158 GRINGA
There were the usual speeches, long-winded and thick with
oratory. There was one statement I remembered: * Without neg-
lecting the city schools, preference is being given in the present
administration to rural education. In 1924 there were only seven
hundred rural schools functioning in the entire land of Mexico.
Now there are over four thousand; and more are being added
monthly. We are determined to face and conquer this problem; to
incorporate the Indian into modern civilization.'
That was the whole trend of the program. Upward! Onward!
Mexico must be in the vanguard of progress!
Then followed songs by the assembled school-children, dances
from various parts of the country, and a stately pageant of mourn-
ing in honor of the assassinated ex-President Obregon. Our camera
took a pictorial record of the affair, and we were accorded courteous
space for the bulky tripod.
Later in the day we wandered about the great square of the
Zocalo, which is flanked on one side by the grandiose Cathedral, on
another by the National Palace, on a third by the gigantic Police
Building, and on the fourth by arcades and stores.
It is an enormous area, with no less than ten main arteries feeding
into it; filled with the clanging of street-car bells, the honking of
automobile horns, the gaseous wheezing of busses, and the inter-
weaving of thousands of human beings hurrying this way and that
in a hasty quadrille that is entirely at odds with the Mexican native
love of leisure.
It is considerably less picturesque now than ever before in its
checkered history. But as you stand here in the center of roaring
traffic, in an immense treeless space with palatial buildings dwarfing
to antlike proportions the people scurrying in and out of them, you
are standing on the very spot where Mexico as a nation began.
This, according to tradition, is the place that once was a reedy
marsh. Yet to it at the beginning of the fourteenth century came
the tired, wandering Aztecs, driven from the pleasant lake region
of Chapala by the relentless command of their god Mexitli. And it
was here that the promise of the god came true. An eagle, trium-
phantly concluding a battle with a writhing serpent, sank to rest
on the spiny summit of the cactus called nopal. It was here that
Mexitli wished Ms kingdom to be founded!
CITY OF MOCTEZUMA 159
Nothing could have looked less the suitable site for a city. The
land was high, desolate, none too fertile, and the best spots were
already inhabited by the cultured Toltecs who looked with fierce
contempt upon the savage immigrants from an unknown * place of
reeds.' It meant savage warfare; and after that, an enormous
amount of work to drain away enough of the water so that temples,
palaces, markets, and citizens' houses could be erected.
What an indomitable race were those Aztecs, with their feathered
casques, their jade nose plugs, and their ferocious bloodthirsty
deities! Within two hundred years after coming to the Valley, they
had subjugated almost all the land that is now Mexico, adapted the
culture of its various peoples, accepted such gods as pleased them,
and imposed their own gloomy pantheon on the conquered tribes.
They built in this marshland a city that was a marvel of archi-
tectural beauty. A city of painted pyramids and flower-garlanded
edifices, of wide, clean streets, and markets that made the Span-
iards gasp incredulously.
The city of Tenochtitlan 1 was intersected by canals, along which
moved a constant stream of traffic. Dugout canoes filled with pro-
duce came from across Lake Texcoco; bamboo rafts loaded with
flowers; pleasure barges of wealthy noblemen; war canoes of the
Emperor. There were sixty thousand houses and three hundred
thousand inhabitants when Cortes first saw it. He is said to have
exclaimed in amazement, 'There is naught equal to this in Spain!'
In this very space now called the Zocalo, stood the quadrangle of
temples sacred to the Aztec war god, and the towering teocali 2 on
top of which many thousands of victims were sacrificed to appease
the insatiable deity.
It was a hellish place, reeking nauseatingly of blood. No wonder
4hat Cortes demolished it as soon as he was master of the city. No
wonder that the priests who came with Mm determined to erect a
Christian church on the site of that evil, heathenish spot.
Into the foundations of the great Cathedral went many of the
stones from the war god's pyramid temple. No one knows how
many precious antiquities may still be hidden underneath its floors
and columns.
Paganism ended... officially that Is and Christianity began,
in 1525.
1 Ten-och-tit-lan. a Tay-oh-cdblee.
160 GRINGA
Since that time, the Zocalo has known much of human misery,
It was used by the Holy Office of the Inquisition for conversional
burnings and stranglings, and there was a Spanish gallows that
further brightened up the landscape.
The nineteenth century saw history made and remade in this
great square. The Emperor Iturbide rode across to the National
Palace in triumph that lasted only a year. The American flag
floated from above the building in 1848. Seventeen years later the
Emperor Maximilian saluted his turbulent subjects from one of the
balconies overlooking this space. In 1867, General Porfirio Diaz
was acclaimed here as *hero and patriot'; and in 1910 might have
heard himself apostrophized from the same balcony as 'tyrant and
murderer.'
The National Palace was the focal point of the revolutions from
1910 to 1923. Would you not think that the very stones would cry
aloud as you walk across them, *Be careful! You are stepping in
blood!'
As John and I turned aimlessly down a street that opened into
the Zocalo, I happened to glance into a lot between two dingy stores
where an excavation had been dug for another building.
I had a queer feeling as of suddenly seeing a corpse open its eyes.
For I was looking down on the uncovered ruins of what had once
been an ancient Aztec temple! It seemed as incongruous among the
modern but shabby office buildings as a turquoise ceremonial mask
in a garbage can.
From the base of a flight of narrow steps, a great stone Feathered
Serpent stared up at us with eyes that were disks of obsidian.
Flecks of blue and green and terra-cotta red paint were still visible
on the plumed scales of the sacred brute and on the carved columns
in the deeper shadow.
We found a caretaker, and were permitted to go down into the
excavation and take pictures. It was obvious that what had been
uncovered there was only a small part of what had been a large
temple area. The companion Feathered Serpent, who undoubtedly
was still holding his subterranean guard on the other side of the
steps, was under the street a few yards farther on, with honking
taxi-cabs, puffing busses, and clanging street cars going back and
forth above his ancient head!
CITY OF MOCTEZUMA 161
The caretaker did not share our amazement at finding a portion
of Aztec ruins situated thus in the heart of the city.
'There are many such places in Mexico City,' he told us. *It is
said that under the Zocalo millions of dollars* worth of antiquities
are still buried. And of course you know of the famous Aztec cal-
endar stone that was found underneath the Cathedral when they
were making some repairs? These ruins came to light when a base-
ment was being dug. The Archaeological Department claimed them,
so that they will not be covered up again. It would even be possible
to restore this temple, except that part of it is under the street and
part of it is under the next building there.*
It gave us a tingling thrill as we walked about the crowded
streets. Perhaps we were stepping upon the scattered ruins of
Moctezuma's palace! Perhaps the treasure he secreted, much of
which the Spaniards never found, was here, just under this fireplug;
or perhaps beneath this building which advertises an American mo-
tion picture a grinning Aztec idol is hidden!
Strange city that is built above the shallowly buried bones of the
past! That was first a marshland, then an empire, and which now
has a confused but determined idea of becoming a republican
Utopia. Its aims and ideals pop out unexpectedly like the Aztec
ruins in the business district. Lake the ruins, they are monumental,
and worthy of respect. Only, as the surging multitudes go by, in-
heritors of ignorance and superstitions that kept their ancestors in
bondage, you wonder will they stop and look and be aware of what
lies beneath the surface? The Government optimistically says yes!
That it will conquer the dark racial inertia, and will do it now! But
Time says in his slow way: 'Let me attend to it. It will not be
today, or tomorrow, but the seed is sown. In generations to come, I
will take care of the harvest 1*
XVIL AND
MEXICO Is kaleidoscopic. The fragments of which It is made are
constantly shifting to show new angles, new pictures, even though
the component parts remain the same. For every statement, there
is a contradiction. And no matter how conscientiously you try to
look beneath the surface, you are never sure of just where the sur-
face begins and ends. The things you consider superficial may be
deeply fundamental; and those you regard as unchangeable may
be blown away in a moment, like chaff from hard ground.
Your enjoyment of the country will depend largely on your own
capacity for enjoyment. If you are easily irritated or shocked, you
will shrink like a sensitive plant from certain sights and conditions.
If you are sentimental, you will have a grand time, for sentimental-
ity is one of the very life-roots of the land.
If you are business-minded, you may curse whole-heartedly.
For someone's aunt's funeral is always getting in the way of ap-
pointments, and you will find almost as much graft as in the United
States. It is of lighter touch, however, and more amusing.
If you are an interested onlooker, you will get your money's
worth in Mexico. And one small rule will go far toward making
your trip pleasant; be as courteous as the people you meet. One of
their chief objections to Nordics is our manners or lack of them.
Their tolerance is endless. But you will find it makes a great differ-
ence in the way you are received if you pay attention to such de-
tails as shaking hands in the Mexican way ; that is, when you are in-
troduced, when you enter a room where there are friends or ac-
quaintances and all over again when you leave.
Bargaining, too, is important, and it is advisable to refrain from
verbally waving the Star-Spangled Banner. After all, as we so
often mention in the States, if you don't like the country, you can
go back where you came from. Only a Mexican is much too
polite to say it in just that way.
In Mexico City there are odds and ends of things to see, and do,
and think about.
ODDS AND ENDS 163
There are Prisons . . .
Visitors to Belem are not encouraged. For the prison is mediaeval;
rank with an aura and an odor of unclean, terrible things.
* It is almost as bad,' said a Mexican friend of mine, ' as the prison
on Welfare Island in New York! 5
It is bad. But so are the criminals who are sent there. Degener-
ates who have committed horrible murders, assassins, traitors, the
dregs from the deep undercurrent of Mexico's complex life.
No one is proud of Belem. It was built in 1638, and has been in
constant use. But there is a new penitentiary in Mexico City that
would amuse an American crook and satisfy the soul of a human-
itarian. Visitors are freely admitted, and prisoners* wives come
with baskets of provisions which are only cursorily inspected.
The 'cells' are small rooms, which are not locked during the day-
time, and are decorated in any sort of way that the inmates can
afford. Some of the men have singing birds in little cages. Phono-
graphs are plentiful.
There are various courts really patios into which the long
avenues of cells open. There seems to be a great deal of freedom.
The men are permitted to make small trifles and sell them to visitors.
Monkeys carved out of olive pits are favorite conceits, and sets of
tiny dominoes made of bone are worth buying for souvenirs and
if you like to play dominoes on the train where space is limited.
There are schoolrooms, with murals by one of the prisoners who
is a noted artist but, unfortunately for Mm, a Communist.
We were shown the place where the assassin of ex-President
Obregon was shot. It was an open-air court. There was nothing
grim about the place except the bullet-marked adobe wall at the
back.
'How did he die?' I asked a guard.
'Bravely, Sefiora/ the man replied; 'he thought he had done
right. He smoked a cigarette and said please not to shoot at
his face, since Ms mother would want to see Mm after he was
dead.'
'And did they shoot at Ms face?*
The guard hesitated.
'Well they didn't mean to, Sefiora but one of the bullets
went in above the eye.*
164 GRINGA
We saw a young boy in one of the long corridors. He couldn't
have been more than twelve years old.
'Is he the son of one of the prisoners?* we inquired.
'Yes, and he is a prisoner too.'
'Not that little boy!' I cried, shocked.
'But yes! He is a Communist. He and his father were arrested
in the Demonstration of May fifth.*
'But a child like that can have no political convictions! How
long will he be in the penitentiary? '
The guard shrugged.
'Quien sabe, SenoraP Then he added, 6 The little one is well
treated here I am sure he is happy. . .'
And Lottery Girls . . .
There was a particularly beautiful lottery girl we used to see sell-
ing tickets on Avenida Madero. She looked like a princess in dis-
guise. Her skin was creamy, her eyes dark and velvety, and her
smile was enchanting. We wanted her to pose in an Indian costume
from Michoacan, and she smilingly consented. To pay her, we
bought some of her tickets.
'You will win with those numbers,' she told us earnestly; *I am
very lucky!'
The next morning she was waiting for us at the door of our hotel.
' I told you I was lucky/ she said exultantly. * One of the tickets
you bought from me yesterday has won a peso and twenty centavos 1
If you like, I will give you the money for it now.*
The usual procedure is to look over the winning lists that are dis-
played in every booth and small store on the street, and there are
certain places to go for any money that is coming to you. But we
gave her the ticket, and took the peso and twenty centavos, re-
marking that we didn't think she was so very lucky, after all!
We did not see her again. And a week or two later we spoke about
her to a friend of ours who was a clerk in a curio store. She laughed.
*0h, that one? No, you probably won't see her again. She went
to a woman who had bought a ticket from her, and told her that she
had won five pesos. She said she would give her the money, to save
her the trouble of going to collect it. The woman let her take the
ticket../
ODDS AND ENDS 165
John and I were listening through a very crimson haze.
4 And she probably never would have been caught, except that a
friend of this lady happened to have the other half of the ticket.
She called her up, greatly excited, and said, " Isn't it wonderful?
You and I have won five hundred pesos apiece!"
*0f course the lottery girl was arrested but she had akeady
spent the money. She had bought furniture for her house, and
clothes, and lots of perfume! Isn't it dreadful to think that there
are people so gullible as to believe a girl like that?'
We said yes indeed, it was terrible. We never did know how
much we won on that ticket which we so trustingly surrendered.
Or what became of the beautiful lottery-ticket vendor 1
There are Bridges Out of the Past...
At first you are not conscious of Mexico City as having an an-
tiquity beyond anything that we in the States can boast. It is diffi-
cult to remember that it was once the Aztec capital, called Tenoch-
tifclan, 'The Place of Tenoch/ for the chieftain who led his
people here. In the great Museo you see the famous Calendar
Stone, with its carved symbols of months and years, and the
horrible idol of the goddess whose image if you know how to
look for it shows that she is encased in the skin of a flayed
woman!
But even these and other relics seem meaningless in the roar and
clang of modern traffic. It is as if they came from a land on the
other side of a river, from which the bridge has been cut down.
There are bridges, however, if you will browse around and look
for them. There are the Aztec ruins only a block or two from the
Zocalo, plainly visible from the street. They are called * Las Ruinas
de Santa Teresa,* because it was on her day that they were found.
Then there is the 'Tree of the Sad Night/ in the suburb of
Tacuba. It is an ancient huehuete 1 tree, a giant cypress of
the same species you will see in the gardens of Chapultepec. These 1
hoary, moss-hung trees knew the pagan past and the Christian
present. Cortes saw them in the gardens of the Emperor Moctezuma.
And under this one it is said that he wept.
It was on that terrible night in 1520, *La Noche Triste,* when he
1 Way-way'tay.
166 GRINGA
and Ms warriors were drivers out of Tenochtltlan. The great snake-
skin drums boomed and throbbed from the tops of the temples
where sacrificial fires were blazing. The Aztec Empire was aroused
at last; determined to annihilate these white invaders who had
first been welcomed as descendants of Quetzalcoatl, 1 'The Fair
God,' and had then revealed themselves as gold lusting adventurers.
It was a black night of wind and torrential rain. The Spaniards
with their Indian allies from Tlascala, tried to make an orderly re-
treat from the city. But the bridges spanning the canals had been
torn down. Every step was fought for ; horribly, inhumanly. The
streets and ditches were choked with writhing bodies. Many of the
armored warriors were pulled from their horses, and their screams
were heard above the din of the battle, as they were dragged up the
steep pyramid of the War God to have their hearts torn out with
obsidian knives.
, ! How the beleaguered little army won through, is a miracle. But
It was a miracle of terrible cost. Only the merest fraction of that
once triumphant host finally struggled clear of the Aztec citadel;
men without muskets, without the treasure they had tried to take
with them, men with only a flickering of life left in them. Cortes
flung himself down under this great tree; and in the gray, windy
dawn, when the broken, bleeding ranks filed past him, he put Ms
head down on Ms arms and wept.
The victorious Aztecs, mad with joy, delirious with the blood of
thousands of sacrificed captives, thought it was the end of the in-
vasion. BuUit was only an interlude. Hernan Cortes took refuge
with a tribe who were still willing to be Ms allies. By a surprise at-
tack, he recovered the territory he had lost, and with it Tenoch-
titlan.
There is a street called Tuente de Alvarado.' 2 It was here that
Don Pedro de Alvarado, one of Cortes' captains, made his famous
leap that night of the dismal retreat. The canal bridge had been
destroyed and Alvarado's horse had fallen under Mm. He was
cut off from the Spanish retreat, was surrounded by yelling, blood-
mad Aztec warriors who were determined not to slay Mm at the
moment, but to bind him and drag Mm up the pyramid steps,
a living sacrifice to the War God.
1 Ket-zal-k6-atL * Alvarado's Bridge.
ODDS AND ENDS 167
They were confident that he could not escape. And so they
taunted Mm, and prodded him, and leaped madly about Mm,
savagely exultant. But Alvarado, burdened with his armor as he
was, planted Ms long lance on the bank of the canal and vaulted
across. It was a tremendous distance. It was a marvelous feat.
And it is said that even the cheated Aztec warriors cried out, * He at
least must be a god! No mortal could have accomplished that!'
Motion Pictures are Fun...
There are plenty of ways to amuse yourself in Mexico City.
There are good restaurants, a beautiful country club, a new
gambling casino that is extremely continental as to price and eclat,
there are bullfights on Sunday if you care for 'Death in the after-
noon, ' and there are several variety theaters.
Or you can go to the movies. The theaters are large and com-
fortable, and fairly up-to-date pictures are shown. Mexican stars
are, of course, very popular, but practically every Hollywood star
has a large following. Red-blooded dramas draw the greatest
amount of patronage; comedies are enjoyed, but psychological
* studies' are viewed with considerable ennui.
If you want to have a grand evening, regardless of what picture is
being shown, go out to one of the small suburbs where sound movies
have not yet penetrated. Here the old * silents s still prevail, most of
them lurid melodramas and 'Westerns/ with subtitles in both
Spanish and English. Incidentally, it is an excellent way to learn
colloquialisms and everyday expressions.
We visited a very dingy 'Teatro de Cine' one night in a little
village near the city limits. The audience was composed of blue-
overalled workmen, peons in white, women wearing rebozos, and
flocks and flocks of cMIdren, babies in arms, and dogs under seats.
There was a four-piece orchestra to * accompany * the picture
only the musicians made no pretense of fitting the instrumental
selections to the action or moods of the story. As the hero came rid-
ing manfully across the desert mesa, a dreamy tango was being
played. While the same hero knelt down beside Ms dying mother,
the orchestra was in the midst of that rowdy ranchero song * Alia en
el Rancho Grande,* with the audience supplying the vocalization
and the 'gritos/ And when the picture got to the hearts and flowers
168 GRINGA
clinch between hero and heroine we all stood up for a stirring
rendition of the Mexican national anthem !
The reaction of a small-town audience is naively juvenile. The
patrons scream warnings to the heroine when the villain is near at
hand, they applaud and stamp when the soldiers or Marines
or cowboys are rushing to the rescue, and they make known
their opinion of the 'heavy' by whistling a certain phrase that
reaches a rock-bottom low in simplified obscenity.
There was one comedy that evening where a fat man was having
a nauseating struggle with a plate of spaghetti. The audience
rocked and howled with delight. A little shock-headed boy sprang
up on his seat beside me and shouted to the screen comedian, ' Take
them one at a time, hombre! One at a time! '
The native sense of humor as revealed in a motion-picture
theater, is very much below the belt. All risques situations are
hailed with delighted whoops of laughter. A compromising scene
in a bedroom is a riot. A glimpse of a leg above the knee is almost
as good as a rescue by the Marines. And a half nude chorus girl
gets more enthusiastic acclaim than the featured star.
And yet right must be upheld in the end. The audience is
satisfied only with virtue triumphant and vice ignominiously de-
feated.
A few Mexican-made pictures are now being shown. But the
great majority still come from Hollywood, and are accepted as
faithful reproductions of life in the United States.
There are so Many Places to Go...
It would be too bad to go to Mexico City without visiting some
of the interesting places near-by. The roads around the Capital are
good, and cars are fairly reasonable when hired for a trip. There
are busses that make regular trips to most of the towns, and some of
them can be reached by street car.
One of the most beautiful of the cities within easy driving dis-
tance is Puebla; a sad city, but it is famous for its domed churches,
its onyx ware, its ancient pyramid, and its lacquered bowls and boxes.
Then there is Cuernavaca, sacred to the memories of Heman
Cortes, Diego Rivera's murals, former Ambassador Morrow's
home, and the Lindbergh romance*
ODDS AND ENDS 169
There is Taxco, an artist's dream; and there is the Indian town
of Amecameca, at the base of the 4 Smoking Mountain.*
At almost any time of year, pilgrims come here to climb slowly
up the steepness of the lower slopes, and to pray at the Stations of
the Cross that end in a climax of church, cave, and miracle-worMng
image. Wreath-vendors sell garlands of daisies which the pilgrims
wear or deposit with a prayer at one of the shrines on the trail.
The Church of the Virgin of Guadalupe is of greatest interest
during the week of December 12, when her own special fiesta is
celebrated with a weird combination of sacerdotal pomp and Aztec
Indian dances.
At other times the celebrated hill, with its coronet of painted
walls and double church towers, resembles a shoddy, unimpressive
street fair. There are numerous pulquerias and open-air restaurants
where tacos and the cakes called 'gorditos* (little fat ones) are sold.
Street vendors peddle everything from toys and cigarettes to the
silver-plated 4 milagros' that are miniature 6 thank yous' for a
duplicate ailing member of the human body that has been healed:
a foot, an arm, an eye.
There are rosaries and charms for sale, and everywhere you look
you see small replicas of the famous picture of the Virgin of Guad-
alupe, the original of which is enshrined in the church.
The painting itself is not done upon canvas, but on a coarse In-
dian mantle, or tilma such as the poorest natives wore in the
early part of the sixteenth century. Artists have argued hotly about
it. What medium was used? Oil? Water color? Several experts
have asserted that the true, startlingly clear colors were not im-
printed on the woven mantle of palm fiber with any pigments
known to mortal man.
At least twice during the four centuries that have elapsed since
it was hung above the High Altar, it has been removed from its
frame and the thick glass which covers it, to be examined by non-
sectarian artists of high repute. In each case the verdict has been
that it resembles in technique the work of Spanish painters of the
sixteenth century; but that the paint itself baffles analysis of the
eye. Whether it has been subjected to chemical scrutiny or not, I
do not know.
The Virgin of Guadalupe is Mexico's patron saint. She has led
170 GRINGA
armies to battle, she is accredited with saving her devotees from
earthquakes, floods, and plagues. The adoration and veneration
accorded her go straight down into the roots of Indian hearts. And
the reason for it is this:
On the morning of December 9, 1531, a very poor and lowly
Indian, Juan Diego, was crossing the hill of Tepeyac, which before
the Spanish Conquest was sacred to the Aztec goddess Tonantzin,
protectress of corn.
Suddenly, he heard strains of sweet music. And then, in an arc of
blinding gold light, he saw a beautiful woman, with dark hair and
skin, one who might have been a Princess of his own race. But
she called him 'Hi jo mio' l (my son), as no Aztec Princess would
have done. And she announced herself to the dazzled, awestruck
peon as the Virgin Mary !
She told him, in a voice sweet and gentle, that she wished to
have a church built for her upon the summit of the hill, and that he
was to go to the Bishop Juan de Zumarraga and give him her com-
mands.
One can imagine the fear and doubt and hesitation with which
the humble Indian went to do her bidding. Would the lordly
prelate give credence to the story of the divine vision? Would he
not be flogged for boasting that the Lady of Heaven had actually
appeared to him and spoken to him, the lowliest of the lowly?
He was not flogged but neither was he believed. The Bishop
Zumarraga was a stern man, a religious fanatic but he was also a
skeptic. He sent the trembling native away, warning him that
people were burned for witchcraft in those enlightened days.
Sadly, Juan Diego approached the hill of Tepeyac again and
was confronted by the same dazzling, radiating light, in the heart
of which stood the beautiful, gentle-faced Virgin.
She commanded him to go to the Bishop again. This time she
gave him for a sign of her divinity the instantaneous cure of his
uncle, who had been dying.
But stiU the churchly dignitary proved himself a Doubting
Thomas. He sent the Indian away with scornful, impatient words.
And upon the third day, the Lady of Heaven appeared to the peon
again.
1 Eelio mee'ok.
ODDS AND ENDS 171
*Go to the summit of the Mil of Tepeyac and pluck the roses
that are growing there/ she said. In her soft, gentle voice. 'Take
them in thy mantle to the Bishop. This time, he will believe.'
Juan Diego obeyed, although he knew full well that roses did not
grow in that bleak place; only cactus and thorny mesquite. But
when he toiled to the brow of the MIL . . he was almost overcome
by the bewildering fragrance of roses. They were blooming in crim-
son profusion, their petals wet as with a heavenly dew.
He gathered as many of them as his palm-fiber tilma would hold.
Then he went again boldly this time and demanded audience
with the Bishop Zumarraga,
The prelate stared down at the kneeling supplicant with an
irascible frown. That crazy peon again with Ms incoherent talk of
visions and a church to be built upon a pagan MO?
But when the Indian unfolded Ms mantle with shaking hands,
opening it as reverently as if Ms fingers were touching a crystal
chalice that contained the Host, those who watched Mm, cried
out in wonder and rapture. For a miracle had been performed!
Instead of roses, the figure of the Virgin herself was imprinted upon
that humble native tilma exactly as she had appeared to Juan Diego
on the hill of Tepeyac ; eyes downcast, hands folded upon her bosom,
and a golden light making an arc of glory around her slender,
gracious form!
This time it was the Bishop who fell on Ms knees, and who cried
out, *To the lowly hath the vision been given! And into my un-
worthy hands the fulfillment of the divine command 1*
There are Lots of Parades.. .
You are sure to see some sort of procession or parade. If it does
not pertain to the Church or some holy day, then it will be in honor
of the President, or a patriotic anniversary. If you are in Mexico
City on May 5, you will see one of the greatest 'demonstrations*
of all. For that date corresponds to Labor Day in the United
States, and the parade is an expression of the Mexican working-
man's newly awakened consciousness of power.
It is impressive ; mile upon mile of marcMng men, some of them
in ordinary clothes, many of them in the blue overalls of the laborer,
but the great majority still in the wMte peon's costume with its
172 GRINGA
complement of straw sombrero and leather sandals. You realize
then, If you have not before, that beneath the racial Inertia of cen-
turies is an increasing fermentation, boiling and seething with an
urge that is still at the mercy of leaders and politicians, but which
in time will blossom out into constructive thought and action.
Just now, much of the boiling and seething is about things which
cannot possibly matter. The gigantic parade which we witnessed
was mainly concerned with protests about the Haymarket Riots of
Chicago date 1886 ! There were dozens of banners shouting about
it.
* United Front! The blood of those sacrificed in Chicago falls
upon the Capitalistic Class ! '
6 All the people should unite in our protest against the assassina-
tions in Chicago, 1886!'
But it would have been such a mean trick to ask any of those
earnest-looking peons where Chicago was, and what had happened
in those Haymarket Riots! We didn't have the heart to do it.
Demonstrations of all kinds are regarded equably as long as
they do not interfere with the ruling powers. On this particular
occasion the Communists started a mass meeting, and were dis-
persed by the cavalry. Many of them were put in the Penitentiary;
among them the twelve-year-old boy with his father*
Fires are Exciting...
Mexico City has the snappiest fire-houses imaginable; some of
them are decorated with Aztec designs, and the firemen wear red-
and-blue uniforms with smart-looking leather belts. The apparatus
is painted a fierce, conflagratory red. The training of the fire-fighters
is along modern lines.
But there is always that touch that makes you think of musical
comedy, or of something not to be taken so very seriously. ..
A fine home in one of the outlying districts burned to the ground
one night. The Fire Chief was there with a dozen hose-wagons and
men and hooks and ladders. Everything was there except the
water. It seems that it was customary for the Fire Chief to call the
water department by telephone after an alarm had been sent in,
naming the district in wMch the fire had started, and asking for water
to be turned into the mains of that vicinity. If the telephone con-
ODDS AND ENDS 173
nection was slow, or the water department not speedy enough
it was just too bad about the house. And in this case, it had
been!
The Chief wrote a letter about it next day to one of the leading
newspapers. Would it not be possible, he asked politely but plain-
tively, for water to be furnished to fight these fires? It was so diffi-
cult when there wasn't any!
On a subsequent occasion a theater burned. There were people
trapped in a second-story apartment and when the hook and
ladder wagon dashed up with a great clanging of bells and tooting
of horns, it was found that the ladders wouldn't reach !
But with heroism and tremendous skill, one of the firemen
climbed to the top rung of the inadequate ladder, and called to the
people to drop into Ms arms. They did so, one at a time, and all
were saved. The papers properly paid tribute to the gallantry of
that man. But the fact that longer ladders were needed did
not seem to occur to anyone!
Native Arts...
The Mexican Indian turns the humblest thing into beauty. On
the Alameda you will see booths filled with the most delightful
pieces of handicraft. They have been made seriously, and with
due attention to detail but surely in the mind of the workman,
there was a smile. How else would a horse and rider of reeds be
conceived? Or tiny * costumed fleas, ' made of clay, inside a peanut
shell?
There are wax figures, exquisitely modeled, showing every phase
of native life; there are miniature street scenes inside of coconut
shells or gourds; there are boxes of scented wood, lacquered with a
paint that is secret to the Indian tribe which produces it; there are
earrings and necklaces of dyed and plaited horsehair, worked into
the semblance of tiny sombreros.
There are gourds of surprising shapes. Some are so tiny that
buttons can be made of them. Others are so large that they can be
used for fruit baskets. They are painted and lacquered in engaging,
ridiculous designs. Distorted swans seem to prevail, surrounded
by garlands of twisted flowers that defy all natural laws of coloring.
There are baskets, finely woven, and ornaments of silver filigree.
174 GRINGA
There are portraits made of tiny pieces of straw ; there are elaborate
scenes worked out in natural colored inlays of wood.
Modernistic artists are fond of calling Mexican work 'sophisti-
cated.' s l But there is nothing of worldly wisdom in these simple,
yet beautifully rendered things. And yet they are so definite, and
of such profound entity, that among similar articles from other
countries, you would know instantly which ones were from Mexico.
Mexican glassware is not at all like that from Italy, or Czecho-
slovakia; Mexican textiles are not like those from Spain.
In governmental and educational circles there is a growing
nationalistic movement. But it is only an outward expression of
what has been in the hearts of the people for many centuries. The
orator declaims, 'We must not imitate others, we must evolve
our own culture, follow our own destiny!'
I have a lovely painted wooden batea (tray) from Morelos
which, dated 1821, says the same thing. Only the words are
different 'I am myself, and always will bel'
Mexican Recipe
CORN ON THE COB
Cut off ends of tender green corn. Put them in boiling salt
water for fifteen minutes. When ready to serve, remove the husks.
This conserves the flavor, and is well worth trying. (Look for
worms before you put the corn in the water, unless you want an
added meaty flavor!)
CHOCOLATE
(For six cups)
Melt three squares of bitter chocolate in a double boiler. Add
about one teaspoonful of sugar for each cup. Add one half tea-
spoon of cinnamon. Add five and a half cups of milk. As it
conies to a boil, beat with an eggbeater until frothy. The Mexicans
use a special stick for this, which they whirl between their hands,
But an eggbeater will do very nicely*
ODDS AND ENDS 175
MEXICAN RICE
One chopped onion
One cup of fresh or canned tomatoes
One half pound brown rice
Teaspoonful chile powder
Three tablespoonfuis shortening
(Lard, olive oil, etc.)
Fry the uncooked rice in the hot grease until light or golden
brown. Add chopped onion, and when brown, cup of tomatoes and
chile powder. Add cup of water, and after that don't stir it!
Put it on the back of the stove or over a slow fire with a cover
over it for at least an hour, and let it simmer until rice is fluffy.
Add salt to taste.
GARNACHAS
(For six people)
In its original form the meat is venison and the shells are of
ground com (maza) ; not corn meal. It can be adapted, however,
in the following manner, and will prove most successful, as well as
novel, to serve as hors d'ceuvres:
3 cups cold chicken, pork, veal, or beef, ground fine
1 cup tomatoes
1 onion, chopped fine
I package grated Parmesan cheese
I green pepper, chopped fine
1 pound white corn meal
Scald one pound of white corn meal with boiling water, add one
tablespoon melted lard, salt to taste, and from the soft paste form
cakes about one half inch thick and about three inches in diameter.
Pinch each one with thumb and forefinger to make small dents.
Cook on griddle over slow fire for about ten minutes, or until
brown. Then cut in half crosswise to make shells, and scoop out
all the corn meal that is soft. -*-"~"
Put two tablespoonfuis of ground meat in each one. Add the
green peppers to the tomatoes, with salt and seasoning, stir, and
put one tablespoonful over meat.
Put the shells in a frying-pan with olive oil or other shortening,
fry, and baste occasionally with the hot shortening.
In a few minutes, remove from fire, sprinkle top with chopped
onions and Parmesan cheese, and serve while hot.
176 GRINGA
CHILE CON CARNE
One steak and piece of suet, chopped into small pieces
1 tablespoonful chile powder
(or twelve chiles anchos)
2 cloves garlic, chopped fine
(or, if preferred, one small onion)
" 2 cups tomatoes
Sage, bay, thyme
2 cups kidney beans.
Sear the meat in very hot olive oil. Then add a sauce made by
putting tomatoes through a sieve, the chile powder (or peppers)
added.
Add one cup of water, and more when mixture cooks down too
much. Add herbs to taste. The Mexicans use a whole kitchen
bouquet, and I recommend this method. Salt to taste. Let simmer
over slow fire for one hour.
Cook kidney beans separately with piece of salt pork. The real
Mexican way is not to put the two together, but to allow guests to
serve themselves in whatever quantity they wish.
Note: In places where the genuine dried sweet red peppers,
chiles anchos, can be procured, there is no substitute. The way of
preparing them for any recipe that calls for them is to scald
thoroughly, then run through a sieve to get skins off. Add hot
water from time to time, and the skins will rub off. Be careful of the
seeds and the veins they are the hottest parts. Use this with
discretion until you learn just how much Mexican piquancy your
stomach can stand. Chile powder may be approached with much
less fear. It is really very mild.
HUEVOS RANCHEROS l
(Eggs, Ranch style)
4 tablespoonfuls olive oil
I clove garlic, chopped up
One half chopped green pepper
One half chopped onion
3 fresh tomatoes, or small can tomatoes
1 teaspoonful chile powder
Heat oEve oil in frying-pan. Fry garlic and onion until slightly
i Way'vose ran-chay'rose.
ODDS AND ENDS 177
brown. Add green peppers, fry for a moment more, then add toma-
toes, chile powder, and salt to taste. Let simmer twenty minutes,
adding a little water if sauce gets too thick.
Fry eggs on one side only. Put on platter, and pour sauce over
them. This recipe is also excellent with the addition of chopped
shrimps, hard-boiled eggs, or mushrooms.
FRIJOLES NEGROS l
(Black beans)
Soak small black beans (or small red ones) overnight. Put in
large pot, cover with water, and bring to boil. Pour water off.
Cover again with water, add salt, piece of salt pork, and cook slowly
until tender. Some people add a tablespoonf ul of brown sugar and
sliced onion. Either way is delicious.
FKIJOLES FKITOS
(Fried beans)
After beans have been cooked until thoroughly tender, heat
one fourth cup olive oil in frying-pan. Add four cups of beans and
cook rapidly for fifteen minutes. Mash well, and let simmer fifteen
minutes longer. Sprinkle with grated cheese (goat cheese if possible)
before serving.
GUACAMOLE 2
2 avocados
One half chopped onion
1 teaspoon chile powder
(or green chile pepper to taste)
Olive oil
Vinegar
* Mexican butter' in its simplest form is made by mashing the
inside of ripe avocados with olive oil, vinegar, salt, and chile
powder, or green chile, and adding the chopped onion. It is excel-
lent for hors d'oeuvres, or as a garnish for a vegetable salad.
One variation favored by a certain famous Mexican movie star
is to add to the above recipe (minus the onion) one pound of seed-
less grapes. Another epicure advises, instead of the grapes, pome-
1 Free-hoh-lays ndy-grohs. f Wah-kah-molay.
178 GRINGA
granate seeds! Whichever you choose, you will find this a delicious,
piquantly different dish.
ALBONDIGAS l
(Meat balls: this recipe will serve six people)
1 pound ground beef
1 pound ground pork
Rice, eggs, 1 sprig fresh mint (if possible) /
Thyme, salt, pepper
Chiles, or chile powder
Mix the ground beef and pork together. Add one fourth as
much boiled rice as there is meat, add seasonings (the mint should
be chopped up), and mix well with as many beaten eggs as necessary
to mold firm meat balls about the size of golf balls. Possibly one
egg may be enough. The best way is to try the mixture by putting
one of the balls into the vegetable soup. If it comes apart, add
another egg.
Make a vegetable broth, using carrots, rice, chiles or chile powder
(one tablespoonful), celery, tomatoes, onion, garlic, spinach.
When cooked, add meat balls. Let them boil for not more than
twenty minutes. Serve two in each plate of soup.
CALEBASITAS 2
(Summer squash with cheese)
I pound summer squash
One half pound cheese
One half teaspoon pepper
One half teaspoon salt
One tablespoon butter
Wash and cut squash into quarters, cover with water, and add
salt. Cook until tender. Drain water off, add salt, pepper, butter
and cheese. Cut cheese into small bits. Heat again until cheese
melts.
This same recipe can be used for winter squash, baking it in-
stead, and when almost tender, adding the cheese and letting it
melt.
* Ahl-bohn'dee-gahs. Kah-lay-bah-see'taha,
ODDS AND ENDS 179
POLLO l VALENCIANA
(Chicken, Valencia style)
I large fryer, cut up country style
I sliced onion
1 cut-up garlic
I cup uncooked rice
1 can tomatoes
1 chopped green pepper
3 tablespoons fat
Salt, pepper, herb seasoning to taste
1 tablespoon chile powder.
Prepare chicken for frying, salt and dredge with flour, then fry
in hot fat until golden brown. lift out. In same fat (adding more
if necessary) fry sliced onion, garlic, and rice. When light brown
in color add tomatoes, green pepper, salt, pepper, herb seasoning,
and chile powder. Put chicken back in sauce, co%^er, and let simmer
for an hour, or until chicken is thoroughly tender and rice well
cooked. Add more water from time to time as mixture gets dry.
Be careful not to let rice bum.
CAMOTE CON PINA 2
(Sweet potato with pineapple)
4 medium-sized sweet potatoes
1 can crushed pineapple
1 tablespoon brown sugar
2 or 3 small sticks cinnamon
Pinch of salt
Boil sweet potatoes until tender, remove skins. Mash well, add
brown sugar, heat again. Add pineapple, cinnamon, salt, and let
simmer. Let cool, and use as dessert, after whipping well with
eggbeater.
1 P6y-o!au * Kah-m6-tay kohn peen-yali.
. DIA BE
THE street life of Mexico City begins with the dawn. Even before
the first pallor of the eastern sky comes the rhythmic clop, clop
of burros' hoofs, and the far-off cry of the milkman: *Le che!
Le cheP 1
If you can shake the sleep from your eyes and brave the rigorous
chill that is in the high valley air, the gradual wakening of the day
is an experience not to be missed.
Not all of the sights are beautiful. There are figures huddled in
dark doorways, inadequately swathed against the cold by a piece of
ragged blanket or a covering of newspapers. Thin, half-starved
dogs skulk into grimy alleyways and snarl at your well-meant
overtures of friendship.
Now and then a peon passes, wrapped to the eyes in his sarape,
and you might think him a bandit if you did not know about that
awful night air which is still abroad despite the near approach of
dawn, or if you did not hear his sleepy but courteous * Vaya con
Dios* (Go with God) as you greet him.
Near the market of San Juan, burros are being driven along the
quiet streets loaded with produce, and Indian women hurry past
with queer little trotting steps, a length of hand-woven cloth
wound around them for skirts, their bosoms hard and firm under
embroidered hizipiles 2 (blouses), and on their heads bunches of
wobbling, squawking chickens, the feet tied together, wings out-
spread in hopeless anguish.
Dark, almost invisible figures come trotting towards the flower
market, bent beneath enormous panniers that are loaded with
ghostly white calla lilies. In the wan half-light the massed blossoms
are like skyrocket showers that have frozen in the cold air. Atop
of them straw sombreros are riding, jiggling from side to side as if
embarrassed at sitting on such chaste magnificence.
With the rising of the sun the streets awaken to more activity.
The thin, pensive cries of the newsboys draw the word 'Diario ' out
into a wail that promises ill for the news contained therein.
1 Lay'chay. * Wee-peelays.
DIA DE FIESTA 181
Lottery vendors begin to shiver on street corners, holding out
bunches of pink paper tickets to the sleepy-eyed passers-by on
their way to work.
*Look, Senora, I have a lucky number for you today!*
Perhaps it will be lucky. The Government lotteries are strictly
and honestly conducted. It is quite possible to win thousands of
pesos on a small portion of a ticket. And, as John and I discovered,
after faithfully patronizing a charming vendadora who assured us
that she was 'very lucky/ it is quite possible to buy day after
day and get nothing out of it but the fun of suspense, and the fooFs
gold of hope.
Beggars, too, are early astir. Despite the stern measures which
the Government has taken to suppress them, they are constantly
at your heels with their lugubrious whine of * For the love of God,
charity!' Even though you know they are professionals, their
rags and their sorrowful faces make an appeal that is difficult to
resist.
Breakfast at Sanbom's is an institution. The building itself,
now a combined restaurant, drugstore, and antique art emporium,
is one of the show places of the city. It is entirely covered with
blue and white Puebla tiles, dates from colonial times, and has an
interesting tradition to explain its appearance.
There was in Mexico City about the year 1596 an enterprising
Spaniard, Don Rodrigo de Vivero y Velasco, who made a fortune
by establishing a commercial line of galleons between Japan and
Mexico. He built himself and his family this huge house, then
without its tiles, and continued to direct the newly organized trade
with Asia.
His son Luis de Vivero was the typical young hidalgo of his time.
With plenty of his father's wealth to spend, he saw no reason why
he should waste his time working. But the father, piqued at the
extravagance with which his son flung away money which he had
no part in earning, said to him, one day, *My boy, you will never
build a house of tiles!'
It was the Spanish way of telling the young man that he would
never be worth his salt; somehow it touched a defiant chord in the
youthful caballero's makeup, and he retorted that his father would
Eve to retract those words!
182 GRINGA
He applied himself with such diligence to the problems of expor-
tation and importation that he began to make money of his own.
With every peso he could save, he ordered tiles; each one exqui-
sitely made, each one carefully selected as to quality and color.
And in time there were enough to completely cover the house!
Even in those days it was an exhibition of sybaritic luxury. Today,
the building must be worth its weight in platinum!
Inside, there is an immense patio roofed over with glass, so that
the effect of spaciousness is combined with soft filtered light
undisturbed by sun or rain.
Even before receiving your order, a small cup of black coffee is
brought you, and a tiny plate on which nestle three luscious
strawberries, still wearing their green hats, and exhaling a sun-
ripened fragrance that is lacking in a colder clime. These straw-
berries arrive from Irapuato every day of the year and are a feature
of Sanborn's breakfast.
If you read a Mexican newspaper and there is no better way
of learning colloquialisms and ordinary Spanish you will be sur-
prised to know how the United States has shrunk in importance
excepting on the editorial page, where the 'Imperial Yankee' will
probably receive his matutinal basting with red-hot adjectives.
But in point of news, a California earthquake may rate a paragraph ;
an unprecedented hot wave in New .York, a brief mention. Hap-
penings of importance below the Rio Grande are the latest speeches
of the President of Mexico; the latest policies of the Chamber
of Deputies; the latest scandals in high life; and for the sordid-
minded, murders, crimes of passion, and strange complicated love
triangles, wherein love potions, witchcraft, and evil eyes are
treated with the seriousness bestowed on other sad realities.
By the time breakfast is over, the business life of the city is in
full swing. The steel shutters have been thrown back or rolled up
from in front of the shop windows, the streets are full of taxis and
private cars, the sidewalks are crowded with hurrying men and
women on their way to work. It is a scene of modem hustle and
bustle. The barefooted element seems for the moment almost
blotted out. Now and then you see a peon wearing a short black
poncho and balancing a tray of dulces on his head. Or an Indian
just off the train carrying a pile of sarapes for sale. But generally
DIA DE FIESTA 183
speaking, at this tour on the Avenlda Madero you will see more
hats than sombreros; more shoes than sandals; more business
suits than white calzones. And as for burros, the good lady who
thought she might have to ride one, would be forced to take a taxi
instead!
Among the friends we made in connection with our motion-*
picture work was Miss Frances Toor, editor of a most valuable
magazine called * Mexican Folk-Ways,* She is an American who
has lived in Mexico for a long time. And I doubt if there are many
Mexicans who know their own country as thoroughly as she.
Her acquaintanceship ranges from the highest Government
dignitaries and greatest artists down to the wildest, most savage
Indians of the distant sierras. She is an authority on customs,
ceremonies, and traditions of the people. She goes alone to visit
far-off primitive tribes of Indians. And never, in all of her years
spent in traveling about, has she met with discourtesy or has she
ever been in physical danger.
Diego Rivera has always been an ardent contributor to her
magazine. And it was through her that we got to know Mm and Ms
unusual wife, Frieda Kahler. She took us to call on them at their
delightful home in the suburb of Coyoacan. 1 THs Mexican genius
who is the stormy petrel of the artistic world would be considered
physically big in any country ; and as compared to the below-average
height of most of Ms compadres, he looms up amongst them like
a colossus. He has a huge girth, a large moon-shaped face, gentle,
unassuming eyes, and is usually smiling a little. His wife, much
younger than he, is a striking gypsyish type. She is of Mexican
and German blood, and until her recent visit to the United States,
spoke no English.
Rivera goes his way amidst the turbulence of political disturb-
ances, a serene gigantic figure. He is a Communist, and you will
find the curved sickle of the proletariat in almost every one of Ms
murals. He is deeply sincere about Ms beliefs, and insists with
childlike stubbornness on expressing them as witness the inci-
dent of the murals on the walls of Rockefeller Center in New York
City. But he is indifferent, or at the most amused, by other people's
violent reaction towards Mm.
1 Co-yoah-kan'.
184 GRINGA
Once after we met Mm and John had photographed him at work
on his murals, he called us up at our hotel.
'Come with your camera quickly to the University,' he said,
6 there is going to be a demonstration against me!'
John thought he must have misunderstood.
'You want me to take a picture of a demonstration against you,
Don Diego?*
*But yes! Why not? It will be most amusing for your cine!' l
(Motion picture.)
But when we arrived, we found that in the meantime, Diego
Rivera's students had formed a counter l manifestation ' in his favor!
So John took a motion picture of the towering figure in a round-
brimmed Stetson hat, a shirt open at the throat and minus a necktie,
walking smilingly down the street in the midst of lesser statured
young Mexicans and tossing banners.
Corpus Christi Day came on June 9. We had no idea how it would
be celebrated in the Capital. But we were invited to a Dia de fiesta
in the afternoon at the home of a very wealthy Mexican couple
who lived in one of the fashionable suburbs of the city, and we
knew there would be music and dancing.
From the balcony of our room at the hotel, we could look diago-
nally across at the doors of a beautiful old church, La Profesa.
And early in the morning, when bells began their irreverent clang-
ing, I saw families and groups of men and women and children
hurrying along towards it.
All of the adults were in modern conventional attire, except that
the women covered their heads with black mantones instead of
hats. But the children! Every tiny tot able to walk alone was
costumed as an Indian! Never have I seen such adorable babies.
The little boys wore the white cotton shirts and wide trousers of the
peon, miniature sombreros, small sarapes, sandals, and each one
carried on his back a basket or a wooden cupboard filled with
pottery or a wired crate. The little girls were decked out in gaily
colored Indian skirts, embroidered huipiles, and on their heads
were small squares of embroidered cloths, such as the Otomi
women use. Some of the pretty little Indiacitas had painted wooden
bowls filled with flowers. And each child carried a long candle.
1 See'nay.
DIA DE FIESTA 185
John and I got the cameras assembled as quietly as possible
and rushed down upon the street. We waylaid a mother and father
with three toddling youngsters, two little boys and a girl, and asked
them if we might take their pictures.
The mother beamed on us.
*Yes, indeed, Senora, when the Mass is finished. But you
should take a picture of the ninos in the church as well. It is the
only day in the year that animals are permitted inside.'
Then we saw that in the crate carried on the back of the youngest
boy was a very unhappy little chicken, who kept poking his head
through the wire netting to try to escape.
'But why these Indian costumes and the poultry?' I asked.
'Because, Senora, the day of Corpus Christi is sacred to Indians
and children. That is why ail the ninos of the city today will be
in Indian costumes and that is why they are allowed to bring their
pets to church with them; only the animalitos must be young too.'
Our cameras were not equal to the gloom of La Profesa's interior.
But we went in ourselves, and stood captivated and astonished at
the unusual sight revealed.
The semi-darkness of the great nave was wreathed with golden
fire. The blossoms of the swaying wreath were candle flames that
bobbed and flickered and dipped, and lighted up the faces of the
little pilgrims moving in slow procession from doorway to altar.
The high altar was barely visible through the mingled mist of
incense and candle smoke.
The droning chant of the Mass was scarcely audible; for the
murmurous voices of children, the shrill peeping of chicks, the
plaintive quack of tiny ducklings, the mewing of imprisoned kittens
and the protesting whine of puppies made a filigree of sound that
almost covered the profundities of religion's deeper tones.
All during the day the masquerade of the children continued.
Now and then we saw them dressed, not as Indians, but in minia-
ture china poblana and charro costumes. Chapultepec Park was
full of them. Their indulgent parents bought them dulces and ice-
cream cones, soda pop, and panocha. It was undisputedly their
day, and they made the most of it!
Our own Dia de Fiesta commenced that afternoon. We drove
with friends to the magnificent estate of Don Jaime and his wife,
186 GRINGA
Dona Elena, on the outskirts of Mexico City and were received
with gracious courtesy.
The house was palatial, the grounds a marvel of carefully culti-
vated beauty. The sloping terraces were shaded with trees, and the
sunnier spaces were dedicated to rose gardens such as I have rarely
seen equaled. The estate had its own private bullring, stables of
blooded Arabian horses even its own dairy cattle. It was like a
small but luxurious kingdom.
After a barbecue that lasted for several hours, the dancing com-
menced. One of the guests, Dona Graciela, had brought along a
group of eight mariache singers to furnish the music and to sing
ranchero songs.
They were all from Jalisco. And I knew, as soon as I saw their
lozenge-pleated white trousers and their brown flower-bordered
sarapes, that they could only have come from that little Indian
town of Jocotepec, where I had witnessed the bloodless bullfight.
They were delighted to think that I knew their home town.
And Don Antonio promised a dance for our motion-picture camera
that was *muy raro, y bastante peligroso.' (Very rare, and very
dangerous!)
There were also present as guest artistes the Cajnpobello sisters,
two of the finest dancers in Mexico, who were going to do the Jarabe.
They were striking looking girls: Nellie, the older, dark and slen-
der and Gloria, the younger, a dazzling blonde with blue eyes and
long yellow braids.
The mariache group sat on the marble and tile steps of the house,
facing a gravelled walk that overlooked the terraced gardens.
The guests found places of vantage on the veranda.
The first chord sounded, and the girls whirled into the fast,
exciting intricacies of the dance. Nellie was the charro, and Gloria
was a thrilling vision of loveliness in the spangled china poblana
dress, with its embroidered blouse, its red and green skirt, and its
rebozo crossed coquettishly over the shoulders and around the
waist.
You have not seen Mexico at its gayest until you have seen the
Jarabe. It is not an imported or adapted dance, such as the tango,
the danzon, or the rumba ; it might well be labeled * Made in M exico ! '
For it belongs to that country and no other. , It is a dance that
DIA DE FIESTA 187
goes back almost to the time of the Conquest. Its origin is doubt-
ful, even the meaning of the name is uncertain. "I do not for a
minute believe that it is called * Jarabe' (syrup) because it is so
* sweet'! I rather agree with a Mexican professor who claims that
the word is a corruption of 'Arab.* Certainly it has more of desert
fire than syrup!
It is a rural dance, a horseback dance, putting the various gaits to
music. There is the pawing, the trotting, the cantering, mixed
in with a farmyard motif showing the courtship of an insistent
pigeon and the shy modesty of the little dove. The music is a
compilation of old, old folk-melodies; and one of them, for the
step called the 'Paseo,' is always sung by orchestra and audience.
Not until the very last movement do the partners touch each
other. The whole dance is an evasion, a fast prancing, a whirlwind
of pursuit and retreat. A more moral dance you could hardly see;
and yet a certain Viceroy in 1802 professed himself * much wounded
because of an indecent spectacle called the " Jarabe Gatuna." ' He
tried to blot it out of Mexican fiestas by decreeing that anyone who
danced it should incur the 'penalty of public shame and two years*
imprisonment.' The spectators witnessing such a demoralizing
exhibition were to be sentenced to two months in jail!
But of course nothing could stop such a natural, joyous expres-
sion of youth and freedom. It is now a part of every fiesta, every
theatrical performance. It is danced at the finish of bullfights, of
picnics, and informal parties. It occupies a position of warm af-
fection in the heart of every true Mexican.
The charro costume, worn by the male dancer, Is more than a
theatrical conceit. It is a survival of a mode that combined the
ultimate in riding comfort with the maximum of personal beauty.
The word charro means 'horseman.* And in the Capital there is a
group known as the * Charro' organization, composed of business
men with pleasant incomes, who don their magnificent costumes
and ride in Chapultepec Park every Sunday. Their saddles are
silver-studded; the sarapes they carry are museum pieces; their
sombreros are very often so heavily embroidered in silver or gold
bullion as to weigh pounds, and to cost hundreds of pesos.
The origin of the China Poblana costume is romantic, and, I be-
lieve, historically accurate. It is said that over two hundred years
188 GRINGA
ago a Chinese princess was captured by pirates, and was rescued by
an English captain who brought her to Mexico. He was madly in
love with her, and tried to persuade her to marry Mm. Unfortunately
she did not return bis passion, and told him that she wished to stay
in Mexico and take the veil. So the brave captain sailed sadly off
to find some other sweetheart.
The Chinese princess apparently took vows in an order that did
not enforce the wearing of a black habit. For it was she who
evolved the beautiful red and green skirt and the embroidered
blouse. In her honor it was called China Chinese. During the
nineteenth century it was the usual dress of the country girls,
hence the second part of the name, poblana, of the country.
The applause that greeted the marvelously done Jarabe of the
Campobello girls had scarcely subsided when Don Antonio of the
inariaches jumped to his feet and announced that now we should
see him dance, and to get our cameras ready! He cast off his sa-
rape, and drew from the red sash about his waist two long, thick-
bladed knives. The musicians broke into a wild, pounding rhythm
that was like the stamping of feet. Then out on the gravelled space
the small Indian went, jumping into the air, clashing the knives to-
gether behind his back, between his legs, and over his head, without
once losing the fast, tempestuous step. Everyone gasped; for we
knew that the knives were sharp.
There was only one onlooker who was not awed by the exhibition.
Down the steps came charging a big white bulldog belonging to the
estate. He didn't mind the Jarabe, but this clashing of knives
struck him as being none too friendly. He made a leap and grabbed
the seat of Don Antonio's white cotton trousers. There was a rip
and a shriek as the cloth came away, and the bulldog very nearly
missed an early death by throat-cutting as the enraged dancer
whirled on him.
One of the servants dragged the dog off, the guests went weak
with laughter, and Don Jaime the host pressed a bag of money into
the little mariache's hand to pay for the damage to his trousers and
Ms feelings. John, true to the traditions that the camera must
keep on grinding, had got the whole thing! The high point of the
afternoon's elaborate entertainment, as far as the film was con-
cerned, was the look of incredulous astonishment on Don Antonio's
face when the bulldog grabbed his pants 1
XIX. THE
IT is not a Mexican custom to do anything by halves, even about
the weather. There is a very definite dry season, and just as definite
a rainy season; and when it rains, the skies simply open with a
generous-handed gesture and give you everything they have!
A good deal of the cloud-bursting is done at night, with sound
and lighting effects of a highly theatrical nature. But you can't de-
pend on having your rains after business hours. Sometimes they
come in the middle of the day, and the only sensible thing to do is
to make for the nearest cover and try to keep dry for an hour or
two, when it will all be over, with the sun shining as tranquilly
as if it had never gone under a cloud.
John and I always seemed to be picture-taking just when one of
the tropical downpours descended. But, although we made some
very bitter comments about the weather, and wondered why the
ancient Aztecs found it necessary to make sacrifices to get rain,
there was one storm at least that we blessed. Because of it, we met
Leon Venado.
We had our little camera out in the little town of Texcoco, to get
some pictorial glimpses of the place where the famous poet-king of
the Aztecs had lived, the Emperor Netzahualcoyotl, 1 as mighty as
his name:
Despite the gathering thickness of the storm clouds, the great
'Smoking Mountain* was startlingly clear against the menacing
gray sky. And along the opposite horizon, the snow-covered
'Sleeping Woman' lay in the midst of cloudy draperies.
We had tried to photograph them again and again, but weather
conditions had always baffled us. They did again that day. I was
just starting to say: * It's going to rain. . / when it was raining; not
cats and dogs, for my experience with such animals is they are
reasonably dry. It was raining great lemon-sized pellets of ex-
tremely cold water. We clapped the waterproof cover over the
camera, John got it on his shoulder, and I grabbed the camera
case. We fled for the nearest house and by rare good luck it
1 Nete-a-wal-co'yotl-
190 GRINGA
happened to be the humble adobe casa of Leon Venado, the finest
sarape-maker In Mexico.
We apologized for our abrupt entrance and our own wetness.
But Leon got up from the loom where he was working, and no
Emperor could have been more gracious in welcoming us to his
palace. He was a slender, dreamy-eyed Indian, dressed in the usual
white homespun, and it was plain to see by the spread of his brown
toes that he did not even wear sandals.
1 Your misfortune gives me the pleasure of receiving you/ he said
in a gentle voice. 'You should have a raincoat like mine.'
He showed it to us, a queer, bristling-looking garment made of
palm leaves, overlaid in cape fashion so that the water ran off with-
out getting into the tiers underneath. His wife hurried to take as
many of our wet things as we could decently part with, brought us
hot atole to drink, and then we sat down in Leon's workroom,
marveling at the fineness of his work and the beauty of the designs.
All sarapes are made of wool, carded and woven on hand looms.
But his were made on a loom that looked to be a century old. His
work, too, is exceptional. He cards the wool until it has almost a
silken texture. He spins it into thread on a primitive wheel and
dyes the strands with the care of the true artist.
He weaves his sarapes in two strips, each one twenty-five inches
wide and two yards long, and then sews them together. But most
interesting of all are the designs and the colorings that go into them.
I have one that has a background of jade green. In the center is a
large rosette of Chinese vermilion, the heart of which is a circle of
lavender with conventionalized blossoms of cerise, turquoise blue,
green and black. Around the edge there is a black border, which
serves to make very vivid some scattered vermilion roses, white
doves, and, for no reason, antlered gray stags!
I have another of his masterpieces with a background of pure
white, an Aztec shield in the center and a Feathered Serpent
winding around the edge. It was three months before he finished
this one to his liking. The agreed price was fifty pesos (though we
gave him a bit more for the extra work) less than twenty-five
dollars. If you are fortunate enough to have him make a sarape for
you, it will be worthy of a museum setting, and you can rest assured
that he will never make another one like it.
THE FLOATING GARDENS 191
Leon Venado is proud of his reputation as an artist. But he is
prouder still of being a lineal descendant of that heroic poet-king
whose name I will not inflict on you again, but who in Aztec times
was a combination of Robin Hood, Shakespeare, and Richard Coeur
de Lion.
I mentioned my interest in collecting folk-tales of ancient Mex-
ico, and Leon said simply, * I can tell you any legend that you wish
to know/
I answered, * We have been trying to take a picture of the " Smok-
ing Mountain" without success; perhaps I could at least get a
story about it?*
'Como no?' (Why not?) he replied. And then he told us in
simple yet beautifully graphic language the legend of grim old
Popo, and that other mountain of startlingly human outline, the
beautiful 4 Sleeping Woman.'
Long, long ago, when the world was young, the God of Creation
determined to people the earth with a race of beings who should be
fair of body, noble of mind, and who should dwell together in peace
and harmony.
So he took the flashing rays of the lightning, the strength of
mountains, and the majesty of the sea, and created a human form
whose name was Man.
Then he took the calm beauty of twilight, the fragrance of blos-
soms, and the purity of mountain snow, and he molded them into a
creature of winning grace; he called it Woman.
He set these two beings in a valley and surrounded them with
loveliness. There were flowers and birds, cool springs of water,
food that grew ready to pluck and eat. One command only he gave.
The Man and Woman were to remain in this hidden paradise. It
was their children who were to go out and people the wider world.
For many centuries they were happy. And then, slowly, dis-
content began to creep into their hearts, and they longed for the
outer spaces forbidden to them.
One night they crept forth from the valley and thought they
were unseen. But the mighty God of Creation seized them and
whirled them up into the sky. The Man felt himself burning with
a dreadful heat. He was conscious of being the center of a dazzling,
blinding radiance. And the Woman felt an icy coldness grip
192 GRINGA
her. A pale unearthly light encircled her. She cried out in terror to
her lord, 'Where art thou? I seek to follow thee, yet I cannot come
nearer!' And the voice of the stern God of Creation came like
thunder out of the great void of chaos:
* Oh, ye who have disobeyed me, behold the punishment that is
thine! Thou, Man, shalt be Hombre Sol, 1 and shalt serve thy
children by giving them light and warmth. And thou, Woman of
Beauty, shalt be Mujer Luna, 2 destined eternally to follow thy
lord, but never to be in his arms. Thy children shall look upon thy
pale face only at night when Hombre Sol has fled the western
horizon!'
They cried out for mercy. But the God of Creation turned away
in wrath. And so for many ages the two endured the torment of
their separation, which was the worse because at times they could
see each other across the expanse of sky, yet could never touch
each other's outstretched arms.
And at last the pale Mujer Luna cried out to the God of Crea-
tion, 'Oh, let me rest, for I am so weary! Be merciful! I repent
of my sin!'
The Lord of the World heard, and pitied her. He said, 'Let it be
so. Descend to the earth, and thou shalt have peace.'
So the tired Mujer Luna dropped like a falling star. And in-
stantly her form became that of a woman again. But now she lay
wan and white, her long hair trailing about her, and robes of snow
and clouds came down and covered her.
Hombre Sol cried out to his Creator, ' Surely thou wilt not keep
me from my loveF
'Nay,* answered the great god, * thou too shalt find rest. Take a
torch and stand beside thy beloved/
The Hombre Sol did as he was commanded. And as he touched
the ground, his body became rooted there. The torch in his up-
lifted hand glowed redly over the land. It cast its ruddy gleams
upon the sleeping form of the Mujer Luna whom he was to guard
eternally.
*And thus they remain today,* said Leon Venado, 'the two
lovers who disobeyed a god, and who suffered the dreadful penalty
of separation. Sometimes Popocatepetl is angry, and belches forth
1 Ohm'bray SoBL 2 Moo-hair' Loo'naJbu
.THE FLOATING GARDENS 193
smoke and fee. But Ms rebellion is useless. He will never awaken
the lovely Sleeping Woman from her long enchanted slumber!' 1
Reluctantly we left the maker of sarapes and teller of legends.
But the sun had come out again, brilliantly, and we were anxious
to take advantage of the light and spend the afternoon at the fa-
mous Floating Gardens of Xochimilco. 2
It was a curious mental picture I had formed concerning them. I
imagined flower-beds on big rafts drifting about a lake, blown
hither and thither by a gentle breeze. Nor was my idea so very
ridiculous, since I knew that in the days of the Aztecs, mats were
made of interlaced bamboo poles, covered with a layer of earth,
planted with flowers and vegetables, and poled along through the
canals of Tenochtitlan.
But we were both surprised when on getting off the street car at
the station of Xochimilco, about an hour's ride from Mexico City,
no floating thing of any kind was visible. The terrain seemed the
ordinary kind, made of good stout earth, and there was no hint in
the appearance of the rather shabby stores and the soiled-looking
adobe houses of the village that we were near water at all!
However, we soon learned that it was so. We were set upon by a
mob of shouting vociferous 'runners/ each trying to outshriek the
other.
'To the lagunas! This way, Senores! Look, I will take you to a
boatman who owns the finest canoa in the world! For such a little
price, Senores 1 Come! Follow me!*
We picked out one howler, quite at random, and pinned him
down to prices. His patron wanted three pesos an hour at first; but
after a few minutes of bargaining, he felt sure that Ms boss would
be very glad to take one peso plus the good old propina, which I
remembered from San Jose del Cabo days meant 'tip'!
The deal negotiated, he picked up our camera, balanced it on bis
head, put a camera case on each shoulder, and trotted off ahead of
us, while the rest of the mob turned its ravenous attention to the
next arriving street car. We went down a long street, hot and
chalky-white with dust, then through a back yard where a couple
of naked brown youngsters were proving that they were house-
broken, and came abruptly to the banks of a wide, shady canal.
1 'The Road of the Glorious Leyendas/ in Good Housekeeping.
2 So-chee-meeTko.
194 GRINGA
I had expected beauty and color. But I had not expected
Xochimilco; which means, in the Aztec tongue, 'The place where
flowers grow.'
As far as we could see, the long avenue of the water was shaded
by tall, graceful poplar-like trees. The banks opposite were marked
into small square plots, riotous with red carnations and white
daisies. On the somnolent brown surface of the water floated
thousands of detached blossoms; lilies, sweet peas, roses. There
was a little house, primitively thatched and wattled, close by the
laguna's bank, where an Indian woman, naked to the waist, was
doing the family washing, pounding a pile of clothes on a stone.
And closer at hand was the canoa for which we had bargained; a
long flat-bottomed boat, some fifteen feet in length, the middle part
roofed over with branches and canvas. The whole front of the shel-
ter was adorned with flowers. Our boatman, a typical Xochimilco
Indian, pleasant of face, barefooted, wearing blue overalls and a
shirt knotted at the waist, greeted us with a flash of white teeth
and a respectful glance at our cameras.
The name of the canoa went entirely around it. And no wonder;
for it was, translated, ' I-do-not-sell-myself , neither-do-I-lend-my-
self- I-belong-solely-to-my-owner!'
We seated ourselves under the canvas shelter and the boatman
pushed off from shore with a long paddle. Then, standing in the
stem, he propelled the long narrow craft silently down the cool,
sunflecked highway of the canal.
It was like something experienced in a dream. There was magic
about it. From either shore the slender trees cast their reflections
into the water before us. Our boat slid across the wriggling pat-
terns and whispered sibilantly as it cleft through a carpet of purple
water hyacinths. To the right and left of us were little garden
patches where white-clad Indians were at work, hoeing, weeding,
cutting blossoms. Narrower water lanes led off between these
small plots of land. We were in a veritable liquid labyrinth. The
small patches of ground were curiously planted with calla lilies and
corn, growing side by side; carnations and onions, violets and leeks,
tuberoses and cabbages. Was it a symbolical alliance of body and
soul, we wondered? We asked our boatman about it, but he had
no ideas as to why it should be. Inside, he was probably thinking,
THE FLOATING GARDENS 195
* Why not carnations and onions together? Dios mio, these crazy
Gringos!'
Suddenly I realized that none of the gardens were floating. At
least not hither and yon. I asked the owner of *I-do-not-sell-my-
self . . .* about it. He looked rather puzzled.
*But yes, Senora, they float.*
*But they aren't moving around I*
That amused him.
*No, Senora, the tree roots anchor them. That is what they are
there for. And it has been so long now since they were chinampas l
(rafts) that they have become quite solid.' He paused a moment,
* I have seen one of them break loose. Once when there was a great
storm I saw it. It was a chinampa of daisies, and it caine and
clogged up the canalita of San Jose. 5
'Then what happened?* I asked.
*The owner came in his canoa, and his friends came in their
canoas, and they took the margaritas back where they belonged.*
We were drifting down a page of history that was written more
than six hundred years ago, and has had as yet no break in the
steady telling of its story. Originally, this marshy land was oc-
cupied by an aquatic tribe of Indians who had maintained their
independence probably because no one seriously wanted the
swampy region in which they lived. But the Aztecs never passed
up the chance of conquering a tribe. They fought the Xochimil-
cans, and demanded from them an enormous tribute of grain,
flowers, and vegetables.
The hapless aborigines, with very little solid land on which to
grow the produce demanded, hit upon the expedient of the chinam-
pas, or garden rafts. Little by little the rafts became part of each
other and part of the marshy embankments, further anchored with
tree roots. Now, unless one breaks away in the manner described
by our friend, they are solid pieces of earth.
We turned into the main canal and found ourselves in the center
of dense traffic. Other flat-bottomed canoas passed, each one with
its floral trimming. Some of them were occupied by Mexican fam-
ilies having an aquatic picnic. Groups of laughing young men,
drinking quantities of beer, filled others. In some, phonographs
196 GRINGA
were playing. Plump lovers, hand in hand, sat sentimentally close
together, and stared out across the interlacing reflections with ab-
sorbed, vacuous smiles.
With an outburst of song a boat of musicians drifted past, asking
us if they could play us a little piece. There was a cornet, a drum,
a violin, and a guitar. They sang 'Borrachita' (Little Drunkard),
while ail the other canoas with their passengers clustered around to
listen.
A very small and extremely narrow dugout canoa shot across owe
blunt bow like an alligator on the way to a wedding, for it was
completely filled with masses of flowers; the most fragrant sweet
peas, "carnations, roses, poppies, and tuberoses. I bought ex-
travagantly from the Indian woman, whose weight pressed the
shallow craft almost down to the water's edge. She filled my arms
with the glowing, multi-colored bunches; and in return, I parted
with forty centavos!
A little farther on, a floating restaurant hailed us. It was a flat-
bottomed canoa, like our own, and the good-natured-looking
cocinera had a little brasero with its charcoal filling and its clay
platter, ready to take short orders for beans, eggs, chicken, tacos,
or rice. Under a cover of cool wet sacks she had bottles of beer,
soda pop, and a large keg of pulque.
When I signaled her to come nearer, she slid skillfully alongside,
and the popcorny aromas of the toasted tortillas blotted out for the
moment the fragrance of the flowers.
She spread a red-and-white checkered tablecloth over a little
table, hoisted it into our boat, and proceeded to cook us an ap-
petizing meal, while another canoa filled with musicians drifted past
singing 'Mi Viejo Amor' (My Old Love), and the redness of the
setting sun cut through the tall, lacy network of the trees and
stained the waters of the canal with molten gold and dusky orange.
It was getting dark when our boatmlp turned back into the side
canal where we had found him. The tall trees that lined the banks
were like dark, thin sentinels, whose task was to guard sleeping
flower princesses. Fireflies darted amongst the branches and be-
came confused with stars. The cool breath of the evening was
freighted with blossom scents and the more homely odors of Indian
suppers cooking. From the tiny houses set back in the curved
THE FLOATING GARDENS 197
greenery lights gleamed and soft voices chattered of small, intimate,
workaday things.
Xochimilco is not a Coney Island exhibit it is not a tourist
'display.' The Indians live there now as they have lived for the
last six centuries, cultivating the soil of their little 'floating gar-
dens,' making a nightly trip down the long canal to the market of
Santa Anita so that the dwellers of Mexico City may have freshly
picked vegetables and freshly cut flowers.
As we climbed aboard the street car that would take us clanging
and jolting back to the crowded streets of the capital, we sighed.
For a little while we had been living in a dream; in a world that
savored of fantasy and childlike make-believe.
And yet, the Indian boatman would pole his long, flower-gar-
landed canoa that neither lent itself nor sold itself, back to what-
ever palm-thatched hut was his on some little hidden canalita.
Perhaps as he ate his supper of black beans and tortillas he would
tell Ms dark-eyed wife and his small wondering children about the
curious Gringos he had carried that day. Perhaps he would illus-
trate how they took pictures of everything (making the Mexican
gesture for turning a camera crank) and repeat the queer questions
they had asked. Why were carnations and onions planted side by
side? Why indeed!
*Que cosal'
XX,
THEBB are as many religious fiestas in Mexico as there are days in
the year. And in no two villages will you find them celebrated
exactly alike. The old Indian rituals still prevail under their veneer
of Christianity; and very often the countenances of the ancient
gods are so clearly visible through the holy varnish as almost to
obliterate the gentler lineaments of Catholic saints and doctrines.
The Mexican Indian is passive, but stubborn. He accepted the
tenets of the religion brought by his white conquerors but he
kept his old ones too. He sees nothing illogical in setting an Aztec
idol behind a sculptured saint in a church are they not both
servants of the Supreme God? Like as not the Spanish Santo can-
not speak the Indian language; he will need an interpreter; there-
fore, it is well to have los viejos (the old ones) in the church as
well.
Christmas and Easter are two festivals for which Aztec mythol-
ogy had no equivalent. But they were welcomed, nevertheless.
The birth of Christ in the manger was so understandable; so beauti-
fully humble and human. As for Easter the infinite sorrow of
betrayal and the physical agonies of the Crucifixion appealed to
the deep-rooted tristeza of the Indian.
We learned from our friend Frances Toor, whom by that time we
were calling by her Mexican nickname of 'Paca/ that a Govern-
ment permit had been issued the natives of Ixtapalapa l to give a
Passion Play which, before the closing of the churches, used to be a
feature of the Easter ceremonies all through Mexico.
We had with us at that time a tall, blue-eyed Englishman, a
friend of ours from a banana farm in Guatemala, so tall that the
natives called him *Senor Monaca' which is a variety of palm
tree. He was spending his vacation in Mexico City, and he was
most anxious to see the 'Semana Santa' (Holy Week) ceremonies.
So we first went out by street car to the little town that was an
hour's ride from the Zocalo, and bargained with an Indian family
who lived near the church for a room in their house. Otherwise, we
1 Eex-tah-pah-lah'pak.
HECTIC EASTER 199
would have to come into the capital each night. There was nothing
even resembling a hotel in the village.
Early in the morning of Holy Thursday, our taxi-drivers were
waiting for us in front of the Hotel del Bazaar.
The sun had not yet touched our street balcony. And as we
descended the tiled stairway of the patio, the little orange trees
and the bubbling fountain still lay in a well of cool, fragrant
shadow. Outside, a yellow glimmer of light trickled down across
carved Spanish doorways and shuttered windows in streams of
melted topaz.
As we paused to load the cars with cameras and film cases, two
barefooted Indians passed us in the rhythmic run of the native
burden-bearer. A man came first, his black hair and bent shoulders
hidden under a mountainous sheath of white calla lilies, whose
quivering open mouths seemed to catch the dripping sunlight and
flick it upward again from golden tongues. The woman came close
behind, her back mounded high with deep red carnations, whose
perfume eddied around her like the swirling current of a stream.
The roads leading out of the city were crowded with all sorts of
vehicles, ranging from modern automobiles to primitive creaking
ox-carts. And when we reached our destination, the plaza of the
little Aztec town was already a crush of Indian pilgrims, natives of
the place, and visitors from the capital.
A feel of electric excitement was in the air. The large walled space
in front of the church, called the atrium, was Eke a rapidly filling
lake, fed with bright-colored rivers of humanity. Peon families with
burros almost hidden by rolls of matting were setting up impro-
vised housekeeping in every available inch of space around the
enclosure. Wild-looking Indians, hatless, barefooted, dressed in
strange embroidered garments of ancient style, pushed their way
silently and determinedly towards the well-nigh invisible door of
the sanctuary.
No bells were ringing. But there was a curious persistent rattling
sound from the church roof. The sacristan and his assistants were
striding back and forth up there, high above the crowd, whirling
great ratchets that gave forth a dry, rasping noise. Until the Satur-
day of Glory these unwieldy wooden matracas l would continue
1 Mah-trdh-kalis.
200 GRINGA
to be used. They represented the breaking of the bones of Judas.
We presented our letters of Introduction to the Presldente Mu-
nicipal, and asked for permission to take motion pictures of the
ceremonies. He was polite, but rather dubious.
'The Indians do not like to have the Pasion photographed/ he
told us, 'and they can be very ugly when they are interfered with/
We explained our connection with the Department of Education,
in Mexico City. He smiled, doubtfully.
* I don't think these Indians have ever heard of it. They only
know that people from the city laugh at them, and they also be-
lieve that their pictures are used to put on cigarette packages!
. . . God knows why! But/ he went on after a pause, * I am willing
to assist you in every way I can. I will give you an official permis-
sion and police protection/
We blinked a little at that. Police protection? A cordon of
uniformed officers about our cameras? We didn't like the idea, and
said so. The Presidente Municipal was firm, however.
'Senores, you do not know the temper of these Indians when
they are aroused. The Pasion is real to them, and sometimes they
lose themselves in acting it out. There have been two or three un-
fortunate cases where the man representing Jesus Cristo was
actually crucified. The Government has put a stop to such bar-
baridades. But one still has to be very careful about interfering in
any way/
We made our way to a little fonda (restaurant) to partake of
black beans and coffee. Paca joined us, and our tall English
friend, John F.
'How in the world are we going to take motion pictures with a
gang of policemen around us?' I demanded indignantly.
And just then, a very small officer, with bristling mustachios
and an oversized six-shooter, peered around the room, approached
us, and saluted solemnly.
* Senores, I am here! I am the police!*
And that was our promised 'protection'!
The sturdy little fellow stood possibly as high as my chin, and
came up almost to John's shoulder. As for our tall English friend,
he could stretch his arm over our protector's head without even
touching the top of the official cap!
HECTIC EASTER 201
The front of the great church was almost hidden by an artificial
hill, constructed of a timber scaffolding covered over with branches
and bamboo and sugar-cane stalks, to represent Golgotha. A
wooden ramp went upward in a zigzag path to a large platform
on the top.
All that day the throngs of people increased. They jammed the
huge outdoor space of the atrium so that breathing was difficult.
The air was hot, dust-filled. Always there was the dry, rattling
sound of the matracas from the church roof. From our vantage-
point on the stone wall of the enclosure, we looked down on a mov-
ing, restless sea of brown faces, round white sombreros, the flicker-
ing colors of sarapes, and the brilliant blues, magentas, greens, and
reds of women's dresses.
The poor little policeman was constantly getting lost in the
crowd. He kept trying to push people back from around our cam-
era, then he would himself be inundated, and 'Senor Monaca*
would go pushing into the human jam to rescue Mm.
So far our cameras met with no objection. Everyone was inter-
ested, anxious to be helpful, and if we had charged ten centavos for
everyone we permitted to look through the finder, we would have
made considerably more than enough to pay our room rent for
Holy Week!
During the afternoon, the Passion Play began. From behind the
church we heard loud, resonant blasts that had a queer Old-World
sound. And out into the packed atrium came riding a troop of
'centurions,' costumed in dresses of red and green and gold, their
faces covered with purple veils; and they were blowing lustily
upon conch shells!
They charged their decorated horses remorselessly through the
packed throng, having become for the time being brutal Roman
soldiers. It was easy to say to yourself, 'They are only humble
Indians of the fields. After Holy Week they will go back to their
thatched houses and their milpas of corn...*
But the metamorphosis was too great. All the latent cruelty and
pride of their ancient warlike blood had leaped forth under the
stimulus of theatrical authority.
They went galloping full tilt through the crowded atrium, the
Red Sea of humanity pressing back on itself to open a terrified
202 GRINGA
path before the plunging hoofs of the horses. The centurions circled,
then dashed out into the sunlit streets, their barbaric cloaks stream-
ing behind them, their helmets glittering in the light. They were
to search for Him. To bring Him back from the Garden of Geth-
semane.
'Why do they wear purple over their faces?' I shouted above
the blasts of conch shells and the dry crackle of the huge matracas.
Our little policeman was clinging to the tall *Senor Monaca' as
to a landmark.
'It shows that they are Moors, SenoraP
'Moors?' I echoed. *I thought they were Roman centurions!'
4 Si, Senora, the centurianos were Moors!'
Regardless of the fact that no Mexican Indian has ever seen a
Moor, he has very definite ideas concerning him. From the stories
of Spanish battles with the Moslem infidels, he has evolved the idea
that since the Moors were the enemies of Christianity, they must
have also been the personal enemies of Christ. The centurions were
His persecutors therefore they must have been Moors!
With the approach of evening, visitors from the city gradually
drifted away. The darkening streets blossomed with the gasoline
flares of food vendors and the smoky glow of braseros where pil-
grim families clustered to prepare their humble suppers.
Suddenly, from a narrow, unlighted lane came the eerie, blood-
stirring blast of the conch shells. Then the somber throb of a drum ;
an Aztec goatskin drum; and the faint, chilly wail of a clay flute
that might have cried thus a thousand years ago!
The throngs stirred, supper forgotten. People began to move in
a slow, resistless wave that carried us along with the rest. A mur-
mur of heart-breaking pain came from thousands of lips. Christ had
been found! The centurions were bringing Him!
Crushed against the adobe walls that bordered the dusty street
we heard the conch shells and drum and flute come nearer; saw the
darkness give way before the lurid glow of torches that flung
writhing, macabre shadows on white walls and red-tiled roofs. A
queer, pungent fragrance was seeping through the dusty air; the
smell of copal incense that was once sacred to the gods of ancient
Mexico.
Behind the bobbing glare of the torches, the somber pounding of
HECTIC EASTER 203
the drum and the wailing of the flute, came the centurions riding in
stately silence, their purple-veiled faces blurred beneath the gleam
of their helmets.
Behind them came many women, black rebozos drawn low
around their faces. And in their hands they carried the bowls of
incense that spiraled up through the torch glare in thick black
clouds. The women were chanting: a nasal, mournful wail that was
taken up by bareheaded men and echoed by the heavily breathing
crowds that jammed the sidewalks.
In the dusky orange light of torches came the Spy, with his dog
a comedy figure grotesquely decked out in a lace-trimmed dress.
The dog, on a leash, had a collar of flowers. 'Judas' followed,
dressed in a crimson robe, his thirty pieces of silver clinking lustily
in a fiber bag.
Around us now Indians dropped to their knees. Their clenched
dark hands struck their breasts and the women commenced to sob.
For He was coming! Christ, who had been found, and who had
been taken captive 1
In a cage, covered with orange blossoms to represent an
orchard, the seated image of Christ was being carried past, and the
wailing swelled up in hysterical, nerve-racking volume.
'Can you realize,' asked Paca, under her breath, 'that we are
only one hour from Mexico City by street car? '
I could not. We seemed a million miles away from any place
that had to do with civilization.
We joined the end of the procession and found, when we reached
the atrium, the church was so closely packed with people that it
was almost impossible for us to worm our way through to get a
glimpse of what was happening inside.
At last we managed it, however, and saw, in a caged space by
the high altar, not the image that had been carried by torchlight,
but a living Indian boy, dressed in a loose purple robe, Ms hands
bound behind him, and crowned with a garland of thorns !
Around him knelt praying men and women, each with a lighted
candle. The great stone-floored nave of the church was a mass of
flickering taper flames, dark, reverent faces, bodies that bent and
swayed in unison with the uncanny chant of thousands of wor-
shipers.
204 GRINGA
Our tall friend whispered incredulously, 'But there's no priest!'
It was true. I do not remember seeing one priest in all that
pageant of sorrow. The Indians were apparently managing the
ceremonies in their own way, without even the assistance of Holy
Mother Church!
The young boy was still there when we returned an hour later.
His forehead was bleeding where the crown of thorns pressed
through the flesh. But he stood pale and calm as a martyr, his eyes
downcast, the very personification of humility and self-sacrifice.
About midnight, tired and dirty, covered with dust from head to
foot, we got back to our little casita. In the outer room the owner
with his wife and four small children were already asleep, huddled
together on the earthen floor with a woven mat under them and a
sarape spread over them for warmth. The windows were tightly
closed against the poison of the night air. But we tiptoed into our
room, threw the windows open to the suicidal fragrance of the
garden outside, and inhaled the intoxicating odor of jasmine with a
careless disregard for our lives.
There was no bed, nor bedding. But some boards had been ar-
ranged across two saw horses, and there was a table some five feet
long, which John F. thought he could use for a part of him at
least. Paca had found lodging with another Indian family. We
spread our sarapes over us, and slept deeply. We had walked
ourselves to a point of exhaustion that day where nature would
have taken its course, even if we had stood up in a corner all night,
or had teen tossed out in the cactus garden!
The Indian owner of the house had asked us if we would do him
the honor of having breakfast with Mm on Good Friday, and we
had replied gratefully that we would.
So that morning at dawn we awoke with the scent of roses still in
the air, but with an overlay of coffee fragrance that was even more
aEuring. We made a sketchy toilet, washed and waited. No
breakfast appeared. John and John F, went out, prowled about
the small ramada that served for a Mtchen, and came back to re-
port that what we smelled was the coffee from a little house next
door. Our landlord's family seemed to have completely dis-
appeared!
. A moment later, however, here he came, beaming, his wife and
HECTIC EASTER 205
children close behind Mm. He held at arm's length a white
enameled platter; and had there been a roasted peacock on it, Ms
expression could not have been happier or prouder.
* Sefiores,' he said impressively, * su desayuno ! ' 1 (Your breakfast.)
We gazed at the contents of the enameled plate with feelings that
I hope were not expressed in our three hungry faces. For it was
decorated with a wreath of roses; and in the center was an open
can of Italian antipasto!
Sardines stared up at us with dead eyes from where they had
drowned in cold olive oil. There were tiny rolled-up filets of anchovy
and hearts of artichoke alternated with dabs of pimentos and small
pickled onions. For six o'clock in the evening, it would have been
grand. But for six o'clock in the morning well, for one instant
we were in danger of disgracing ourselves forever. But even more
quickly came the understanding of what had happened. Our host
had never dreamed that the Gringos would eat the humble food that
he and his family lived on. So he had taken the money that John
had paid in advance for our room, had gone to one of the small stores,
and had asked for something that Americans would like! Some-
thing in a can! To be on the safe side, he must have purchased the
most expensive thing in the store. We could imagine how his wife
and children had advised and selected and rejected, and how once
having made the important purchase they had rushed back to pick
the roses, and hack open the can with a machete. They all wanted
to be present to see our faces when we received it. I do hope our
expressions were equal to the occasion. We certainly tried hard
to make our outburst of delight sound convincing!
They watched eagerly as we ate the first oil-soaked sardines,
then they politely withdrew. Fortunately, a thin white mongrel
dog had stayed behind. With his help we managed to empty the
entire contents of the can; then, with tightened belts, went down to
the little fonda on the plaza, to order a stack of tortillas, two cups
of coffee apiece, and a double portion of fried beans!
If possible, there were more people in the walled enclosure of the
atrium than on the previous day. A small stage had been erected
near the front door of the church, and upon it was performed in
very realistic style the Judgment of Pontius Pilate. There were
1 Des-ah-yft-no.
206 GRINGA
Pharisees, heralds, centurions. Jadas was there with his clinking
bag of silver, and Barabbas the robber. The costumes were sur-
prisingly splendid. Most of them had come from some theatrical
shop in Mexico City, each actor renting his own. But even the
hand-made costumes were spangled and fringed with gold braid, so
that they made a dazzlingly brilliant array. The horses, too, had
been adorned for the final pageant. Their bridles were decorated
with paper rosettes, their manes and tails were woven with ribbons
and glittering strands of tinsel.
The actors we could only marvel at the inner fire of these
dark-faced Indians. It burns at times so low that they become as
sodden as beasts; and then, with a surge of glory, it bursts forth
into something very like the clear white flame of genius.
Many of the speeches were extemporaneous. Yet there was
never a pause, a groping for a word, never a hint of self-conscious-
ness. When PEatus (superb in the dignity of a gold crown, a long
beard, and a purple velvet robe) cried out, 'Take Him then! I
wash my hands of this deed! 5 a sobbing murmur ran through the
packed atrium, and I felt hot, stinging tears in my own eyes.
The young Indian who portrayed Christ was led away. The boy
looked weak and tired. Our little police protector said nervously:
*The procession will soon start. But this is the part that the cen-
turions will not want you to take with your cine/
We risked it, anyway. We set up the big camera by the foot of a
stone cross in the middle of the atrium between the outer gate and
the artificial bill of branches.
The centurions were riding back and forth, whipping at the
crowds with fierce carelessness, determined to clear a path.
Suddenly one of them reined in his horse within a foot of the
camera, leaned down and put his mailed hand over the aperture of
the lens. John, who had been concentrating on adjusting the focus,
looked up in amazement at the purple-veiled face scowling down at
Mm.
*Yon cannot take this picture, hombre,* the centurion said
roughly. John looked around for our 'protector,* who was nowhere
to be seen.
*But we have the permission of the Presidente Municipal,' he
answered reasonably.
HECTIC EASTER 207
Fortunately, I had the document with me. I waved it, expatiated
at length about how official it was, while John F. from his vantage
of six foot four peered over the heads of the crowd, and finally
located our policeman, who had got tangled up with a horse and
had lost his cap.
We dragged him out into the open, and he vouched for us as
pompously as was possible, considering that the horse had stepped
on him, and he was in a rather disheveled condition.
The centurion finally jerked his hand away from the lens and
rode off. But the veiled riders were sullen. We noticed that every
time they galloped past the camera, they came as near to it as was
possible, hoping, no doubt, for a fortunate * accident' in which it
would be overturned and smashed. My fears were not for the
camera, but for John. He, however, ground away with a complete
disregard for personal danger.
The procession filed slowly through the gates, to the throb of the
Aztec drum and the wailing of the clay flute, and went towards
the 'Hill of Golgotha/ Behind the Indian musicians came the
Three Marys, each of them with long flowing hair and each of them
carrying a picture of the face of Christ on a cloth. And then the
young Indian, bent almost double under a heavy wooden cross.
The procession mounted slowly to the upper platform that was
almost on a level with the roof of the church; and at that point
the pageant ended. Abruptly, and without explanation.
What had happened, we did not know. Our little policeman
thought it was because permission for the Crucifixion had been with-
drawn at the last moment. Personally, I was glad that it was so.
There was something horrible underneath the intensity of that mob
response to the Passion Play. I could quite understand those c un-
fortunate happenings ' that the Presidente Municipal told us about.
The sorrowful worship of Good Friday continued, however.
That night the wailing and sobbing rose and feU in terrible nerve-
racking cadences. Thousands of men and women crowded into the
church to pray beside the bloody image of Christ which had replaced
the living actor.
The smell of the copal incense was stifling. Through its heavy
gray smoke the eyes of the kneeling people looked wild and hag-
gard and savage, like the eyes of hurt, frenzied animals.
208 GRINGA
We got back to our sleeping-quarters even more exhausted if
possible than the night before. Through the open window of our
room we could hear the slow, sobbing, wailing chant in the church.
How long it continued I do not know. It went with me into troubled
dreams.
But the next morning, Sabado de Gloria (Saturday of Glory),
we woke to the sound of bells! Joyous, clamoring, rowdy bells
that were as inspiring as fresh air in a long-closed room. In the
midst of them came a series of explosions and a bedlam of shouts
and cries.
The tall John F. cocked an ear at the distant din and fingered
the leather holster of his pistol.
'A revolution?' he inquired tentatively.
I remembered my own reactions that night in Colima when the
bells clanged and the skyrocket bombs burst above the plaza.
'No, it's probably part of the celebration, 1 1 told him.
We got our cameras together and started at a run towards
the commotion. The bells were being whanged as if giants were
taking pleasure in spanking them. Over the roofs of the adobe
houses we could see puffs of smoke. Crowds of yelling men and
little boys were running pell-mell towards the sound of the firing.
* What is it? J I panted, as a peon dashed past us.
* Judas! Judas!' 1 he cried. * They are burning him! 4
We rounded the corner into one of the wider streets. And there,
high in the air, swinging from a pulley outside of a cantina, was a
grotesque figure of papier mache, body of a man but head of a cat,
wound with powerful skyrocket bombs that were exploding in all
directions. The figure whirled and swung crazily in the midst of
deafening roars and arid smoke, while the crowd beneath ducked
to cover, shouting and laughing.
A final bang, and the figure was blasted into a thousand frag-
ments that came fluttering down into a mob of clutching hands.
* Judas! Judas!' Then everyone rushed across the street to a
bakery where another of the strange figures was being prepared.
This Judas was life-sized, done in papier mache like the other,
but was a fairly accurate representation of a man, dressed in
black coat and trousers. He had long painted eyelashes and up-
* Hoo'dahs.
HECTIC EASTER 209
turned mustache and slicked-down hair, after tlie manner of
villains in the gay nineties.
Someone came running with a gourd full of pulque, which was
pressed against his painted lips amid laughter and jeers. Then
someone had the bright idea of sticking a cigar in his mouth.
Meanwhile, the owner of the bakery was hanging a necklace of
pan dulce (sweetened bread) around Ms neck. A rope was flung over
the telephone wire and the effigy hoisted into the air. Someone
touched a match to a fuse that dangled down from the lacquered
shoe.
There was a spitting hiss, a running spark of fire, and then
boom! The first of the bombs exploded and sent the weird figure
into a spasm of leaps and whirling contortions.
The three of us, grouped around the camera, were the only ones
who remained out in the open. Everyone else ran for doorways,
shouting at us to do the same. But I wouldn't run if John didn't,
and he was grinding away at the crank with that frowning con-
centration which means that 4 a natural' is being shot! As for
* Senor Monaca,' I think he was too amazed to be conscious of any
danger. Why, last night, all of these people had been on their
knees, sobbing and chanting!
When the cake-wreathed Judas exploded and the pan dulces
came tumbling down, there was a frenzied rush that filled the
street with a scrambling, tumbling * dog-pile.' Hats flew off, men
pushed and got pushed, small boys gouged and kicked and bit
every one of them determined, at the cost of an arm or a leg, to get
a piece of the bread or a scrap of Judas's papier mache body.
It was a few minutes before we could ask any questions about
the strange proceedings. And even then no one seemed to know
the whys and wherefores of it all.
'Oh, Sabado de Gloria is the day to bum Judas, the traitor/
'But there are so many JudasesF
6 Yes, Senora ' (with great pride) ; * one in front of every store that
can afford it.'
'Why do you try to get a piece of Judas? 9
'Because it will bring good luck for the coming year. Only
you must take it home and hide it and not tell anyone where you
have put it/
210 GRINGA
* And why does he sometimes have a cat's head? 1
Our informants looked at each other uncertainly.
'Pues, quien sabe?' one of them said blankly.
But another had an inspiration:
6 To make him look funnier!'
The bells continued their joyful, ear-splitting clamor. Small
boys were striking at each other with long whips.
4 So that we will grow tall this year/ one of them explained to us
between blows.
We made our way to the church, expecting to hear the sound of
solemnly triumphant voices raised in a great psean of praise. But
there was nothing! The church was as empty as a gutted tomb;
stale-smelling with dead incense, untidily spotted with candle
grease, withered flowers, pieces of tortillas and chiles. Not a sool
was worshiping there! The statues of saints stared dolorously into
the empty gloom, while from outside in the dazzling sunshine
came the martial din of the bells, the explosions of Judases, and the
laughter and shouting of people.
On Sunday there was still no joyous Easter Mass. The roads
were choked with tired, listless families of peons making their
way back to distant villages and remote tribal places in the hills.
Our little police protector showed up for his promised propina.
His face was swollen and one eye was partially closed. He claimed
to have been hit by one of the flying skyrocket bombs. His odor-
ous breath, however, hinted of more pulque than Judas. He had
probably spent most of Glorious Saturday in getting gloriously
drunk.
Our two taxi-drivers were waiting for us on the plaza. They
regarded the little town with the supercilious disdain of urban
residents.
* You should never have left the capital/ they told us as we sank
wearily and dirtily back against the cushioned seats. * There was
much happiness (alegrta) in the city. Out here it must have been
very dull, very sad!'
The three of us looked at each other. Then we answered as one,
*It may have been sad in spots but it was not dullP
XXL THE PLACE OF THE TWO
THERE was a time, not more than fifty years ago, when Mexico,
daughter of an Aztec goddess and a warrior of Spain, said haughtily
to her children: 'Stand you there; the future is not for you, be
satisfied with the past. You, of the dark brown skin and the bare
feet, remain an Indian; humble before your God, obedient to your
earthly masters. And you, of the flashing eyes and the look of the
upper born, dance, eat, drink, and make love without a thought of
these lowly ones. They are of the soil. Your place is among the
stars.*
The lines of caste were as sharply, cruelly drawn as if with dag-
ger points. There were the aristocrats, there were the peons. Only
a nebulous no-man's land lay in between, inhabited by foreigners
who had incomprehensible ideas about making money by working
for it, and by mayor-domos who were trustworthy servants.
On the great haciendas, which often included a hundred thou-
sand acres, the dueno rode out every few days on a silver-trimmed
horse, and listened to the report of his mayor-domo, who stood
humbly before him hat in hand. He allowed an old Indian woman
to kiss his hand, carelessly promised to be the godfather of a baby
born that day, saw a pretty Indian girl, and made a mental note
to have her brought to him that night.
His sons were sent away to Paris to be educated, Ms daughters
distributed in marriages that would bring more acreage, and pos-
sibly more political favor. It was a soft, balmy life for those on the
crest. And for the others the dark, illiterate underlings
their lives were happy or hideous, according to the character and
temperament of their own particular owner. On some haciendas,
they were treated with kindness and good nature. On others, their
dumb misery was eased only by the constant use of pulque and
marahuana. But always the injustices of caste were there; one
law for the weak, another for the strong.
With the overthrow of Diaz, the lines began to blur a little.
The barefooted peons were needed for cannon fodder, to carry the
banners of the Revolution up Chapultepec Hill. Some juicy words,
212 GRINGA
* Liberty, Freedom, Equality/ were sliced off and flung to them.
And like animals too long deprived of nourishment, they fell on
the blood-covered morsels and went mad.
During those terrible years when law was carried in a holster at
the hip, those one-time slaves of the soil found inexpressible
satisfaction in burning ranch houses, driving off cattle, plundering,
and destroying.
Then the agrarian laws were born, in a typically Mexican travail
of idealism. The land should belong to the peons who worked it,
not to those wealthy hacendados who rarely knew how much they
possessed, and whose sons, educated abroad, knew even less. So
the rich parcels of acreage were dropped into the ragged laps of
Indians who perhaps had never owned even a tiny milpa of corn.
They received them with the joy of children who have been given
an intricate machine to play with, but who have not the slightest
idea as to its inner mechanism, or how it should be cared for.
The theory of ownership depended for its workability on the
honesty and industry of the lower classes those who had been in
virtual bondage. And for many years it caused chaos. There were
too many of those released illiterates to whom liberty meant li-
cense. They took possession of haciendas at harvest time, gathered
whatever crop there was, confiscated horses, cattle, and sheep, and
rode off without a thought of responsibility or wrongdoing.
The laws impoverished a once wealthy class, stirred up foreign
complications that almost resulted in war, and did little to accom-
plish their real purpose, which was the cultivation of the land by
the many instead of the few.
Now, however, the agrarian laws have been modified. If a man
leaves his allotted acreage, he must exchange it, with governmental
permission, for another. If he simply wanders off without culti-
vating it, he loses his right to own land anywhere else. The much-
needed amendment has had some effect. There is now thirty per
cent more agricultural production in Mexico than in 1912.
It is a long, complicated problem that is gradually being worked
out. Many of the great rural estates are still in operation, but the
picturesque hacienda life is no longer what it once was. It lacks the
flavor of that vanished princely extravagant mode of living. The
new order has not replaced its unique glamour.
THE PLACE OF THE TWO RABBITS 213
John and I were invited to visit the maguey l hacienda of a
wealthy Mexican gentleman whose father, Senor Francisco Leon
de la Barra, had been President of Mexico. It was about an hour
and a half from Mexico City by train, and the name of it was
'Ometusco' 2 (The Place of the Two Rabbits).
None of the family were there at that time. Nevertheless we
were given carte blanche to take our cameras and live as hacendados
for as long as we pleased.
The train left the suburbs of the capital and went steadily
through vast areas of stiff, forbidding-looking maguey plants,
stupendous green clusters with their thick spikes thrusting out of
the soil like gigantic bayonets arranged in rosettes.
In silhouette against the sky, they are beautiful. But near at
hand they have a harsh, sinister aspect. The spines are so sharp
and jagged that they^could rip a man to pieces if he fell against them.
And within their well-guarded hearts is a liquor that has been as
ruinous to the lower classes of Mexico as wars or revolutions. It is
from the maguey plant that pulque is extracted and fermented;
also mescal, a fiery, potent drink, and tequila, a distilled product
that bites at your stomach like a mad dog and then kicks like an
evil-tempered mule.
And yet, like the bandit Pancho Villa, the imposing, ruffianly
maguey has a worthier side. It is due to this gigantic century plant
that we know as much about the literature and history of the an-
cient Aztecs as we do. The priests made a kind of paper from the
pulp of its leaves, on which the famous codices were inscribed,
with strange archaic drawings and pictographs.
From the maguey also comes fiber twine, thread, vinegar, and
molasses. A valuable stomach remedy is made from the sugary
deposit of the mescal. The poorer natives use its sharp spines for
needles, and very often cover their humble homes with its long
thick leaves, overlapping them like shingles. Lastly, you will see
in the markets, even of Mexico City, fat, roasted maguey worms
for sale! In the matter of most Mexican food, I am an ardent
advocate. But I will admit that I passed up the gusanos (worms).
Those who have tried them say they are delicious. I will have to
take their word for it!
1 Mah-gay'. * Oh-may-too'sko.
214 GRINGA
Even the Aztecs knew the lure of pulque and the misery that too
often follows in its wake. They called the drink neutle, and they
had inherited it from the Toltecs, whom they conquered.
The legend concerning it is that, in the time of the Toltec Em-
pire, a certain impoverished nobleman watched a field mouse gnaw-
ing a hole in a central bulb of a growing maguey plant. He saw the
liquid ooze forth, milky white, and was minded to taste it. He was
amazed at the sweet, wholesome flavor, and immediately had his
servants cut out the heart of the plant so that the juice could
gather in the depression formed, as in a cup. They brought him
the opaque white fluid, which, through standing in the sun, was no
longer sweet and innocuous, but sour and stinging.
The nobleman tasted it again, however, and found that his
cares fled away as if on rosy wings. He felt an impulse to run and
leap and shout joyously. His only sober thought was that here was
a newly discovered drink which should make Ms fortune.
So he called his daughter Xochitl, 1 whose name means *The
Flower.' He commanded her to put on her most beautifully em-
broidered garments, to thread her cloudy black hair with flowers,
to fill a painted gourd with the fermented juice of the maguey, and
take it to the Toltec Bang.
She obeyed her father, and came with modest, downcast eyes
before the ruler of the land. She dared not speak, she could only
extend the painted bowl containing the fateful drink with hands
that trembled violently.
The King tasted the liquid, and he feasted his eyes as well on her
virginal beauty. He would not permit her to return to her father,
but kept her forcibly in his harem. Such was his growing infatua-
tion for both the liquor and the maid that he determined to make
her his queen.
But the priests, consulting the omens of sacrifice, warned him
in these words: 'The son of the Maguey shall destroy the land!'
The besotted King would not listen. He made the unwilling
Xochitl his principal wife, putting aside the high-born princess who
was his rightful queen. The act stirred up a growing rebellion.
And curiously enough in later years, it was the son of the King and
Xochitl who led an uprising that cost the Toltec ruler his throne.
1 So'ched.
THE PLACE OF THE TWO RABBITS 215
From that time the downfall of the kingdom commenced. The
potent liquor took such a hold on the people that they neglected all
arts of peace and warfare for drunkenness and debauchery.
They were driven out of the Valley of Mexico. But to their
conquerors, the Aztecs, they bequeathed their own weakness for
the heady drink. Much of the brutality of that tribe can be traced
directly to the degrading effects of the pulque.
The Spanish Viceroys strove to lessen the evils of the drink
by putting a high tax upon it. But there was a time in the eight-
eenth century when the annual consumption was one hundred
million pounds! And the revenues from its sale amounted to
eight hundred thousand pesos a year!
We stopped off on our trip to Ometusco to pay a preliminary
visit to the noted pyramids of San Juan Teotihuacan. 1 It is inter-
esting to note in Mexico how many places have the old Indian
names and the holy appellations of saints, side by side. It was a
clever compromise on the part of the priests. They knew very well
that they could not hope to tear their converts away from the
pagan grandeur of such names as 'Place of the Gods,' which is the
meaning of Teotihuacan. So they added the name of the saint on
whose day they were discovered by the Spaniards and both
Christian and pagan worshipers were satisfied.
To say 'pyramid' is to conjure up a vision of those huge piles
in Egypt, with stone tiers of such enormous height that a grown
person with difficulty ascends from one to another. Mammoth
mausoleums built for the purpose of insuring the eternal repose of
a Pharaoh and his lordly brood, tremendous coverings for interior
labyrinths that wind down through the bowels of the earth.
The Mexican pyramids are not like that. In the first place,
they are of solid masonry and were constructed for the sole pur-
pose of forming a high base on which to erect temples. The steps
leading to their summits were for priests and pilgrims to use.
The narrowness of them reveals the fact that they were designed
for the small feet of Indians. The Anglo-Saxon foot must turn
'on the bias ' to get an adequate stance when climbing from terrace
to terrace.
There was once a thriving city in this area where now are only
i Tay-o-tee-wah-kan'.
216 GRINGA
mighty ruins and a small nondescript modern village. Indeed, there
are abundant evidences of two prehistoric civilizations, each one
having erected stupendous temples and pyramids before going its
way into oblivion.
The Aztecs found the Toltec race in possession here, worshiping
in the temples atop the Pyramids of the Sun and Moon. But the
Toltecs had not built them; and, according to Aztec historians, did
not know who did.
It is the custom for archaeologists to scoff at any theory which is
not of their own vintage. Hence the idea that in some far-off
age a cultured, alien people migrated to Mexico from a continent
that exists no longer always meets with loud boos and raucous
laughter. Nevertheless, one person's guess is as good as another's
when it comes to this challenging matter of pre-Aztec antiquities.
No one can dispute that the pyramids are similar to those in
Egypt; and anyone who has seen the small clay figurines that are
constantly being unearthed at San Juan cannot help being im-
pressed with the Egyptian features and the suggestion of Oriental
head-dresses.
But it is enough merely to gaze up at the towering bulk of the
Pyramid of the Sun, without encouraging a headache by vain
conjectures as to the lost people who built it. For it rises two
hundred and sixteen feet high, has a base circumference of over
half a mile, and slopes upward in a series of five terraces that are
better negotiated without looking back. There are no railings for
the small, steep steps, and the carved Feathered Serpents seem to
eye you sardonically as you start for the top. They have seen
plenty of bodies come tumbling down flung from the summit
in fierce warfare, or after the torn-out hearts had been offered
to bloody gods.
From the top of the great teocalli you look down on altars and
lesser pyramids, and on excavated streets that once were vibrant
with life. What manner of people were the dwellers here? The
great stone Feathered Serpents could tell you if they could speak
and if you could understand. For their language would not be
that of the Aztecs; nor even of their predecessors, the Toltecs. It
would be some immeasurably ancient tongue that written history
perhaps has never even known.
THE PLACE OF THE TWO RABBITS 217
We arrived at the little station marked 'Ometusco' late in the
afternoon. There was no town. The roofed platform was set down
squarely in the midst of acres and acres of spiked maguey plants
that stretched across the level plain in every direction, as far as
the eye could see. Those in the foreground were like monstrous
yet elegant bouquets something that a giant of the Stone Age
might have presented to a thick-skinned giantess who didn't
mind the thorns.
As we got off the train with the usual number of bulky cases and
the big camera tripod that we had christened 'Jumbo,' a huge
Falstaffian figure in charro trousers approached us, lifted a ten-
gallon sombrero from a thick shock of black hair, and asked if
we were the visitas to the hacienda.
We said we were; and Don Vicente, the fattest mayor-domo in
the Valley of Mexico, signaled to several workmen of lesser im-
portance, who swung our baggage up on their various heads and
shoulders and started at a trot for the other side of the small
station.
Then we saw far in the distance what looked to be a salmon-pink
birthday cake made in the shape of a walled fortress and set down
in a field of artichokes. It was connected with the station platform
by two long winding pieces of ribbon which as they came nearer
transformed themselves into the steel rails of a very narrow-gauge
railway. Behind the station waiting-room a pair of mules were
stamping impatiently, hitched to a conveyance that was half car-
riage, half street car. It was the Hacienda Special, and it had been
sent to take us through endless fields of maguey to the salmon-
pink fortress in the distance which was the walled hacienda of
Ometusco.
It was a curious sensation to go careening down the track behind
two galloping mules, through a country so completely different
from the rest of Mexico.
I thought of the barren, tawny aridity of Baja California and
Sonora; the hot, lush jungle lands of Colima; the warm yet temper-
ate altitude of Guadalajara, and the cosmopolitan jumble of
Mexico City.
Now we were in a world of maguey. The rows stretched away
to infinity, the towering plants spaced at intervals of several yards
218 GRINGA
apart. There were no trees. The giants of the maguey had com-
pletely pre-empted the land.
The weathered glow of the walls loomed nearer. We went with
a clatter of hoofs and rattle of wheels through a great open gate,
where soldiers in uniform lounged, and where on the thick walls
above were small turrets with slits for eyes to look through or
guns.
We were in an enormous square, stone-paved, with buildings on
all four sides. A sour, fermented smell was in the air. Swarms of
flies hovered about a long platform that was cluttered with open
kegs, cowhide vats, saddles, and parts of machinery.
Through the open gates behind us came trotting burros loaded
with the casks of the freshly collected agua miel, 1 the unfermented
sap of the maguey. The peons who drove them were more ragged
and dirty than any we had seen. At first we thought it was because
of po f erty and perhaps the too close association with pulque. But
it was not entirely that. The maguey juice stains any cloth that it
touches; and the sharp spines rip the clothes of the unwary work-
men.
Each man had slung on his shoulder an elongated, peculiarly
shaped gourd that must have been almost a yard in length. It is
with this primitive implement that he gathers the fresh sap from the
scooped-out heart of the plant, sucking at one end of the gourd to
create a vacuum, and then emptying the filled acocote 2 into one of
the small barrels carried by the burro.
A bleating herd of sheep came filing through the gates and were
driven to corrals and pens at the extreme left of the huge square.
Hundreds of men and women and children were moving about, all
on errands that seemed to have to do with the intricacies of pulque
manufacture. Their homes were the rows of squalid-looking adobe
houses that stretched along one side of the enclosed citadel.
Don Vicente escorted us, however, past the smelliness of the
platforms, where peons were washing off the spilled liquid from
many vats, and took us through another iron-studded gateway into
the 'residence section. 7 ^
It was a breath-taking experience. I had always thought of an
hacienda as being merely a large house. And of course it may be.
* Ah'wah mee-61. * Ali-koko'tay.
THE PLACE OF THE TWO RABBITS 219
But Ometusco occupies the space of a fair-sized village. The
owner's private domain is a little fortress-palace itself, with hun-
dreds of rooms, patios and more patios, poultry-yards, kitchens,
winding stairways that come out on flat rooftops. There is even
a little school, with its own patio, and an elaborate chapel
We were ushered through a series of office-rooms and passage-
ways until we finally reached a large inner patio, centered by a
fountain, ornamented by trees and flowering vines and beds of
roses and lilies.
Don Vicente called out the cook, a camarero, and a mozo.
4 They will take your orders,' he told us. * This is your house. If
you desire anything that they do not know about, I will be in the
office.'
We were installed in a bedroom with two enormous beds pavil-
lioned with mosquito netting. The little cocinera asked us if we
had any orders concerning dinner. We told her we had none. The
mozo asked if we had any shoes to be cleaned or any clothes to be
washed. And the camarero (room-boy) conducted us proudly to a
modern bathroom. Then everyone left us to ourselves. We wan-
dered about in the empty labyrinths, climbed stone stairways and
took a long walk on the roof, from which we could look down into
other patios and out across the vast acreage of the green maguey.
At seven o'clock we were beginning to feel the urge of hunger.
We found our way back to where we had started from, but there
were no signs of a meal. In fact, we hadn't the slightest idea where
the dining-room or kitchen was. It was like being set down in a
strange, enchanted palace of color and luxury and silence.
We discovered a billiard-room, and played for an hour. There
were numerous photographs on the wall, showing a portly, elegantly
attired gentleman seated at a desk; standing before a Mexican flag;
walking on the balcony of Chapultepec Castle. We remembered
then that the father of our host was said to have been President -of
Mexico. But owing to our ignorance of the complete list, we could
not place him.
At eight o'clock we were nearly famished. John volunteered to
find the kitchen, and I suggested that he take a skein of silk thread
along, a la Theseus, so that he would be sure to get back.
He returned after a long absence. The little cocinera had been
220 GRINGA
most surprised at Ms visit. Was there something he wanted?
Dinner? Oh, that would be at the usual time. At nine o'clock.
We tightened our belts and played more billiards.
At nine o'clock our camarero came to announce dinner. We fol-
lowed him to the other side of the patio, where enormous doors had
been flung open. We were standing in a room the size of a banquet-
hall in a New York hotel. A great polished mahogany table occupied
the central space, one which could easily have seated seventy
people. Against the walls were buffets of inlaid wood, glittering with
silver and glassware. Mammoth paintings ornamented the vast
wall spaces. The table had been spread with a drawnwork cloth that
in size could have been used for a tent. And at opposite ends of
that super-expanse of lace and mahogany and silver John and I
were seated!
We sat there staring down the length of snowy white napery at
each other, and tried our best to look as if dining half a mile apart
was our daily custom.
We were served solemnly with an eight-course meal: soup, eggs,
two kinds of meat, chicken, beans and other vegetables, salads, a
heavy dessert, and coffee.
We tried to talk now and then, but the size of the room dis-
couraged anything more intimate than a shout, so we gave it up. I
asked questions, instead, of the mozo who waited on me, while
John got bits of information from the camarero at the other end of
the table.
We learned that when the whole family was home which was
seldom, since most of the sons and daughters were married and
many of them lived abroad two tables of the same enormous
size were used. Sometimes a hundred and forty people sat down to
each meal. At such times there was a veritable army of servants;
several cooks, boys to pluck chickens, Indian girls to grind the
corn for tortillas, others to cook them on the comales; boys to
bring beer and wines; washerwomen, laundresses, personal maids,
room-boys.
'Alas/ my mozo added sadly, 'it is not like that now. Here at
Ometusco it is muy triste!'
*Is it true that the patron was once President of Mexico?' I
asked him.
THE PLACE OF THE TWO RABBITS 221
*0h, yes, Your Graces can see the photographs in the billiard-
room...'
6 Yes, but when was he el Presidente, and for how long?'
The mozo couldn't tell us the year. But he was proudly sure
about the length of time. It had been for all of three weeks!
The next day, and for several days thereafter, John and I took
motion pictures of the pulque industry, which is confined to Mexico
and to the high Central Plateau.
The profits must be tremendous. For the maguey plants need
little attention. They thrive in the high, rather arid region of the
Valley of Mexico, need no cultivation, and are not affected by ex-
cessive drought or rainfall.
The men cut out the hearts of the great plants by first carefully
despining the long thick leaves with a sharp knife. A stone is put
over the hollowed-out cup and a fragment of one of the white inner
leaves is impaled on the outer tips, so that the tlacheros (pulque
gatherers) will know in which plants the sweet agua miel is collect-
ing-
After the casks on the donkeys' backs are filled, the unfermented
sap is brought to the factory at the hacienda a long, dark, smelly
room where there are double rows of huge cowhide vats.
The agua miel is poured into them, always with a short chanted
prayer, which is to keep the pulque from becoming bitter. In order
to hasten the fermentation process, a portion of sour 'mother
pulque' is added, and within twenty-four hours, the whole mass is
a frothy, evil-smelling liquid, ready to be poured into hogsheads
and sent to Mexico City for distribution to the thousands of
pulquerias.
The factory where the mescal and tequila were made had con-
siderably more modernism about them. But the pulque . . .
I will never forget our last glimpse of the walled hacienda of
Ometusco. We were leaving in the mule-drawn conveyance, to
catch the evening train back to Mexico City.
And as we passed the long platform, the workmen filed out into
the sunset light. They stood there bareheaded, a terribly forlorn
and tattered crowd in their stained homespun garments, and they
lifted up their voices in a long-drawn-out chant an alabanza, a
hymn of thanksgiving!
222 GRINGA
The day is ended, our work is finished ..."
Thanks to God!
We are His children, and He guarded us all this day . . .
Thanks to Godi
It was anachronism but it was Mexico. The curse of a nation
and the blessing of God, side by side.
*Now, perhaps/ said Don Vicente as he put us aboard the train,
*you will like pulque, since you have seen how it is made.'
We made a polite answer and thanked him for all of his courteous
care. To have lived out there in *The Place of the Two Rabbits'
had been thrilling. But as for pulque itself, I could only think of
the old prophecy, 'The son of the Maguey shall destroy the land!'
OF
SLEEPING is just a routine necessity. It doesn't matter how or
where you do it. But the moment of waking up is important. It is
the hors d'ceuvre of the day's mental meal. It should be spiced with
a bit of surprise, spread deeply with assurance that the rest of the
day will live up to its first promise, and it should have in its center
one glowing flash of thankfulness that a kindly fate permitted you
this perfect, unspoiled fragment of living. In other words, I should
advise waking up in Guanajuato. 1
I speak from experience. For John and Paca and I had had a
very uncomfortable night ride in a train from Mexico City that
landed us in the town of Silao at three A.M. From there we hired an
automobile that hurtled along a bumpy road, driven by a chauffeur
who apparently had suicidal tendencies which he did nothing to
keep in check.
It was still dark when we plunged down the rough, cobblestoned
streets of a sleeping town, and knew that we had reached our
destination. The car stopped before a tightly barred door under
a sign that said 'Hotel,' but which in Mexican fashion took no
thought of guests who might arrive in the night and so calmly
locked itself in.
The driver rang the bell without results. He pounded on the
door, knowing that a porter must be asleep just inside on a cot.
Nothing happened. But after the three of us had finally joined
him in banging and ringing and shouting, making a most irreverent
racket for that .early hour, the disheveled proprietor dragged him-
self downstairs, opened the door, and welcomed us, in the same
breath hurling bitter expletives at the Indian mozo who lay snoring
peacefully in the little passageway, entirely undisturbed by all our
noise 1
Bleary-eyed from the long hours of the train coach, and the bump-
ing seventeen-mile ride in a maniacal car, we stumbled up a stair-
way that wound around a patio (for we could smell cool, wet green
things breathing in the dark), and John and I were ushered into a
1 Wahn-a-Mah-to. ,
224 GRINGA
room with slimy brass beds. A heavenly breeze was coming in from
windows that opened on a balcony. We sank into exhausted sleep.
We awoke to a perfect moment; to a full-throated, joyous chorus
of bird notes in the patio; the high ruffled trill of canaries; the
mezzo-soprano gold of mocking-bird voices; the sweet, clear bugle
notes of the clarin, and the teasing whistled tune of the cacique l
bird. The smell of cool fresh morning drifted in through the bal-
cony windows, and there was a shimmering filigree of flecked gold
and green on the polished brown tiles of the floor. From the gallery
that enclosed the patio came the energetic swish of water and the
approaching aroma of freshly made coffee. A round-faced little
Indian girl opened the door without knocking wished us
* Muy buenos dias,' depositing a tray of coffee, milk, hot water* and
slightly sweetened pan dulce on a table between the beds.
'What's the outside world like?' asked John drowsily from be-
hind the draperies of the mosquito netting.
'I'm afraid to look/ I answered; 'it can't be as grand as this.'
But it was! When I at last pulled myself up from the languorous
pool of deep contentment and stepped out on the iron-railed bal-
cony, I gave an exclamation that brought John scuttling out from
behind the gauzy curtains of his bed like a land crab from its hole.
We were looking down on a plaza that was a small tropical forest
of green trees spilled across with blossoms that were waxen white
and delicate lavender and vermilion red. Around us on every side
were painted, Old-World houses with carved stone doorways and
wrought-iron balconies. The streets went climbing up between
them in narrow, cobblestoned strips, or in stairways of stone. And
as we lifted our eyes to the ruddy light that was streaming down
from above, we saw that the city lay in a great hollow hand of
stone!
like gigantic fingers the reddened cliffs towered: treeless, savage-
looking, untouched with greenery. The early light made them
glow as with an inner fire. And the sudden brazen clang of the
church bells sounded as if to waken the sleeping houses of the town
to the menace of the molten hills.
'The camera,' said John in an awestruck whisper, *will never get
that!' And it didn't. Reduced to black and white, the strange
1 Kah-see'kay.
QUEEN OF SILVER 225
mountain-ringed city of Guanajuato becomes Oriental-looking and
very intriguing, but only a color camera could do justice to the cir-
cular expanse of tawny cliffs cupping painted houses ; the contrast
of cool, deep greenery with the harsh steepness of the surrounding
hills and mesas.
You feel that in the matter of color, rubies should have come
from this place ; or at least copper. But Nature has a way of dealing
out anachronisms: diamonds from the black soil of Kimberley,
copper from gray-green ore, gold from listless gray gravel and,
from the stained aridity of Guanajuato's hills, pale, cool silver.
In this region, perhaps more than any other in Mexico, the
Spaniards' dreams of abundant wealth came true. The town was
founded soon after the Conquest; for the Tarascan Indians, whose
empire it was, made the mistake of revealing to the white conquer-
ors the fact that the land was honeycombed with veins of silver.
Immediately there was a rush to obtain land grants from the Crown.
The gaunt hills blossomed out with mining haciendas that were
kingdoms in themselves. Great churches lifted their carved towers,
and every day the yawning shafts went deeper and deeper into the
mineral-impregnated soil.
Three of the mines alone kept the Spanish Treasury filled for
centuries. It is estimated that at one time a sixth of all the world's
supply of silver came from the subterranean recesses of the shaft of
*La Valenciana.'
In the early seventeen-hundreds that fabulously productive
mine was owned by the Conde Rul. He lived in a mansion that is
now half in ruins, but which was then a repository for the most
priceless treasures of Europe and the Orient. When his only daugh-
ter was married, he laid a pavement of solid silver bullion from the
#oor of his house to the very altar of La Valenciana Church, some
quarter of a mile away!
Is it any wonder that a city of such princely beginnings should
still retain an aura that sets it apart from all others?
One of the oldest universities on the American continent was
founded here in the sixteenth century. It is a building that adjusts
itself to the mountainous disposition of the climbing streets by hav-
ing entrances on each successive level. From the upper story you
look down into the deep well of four inner circling galleries, and
226 GRINGA
watch the leisurely flow of academic life. It is a co-educational
institution; and though the numbers of feminine students are small
in proportion, yet there is a steadily growing acceptance of the fact
that girls of good family may be educated with their brothers, and
still retain their charm and virtue!
Our reason for visiting Guanajuato at this particular time was to
attend a musical * Concurso,' a competitive concert of folk-songs
given by musicians from all over the State.
Because we were friends of Paca, the Governor most hospitably
offered us the same courtesies which she, as editor of Mexican Folk-
Ways, received. We were entertained at his palatial home and
were introduced to the charming aristocracy of the city; the
descendants of those Spanish hidalgos who made fortunes through
their close connection with this one-time Queen of Silver.
The * Concurso' was held in the great Teatro Juarez, which faces
the plaza on which our hotel was located. Built after the manner of
an American 'opera house,' it has its 'Diamond Horseshoe,' which
most emphatically bore out its name that night. The vast audito-
rium with its balcony and gallery was crowded to suffocation. In
the audience there was not one mantilla or flounced dress such as
pictured Senoritas wear. But what beautiful gowns; what gorgeous
earrings; and what exquisite fans!
When the curtain lifted following an orchestral overture, there
occurred something which, if presented in a motion-picture comedy,
would rank as sheer farce. Yet here it was in deadly earnest!
A bulky, heavily mustachioed gentleman appeared, was greeted
with applause, and plunged into a long, impassioned oration con-
cerning Home, and Country, and Liberty.
In the midst of it a small photographer came out on the stage
from the wings and bustled about importantly, setting up a very
large, impressive-looking camera to take a flashlight picture of the
audience. Apparently it was a 'custom of the country,' for no one
seemed to think it strange not even the speaker, who was soaring
into glorified heights on the wings of seraphic adjectives and glitter-
ing similes.
The photographer, intent upon his own undertaking, carefully
focused the lens, his head hidden ostrich-like under a black cloth;
he slid a plate into the holder, sprinkled flash powder in the metal
QUEEN OF SILVER 227
container, held it high over Ms head, and assumed a 'watch the
birdie* attitude.
The audience involuntarily scrooched, anticipating the livid
glare and the boom.
'And so in this glorious moment...' thundered the orator...
And there came a feeble 'click!' The powder did not explode.
A titter began to circulate through the crowded theater, inter-
spersed with the indignant hisses that Latins do not hesitate to use
when they want their neighbors to keep quiet. Only the speaker re-
mained determinedly unaware of what was happening on the stage
almost within touching distance of his outflung hand.
'...We think of MadrePatria! Libertad! Gloria!'
The little photographer regarded the unresponsive powder with
a disgusted shake of the head. He came around in front of the
camera, the back cloth draped around his shoulders, pressed the
bulb to close the lens, mournfully removed the exposed plate, sub-
stituted another with a considerable amount of noise, and poured
out some more powder from a little bottle in his pocket. He thrust
the flash container upward again in the manner of the Statue of
Liberty with her torch.
'We are all her sons and daughters, loyal and../
There came another tiny and futile 'click!'
By this time the orator was having to shout to make himself
heard above the growing din of laughter and fierce admonitory
hisses. Still he did not look around. And still the small photog-
rapher would not give up. He was as completely unaware of the
oceans of oratory billowing around him as the speaker was hoarsely
unconscious of the counter-attraction on the stage behind him.
For the third time the pictorial expert adjusted the lens, the plate,
the flash powder. With the bulb in one hand and the handle of the
flash gun in the other, he clenched his teeth, hard and the cam-
era's legs began to spread apart like the legs of a dancer doing the
splits.
He clutched at them and the lens popped out like a stone
from a slingshot and rolled down into the footlights. The flash con-
tainer dropped rattlingly. The camera began to slide downward.
'Madre! Patria! Libertad!' shrieked the orator, his face like a
large red beet under a trickling waterfall of perspiration.
228 GRINGA
The photographer made a lunge for the instrument that was col-
lapsing like a deflated accordion. He yanked at the dark cloth.
The plate-holder jerked loose, described a graceful parabola, and
sailed out into the wings. What was left of the camera came pan-
caking down on the little man's head with an audible 'Whoosh! 5
What the orator was saying then no one heard. Those who were
still in a condition to see knew that his mouth was heroically open-
ing and closing and that he was still making frantic patriotic
gestures at heaven and earth and audience.
The defeated artist got to his feet, his hair in enraged disorder.
He made a typically Latin gesture as of calling down all the curses
of Hades upon the recalcitrant camera. Then he grabbed it and
dragged it off the stage as if it were a large rude dog who had mis-
taken a private house for the great out-of-doors.
It was some time before the near-riot in the audience subsided.
But, believe it or not, the intrepid speaker bellowed straight to the
very orrtega of his peroration without missing a single gesture!
He was rewarded with a deafening ovation of applause. And he
stalked off the stage at last, red-faced and stern-looking. I hope
the poor little photographer had gone homel
The following program was a marvelous panorama of Mexican
music. Group after group of men and women appeared in quaint,
regional costumes, and to the music of guitar and violin sang songs
that you will never see published nor will you hear them in the
larger cities. Old, old songs of the hills and the country; some sad,
some merry, some childlike, and some spiced with racy colloquial-
isms that were greeted with delighted applause.
The next day we gathered together the two winning groups and
took motion pictures of them coming down one of the narrow, wind-
ing streets. They were singing a ranch song, 'La Higuera,* 1 'The
Fig Tree.'
la higuera se seco,
(The fig tree has dried up,)
Pa' tener la raiz a fuera,
(For its roots are on the outside,)
Y mi chata no me quiere
(And my little one doesn't love me)
1 Lah Ee-gay'rah.
QUEEN OF SILVER 229
Porque ando en la borrachera!
(Because I get drunk!)
Que me importa,
Que me importa,
(What does it matter to me)
Que mi chata no me quiera
(That my little one doesn't love me)
Porque ando en la borrachera!
(Because I walk in the way of Drunkenness!)
In years gone by, Guanajuato has paid a bitter price for its
unique location in the lap of the hills. There have been disastrous
inundations from the river that courses through the pocketed val-
ley, and until a great dam was constructed to keep the waters in
check, the streets were often flooded and lives were lost. Above one
of the doorways near our hotel, almost on a level with the balcony,
we saw a placard announcing that the 'Inundacion' had reached
that height in 1910.
The churches are filled with mementoes of those dreadful times.
Crudely painted pictures depicting miraculous escapes are tacked
by the dozens in the entryway and around the figures of the particu-
lar Virgin or Saint who supposedly interceded for the lives of their
devotees.
You will find very few foreigners in this ancient city of silver.
The population of some thirty thousand inhabitants is overwhelm-
ingly Mexican. Everything has the feel of being left over from
another age even the horrible mummies of the Panteon (ceme-
tery), some of them showing by their contorted postures that they
must have been buried alive!
Most of the sights are pleasant, however. The streets wind under
ancient arches, through tiny squares where Indian housewives
come to fill large Moorish-looking jars at public fountains, balance
them skillfully on their heads, and vanish in barefooted silence
through funnel-like alleys. One of the thoroughfares, Calle del Beso
(Street of the Kiss), is so narrow that two people cannot pass with-
out touching noses!
Cargadores trot along with heavy loads on their stout shoulders.
Peons headed for the market come unhurriedly, their dark faces
shadowed by enormous sombreros, their bodies draped with the
spectacular red and brown sarapes that are characteristic of this
part of the country.
230 GRINGA
Little jiggly street cars, propelled by gasoline engines, stop to
have their radiators filled at the public fountains. An old harpist
wanders past, asks pedestrians politely to listen to una piecita, and
thankfully collects a few copper centavos for a badly tuned rendi-
tion of 'Mi Viejo Amor.'
We came to know this old man well. A milder, more pathetic
person you could hardly imagine. He was the living personifica-
tion of the tragic figure described in ' The Lay of the Last Minstrel ' :
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The minstrel was infirm and old.
And y e t _ old. Francisco had lived! He had spent twenty-four
years of his life in prison ; the first twelve for killing his sweetheart
who had been unfaithful to him and the second twelve for trying
to escape I
He was seventy-four years old. But he had married a wife forty
years his junior and had just become the father of a fine, healthy
little boy ! Yes, the old harpist knew life. He regarded it with fatal-
istic cheerfulness.
'Everything is God's will. My sweetheart's unfaithfulness, and
my bad temper that was God's will too!'
We rode horseback over the mountains to the historic town of
Dolores Hidalgo. It was in this grimly situated little village that
Mexico's first freedom was born. In a humble adobe house that
has come to be regarded as a shrine, the idealistic priest, Cura
Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla, was bom. He it was who rang the alarm
bell early in the morning of September 16, 1810, and gave the fa-
mous * Grito de Dolores,' which was the signal for the revolt from
Spain's intolerable rule:
'Viva la independencia! Viva la Virgen de Guadalupe! Y
mueren los GachupinesP l
It is a cry that repeats itself yearly at eleven o'clock (P.M.) of
September 15 in every city and village throughout the land.
The highest Government official always gives the ' Grito* (now
somewhat modified from its original form) standing on a balcony as
the hero priest stood, and the bells clang fervently as the renewed
1 Long live independence I Long live the Virgin of Guadalupe! And death
to the Spaniards I
QUEEN OF SILVER 231
challenge to despotism mingles with the shouts of the congre-
gated people in the plaza below. 'Viva! Viva Mexico 1 Viva la
libertadF
We learned that in Guanajuato were some 'Apache' dancers,
who performed at religious festivals. There did not happen to be
such a fiesta at the time of our visit, but we went out to the house of
the leader of the group and bargained energetically for an hour
arranging for a 'private showing ' for the sake of our motion-picture
camera.
These Indians are not to be confused with the wild Apaches who
harried the southwest of our own country and made life miserable
for the Mexican settlers in the State of Chihuahua. They do not
even belong to that tribe. I do not know why the curiously costumed
dancers go by that peculiar name, for certainly there is nothing in
either their appearance or their movements to suggest bloodthirsty
savages. It is one of those 'quien sabe' things; Mexico is full of
them.
The leader of the group, Benito Chaves, lived with his wife in a
pleasant little house in the midst of a tropical huerta (garden),
with banana plants drooping their upside-down clusters of green
fruits over the red-tiled roof, and where equal quantities of dogs,
children, scrawny-necked chickens, and sad-looking turkeys roamed
at will through rooms and out into the mottled shadows of the
trees.
We finally adjusted the price; and then Benito murmured that
there would be another peso required.
'But why? All is arranged!'
4 It will be a peso more if the banner of the Virgin is brought out.
It is the custom...'
It was strange to see those quiet, unassuming Indians suddenly
transformed into weirdly garbed ceremonial dancers. There were
six men and one little boy. They came out of the house costumed in
tinseled dresses that reached to their knees. Some of them wore
long black stockings, and shoes. Others were barelegged, and their
feet wfcre shod with primitive leather sandals.
All of them had donned black wigs made of horsehair, and tower-
ing head-dresses of beads and feathers and colored ribbons. Benito
Chaves had a strange, archaic-looking musical instrument fashioned
232 GRINGA
of an armadillo shell, and strung with wire. He plucked the strings
as the group danced; it was a slow, stately, ritualistic movement
done with complete assurance and perfect tempo, while from behind
the tossing feathered casques the banner of the Virgin of Guad-
alupe (at the cost of the extra peso) swayed and bobbed and
whirled, in the hands of a dancer who looted enough like the
Emperor Moctezuma to be his reincarnation 1
In other parts of Mexico even more fantastic costumes are used,
and masks are a feature of the dances. Some of the performances
commemorate battles between 'Moors' and Spaniards. Others
offer a grotesque symbology of the eternal struggle between Good
and Evil. One of the favorite themes of these dance dramas is the
coming of Cort6s with his Indian mistress Marina, and Ms recep-
tion by the Aztec Emperor.
High above the city of Guanajuato, rising sheerly from the
cliffs that hem it in, there is a steep towering pinnacle called 'La
Bufa,* which is supposedly honeycombed with caves. It is not a
favored place with the natives, for it is supposed to be enchanted.
They say that a race of pagans Eved there thousands of years ago,
who for their sins were thrust down underground, there to lead an
eternally unhallowed life without even the hope of death.
And the legend goes that once in the days of the city's silver
empirage, a young hidalgo of Spain hunting a deer took refuge
from a cloudburst in one of the caverns. He heard a light footstep
behind him, and turned, startled, to see a beautiful Princess, with
long dark hair and lustrous eyes.
He was about to flee from the unholy spot when her pleading
voice stopped hiria.
'Oh, do not leave me here to suffer for the sins of my people!
Take pity on me! Carry me on your back down to the nearest
church and there let me baptized. Then the cruel spell will be
broken and I will live to repay your kindness with my love and
beauty!'
Terrified, yet enthralled, he consented to do as she wished.
'But,' she warned him, 'you must not look at me until you carry
me to the very door of the church! Promise me that you will resist
all temptation to do sol'
He promised and knelt so that the sHm Princess could clasp her
QUEEN OF SILVER 233
hands around Ms neck. Then he rose, with his delectable burden,
and started down the steep barren hills towards the city.
It was the hour of vespers and the church bells were clanging in
the distance. As he approached them, the load on his back grew
heavier and heavier until he bent forward achingly and his face was
dripping with sweat.
He met a herdsman, who stared at him in horror, then ran as if
the very devil were at his heels. The young hidalgo felt icy fear
surging through his veins. He wanted to turn, to see why the
beautiful Princess had grown so heavy. But he remembered her
warning, and panted on down the mountain-side.
Now on the outskirts of the city, other people met Mm. And
when they saw what he was carrying, they shrieked and fled. The
clanging church bells were nearer. But the weight on Ms back was
horrible, intolerable.
At last, when almost to the church door, he could bear it no
longer. He turned Ms head. And saw, staring into his own eyes,
the lidless, baleful glare of a huge boa constrictor!
With a wild scream of terror he flung Ms burden from Mm. And
as the great looped coils touched the ground, the serpent gave a
low, heartbroken cry, like that of a woman. Then it slid away into
the shadows. And he never saw it or the enchanted Princess
again.
We asked old Francisco about tMs legend. He assured us that it
was true.
* And,' he added, 'if you have courage enough to go into the cav-
ern of the Bufa, you will hear a roaring as of a great underground
river. Then you will see that the gravel on wMch you walk is made
of golden nuggets. If you stoop to touch them, a voice from the
darkness will cry out, "Take all, or nothing!" Then you must
make your choice. If you pick up any of the gold, you are lost;
you must remain with the underground people of the Bufa forever.
It is best to be strong; to say a prayer, and to come away at once.'
'Have you ever seen the golden floor of the cavern? 1 I asked
Mm.
He shook Ms wMte head. 'Oh, no, Senora, but many people
have. I do not remember just now any of their names but every
one here knows that the story is true. 9
234 GRINGA
*And has anyone else seen the lovely Princess? 9
*0h, yes, Sefiora! She still lives in the Bufa, waiting for someone
with courage enough to carry her down to the church, so that she
may be released from the evil spell of enchantment!'
AND
DIVORCES
To SAY the name of Yucatan is to pronounce a word of mystery.
For of all the ancient riddles that stand like ninepins in the bowling
alley of human intelligence and challenge the ball of facts to knock
them down, the one concerning the origin of the Mayas is among
the most stubborn and unsatisfactory.
It does get knocked down with a book or a learned pamphlet by
every archaeologist who approaches it. But it gets up as soon as his
back is turned; for another scientist steps up they love each
other in the same way that rival prima donnas do and he cries
out, 'Why you haven't even hit it! Now watch me!' And away
his ball of guesswork goes rolling down the alley.
The first European gentleman who might have solved the mys-
tery, or at least a part of it, was Columbus. On his last voyage in
1502, he had been driven off his course from Santo Domingo and
passed within sight of some islands near the coast of what is now
Honduras. Along came a large dugout canoe, part of which was
roofed over with leaves and branches, and it contained a high-class
family of Mayan Indians.
Columbus noted their beautiful cotton garments, dyed and
embroidered in many colors, and he spoke favorably of the modesty
of the women. But he let the canoe go on its way, and he sailed
southward instead of west, which would have brought Mm to the
coast of Yucatan.
Some forty years later, after Don Francisco de Montejo had con-
quered the stubborn resistance of the natives in the newly dis-
covered land, a certain Bishop Landa made a bonfire of all the
written Mayan records he could get his hands on. Into that flame
of misdirected zeal went so many precious secrets that it is appal-
ling to think of them. The history of the Mayan race was destroyed
in that bigoted blaze; chronology of rulers, traditions, medicinal
and botanical lore, and, very probably, manuscripts that would
have made possible the deciphering of the ancient pictographs
which cover temples and columns and walls.
Later, Bishop Landa realized his mistake. He tried then just as
236 GRINGA
zealously to gather together the lost fragments of Mayan history
and to compile an alphabet which would put the ancient written
language and Spanish on an equal footing." But it was too late.
The glory of the Mayan Empire had disappeared long before the
Spaniards arrived in Yucatan. Only the priests had kept the re-
cords of that far-off period; and with the burning of the books
(painted on parchment of finely cured deerskin and on paper made
from agave leaves) they sullenly refused to assist the Bishop's be-
lated quest except to tell him fantastic stories which they knew
to be untrue.
The Mayans called their empire 'The Land of Turkeys and
Deer.* But when the first Spaniards arrived and the Indians heard
their strange jargon, they cried out something which meant, * What
do they say?' or, 'Hear them speak!' It sounded to the Spanish
warriors like 'Yu-ca-tan!' And that was the name they officially
gave the country.
It was necessary for John to remain in Mexico City for a short
time, in order to give a preliminary showing of our motion-picture
film to the interested members of the Department of Educa-
tion.
I decided to go on to Yucatan and to wait for him in Merida. 1
It may surprise you to know that the peninsula of Yucatan is
actually north of Mexico City. If you will look on the map you will
see that the Mexican capital is 'way down south ' ; and that Yucatdn
the heel of the peninsula's boot, rises upward above Latitude 20.
The State is strangely situated in regard to the rest of the Re-
public, for it has a distinct entity geographically, racially, and cul-
turally. There is no rail communication between Yucatan and the
capital. A tremendous railroadless expanse lies between, including
the States of Campeche, Tabasco, and part of Vera Cruz. There
are as yet no connecting automobile highways. There are but two
methods of reaching Yucatan from central Mexico: to take a boat
from Vera Cruz or to go by airplane. It is closer to the United
States than most people realize. Progreso, the port, is only sixty
hours from New Orleans, and the boats (from New York as well)
are comfortable and well-scheduled.
However, there is no more beautiful or more interesting way than
1 Mer'ee-da.
ANCIENT MYSTERIES 237
to take the day train from Mexico City down to Vera Cruz and
plan your time so as to make connections with one of the Mexican-
or American-owned ships.
The twelve-hour train trip from the Valley altitude of seven
thousand five hundred feet to sea-level is one of the thrills you
should not miss. The character of the country changes with such
perceptible speed that it is as if a painted panorama were being
rolled by.
The great Pyramids of the Sun and Moon are soon left behind;
the miles of stiffly spiked maguey, the towering 'Smoking Moun-
tain ' and the lovely ' Sleeping Woman.' The road curves and twists
endlessly. There are times when you look down on tiny towns
directly below you as from an airplane.
Along about noon, the snowy cone of Orizaba appears in the
eastern sky, as symmetrically modeled as if a Japanese had done it
in imitation of Fujiyama. You see sharp contrasts of Mexican life;
the city of Orizaba with its air of bustling commerce almost
Yankee in its intensity; and a few hours later, the tiny tropical
village called Fortin, where millions of gardenias are raised, and
where the fragrant blossoms are made into enormous floral pieces
that sell at the train windows for ridiculously small sums. I bought
a basket made of the interwoven waxy blooms, one hundred and
sixty of them. And I paid forty centavos, a little less than twenty
cents American!
Next is the coffee country of Cordoba, where the jungle is hot
and steamy. The small, six-foot trees are shaded by towering
banana plants. And white-garmented peons carefully strip the
berries from the branches.
A Lady Writer was on the train. She had been in Mexico two
weeks, and didn't like the country. Her attitude remined me of
D. H. Lawrence's morbid fear as expressed in 'The Plumed Ser-
pent.' She was afraid of the drinking-water, the food, the machetes
that the peons carry. The fact that every passenger train had its
escort of Federal soldiers alarmed rather than reassured her. She
hadn't had time to go out and see the Floating Gardens because
she was busy investigating the prisons. She knew all about the
roasted maguey worms and pulque, but had not tasted any of the
other native dishes. She had seen plenty of drunkenness, but had
238 GRINGA
heard no Mexican songs. She had not been inside one Mexican
home.
It annoyed her terribly because I kept finding parallels in the
United States for everything she mentioned in the way of illiteracy,
injustice, violence, and governmental graft. Our conversation
must have sounded like a dialogue between Pollyanna and Kathe-
rine Mayo. We were as far apart as if we spoke different languages.
I could no more be afraid of Mexico because of its ugly spots than
she could love it, for its beauty.
We arrived in Vera Cruz at seven that evening. And as the train
pulled slowly into the station, the windows were suddenly filled by
fierce, yelling faces; clenched hands that brandished gleaming
pieces of metal. The Lady Writer froze against the seat and her
eyes took on a glassy stare.
*My God!' she said faintly.
'It's just the cargadores,' I assured her above the shouting
tumult; 'they want to carry our baggage to the hotel.'
She looked at them, and then at me.
'Those wolves? 3 she managed to utter.
As a matter of fact, the Vera Cruz cargadores are like a pack of
very hungry, ferocious wolves. They swarm over every train as if it
were full of meaty bones. They line the docks waiting for the ar-
rival of boats. And as far as you can see them, they are yelling to
attract attention and patronage.
And yet, after the first shock, they aren't so bad. You disregard
all the howling and get down to terms with one of them hissing
sternly at any of the others who venture to interrupt the conference.
On no account must you give your baggage to a cargador who does
not carry a small brass tag with his license number plainly visible
on it. The usual custom is for you to take his tag as a receipt.
You return it only on the safe delivery of your hand-baggage and
trunks. Since the authorities are very strict about such regulations,
you will be well protected if you take this precaution.
I made arrangements with a big black man to carry our suitcases
and trunks to the hotel. The Lady Writer kept close to me. And I
think if anyone had said *BooF very suddenly, she would have
screamed and died. I got her a room next to mine, and heard her
turn the key in the lock as I left. I wouldn't have been surprised to
hear her drag the bed up against the door!
ANCIENT MYSTERIES 239
I helped her get aboard the boat the next morning that was to
take her back to the States. I have not read any of the articles she
said she was going to write about Mexico, but I feel sure that the
Vera Cruz incident figured largely as an example of the perils of a
savage country.
Vera Cruz is by no means a pleasant town in which to have to
remain for long. It is so insufferably hot that you steam sluggishly
through the day and only begin to revive at nightfall. The mixture
of Negro blood with the native population has resulted in a dark
hybrid neither trustworthy nor amiable. Labor troubles are rife,
and there is a sullen remembrance of the American 'invasion' in
1914. Buildings that were damaged by cannon bombardment
have been deliberately left in their semi-ruined condition. I saw
schoolbooks illustrated with drawings by Diego Rivera show-
ing American Marines bayoneting helpless Mexican babies.
Yet this dot on the map has figured importantly from the first
days of Mexico's history up to the present time. The Aztec Emper-
ors were fond of fish; the delicious redsnappers caught here were
carried by swift relay runners up along an excellent road to the
great city of Tenochtitlan in a space of twenty-four hours!
It was here that Hernan Cortes landed, took possession of the
country for Spain, and started the building of a settlement which he
called ' La Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz/ ' The Rich City of the True
Cross.* It was here that he met the emissaries sent down by the
Aztec Emperor to see what manner of men were these who had ap-
peared in white-winged canoes from a world that no Mexican
knew. Here it was that the intrepid Spaniard ordered his ships
burned, so that his men could only go forward with him to con-
quest. And from here he began the long, terrific march up the
steepness of the mountains, through hostile tribes and alien terri-
tory, to reach the golden city over which Moctezuma ruled.
Later, after the Conquest, it was the place from which richly
laden galleons started on their long way back to Spain. It played a
prominent part in the Mexican War of Independence and in the
late revolutions. Now it is the port of entry for ships approaching
from New York 
