Throw Me A Bone

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Lothrop

Throw me a bone

a bone

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Throw Me a Bone

Throw Me a Bone

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU MARRY
AN ARCHAEOLOGIST

by
(Ol

eanor

WHITTLESEY HOUSE
MCGRAW-HILL BOOK COMPANY, INC.

NEW YORK : TORONTO

THROW ME A BONE
Copyright, 1948, by ELEANOR LOTHROP

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof,
may not be reproduced in any form without per-
mission of the publishers.

The quality of the materials used in the manufacture of
this book is governed by continued postwar shortages.

PUBLISHED BY WHITTLESEY HOUSE

A DIVISION OF THE MCGRAW-HILL BOOK COMPANY, INC.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

FOR SAM

When Eleanor Lothrop swore to
"obey," she had no idea her new hus-
band would soon be giving her orders to
"clean out that smashed skeleton in
Grave No. 27," In this gay and adven-
turous book, she tells just what can hap-
pen when you marry a famous archae-
ologist and decide to go along with him
for better or worse. There isn't much
that doesn't happen, and it is all excit-
ing, new and continuously amusing.

Preface

7TCCORDING to the dictionary, "archaeology is "the study of
/JL past human life and activities, as shown by the relics, monu-
ments, etc., of ancient peoples/' What the dictionary doesn't explain
is that you've got to get at the relics and the monuments before you
can study them unless, of course, you restrict yourself to studying
what someone else has found and that, according to Marquess of
Queensbury rules, isn't done. You'd think that an archaeologist
would sometimes be willing to accept the conclusions of his fellow
scientists but he doesn't seem to have much confidence in human be-
ings (except dead ones) and has to find out for himself.

Monuments of ancient peoples are overgrown with brush and
covered with earth while relics are buried deep in the ground. If
someone has already cleaned them off or dug them up it doesn't
count, for the game consists in finding your own, and although any
archaeologist worth his ancient salt is interested in examining the
discoveries of others he must turn up something himself before he
can actually score.

And this is no longer easy. The supply of monuments and relics
is by no means exhausted but those archaeologists first on the scene
naturally grab the best places so that, except for a question of
luck, anything good that's left is apt to be in out-of-the-way spots
and far from the comforts of home. In fact in all the years in which
I've tagged along on archaeological expeditions not once did we
settle down to work within walking distance of running water or a
bed with springs. There is one school of thought which claims it
unsporting to be comfortable but I've never subscribed to it

Ancient. ruins or monuments are somewhat easier to find than
relics. Many now dead cities and their locations are mentioned in
historical accounts and there seems to be no rule against using a
history book as a "trot." In addition, monuments are bound to be

Vlll PREFACE

above ground, and although they may be covered with earth and
rubble, at least they do stick out in plain view. The only trick is to
be able to distinguish between what is a natural geographic feature
and what is an artificial excrescence. I myself have mistaken every-
thing from Mount Popocatepetl to a small bump in a back yard for
an ancient mound, but archaeologists seem to have a special gift for
spotting the real thing and don't make these humiliating mistakes.
Once you've made a discovery, all that's left to do is hire a group of
workmen to clean off the top layer of rubbish, find a place near by to
live, take typhoid shots and collect a snakebite outfit, plenty of
quinine, toilet paper and whisky (medicinal) . Everything is then set
for the real work which consists of giving a spit and a polish to what
comes to light after the dirt of ages has been removed.

Relics take more searching for. These evidences of ancient civili-
zation, whether ornamental or practical, are buried on or with their
one-time owners; but the big question is "where?"

Archaeologists sometimes look for a cemetery near the ruins of
an old city, arguing that the people who once lived there must have
done something with all the bodies that accumulated over the
centuries. Unfortunately, however, there is no sure way of telling
just where they tucked them away or whether they carted them off to
some spot outside the city limits, so this is somewhat of a hit-or-miss
procedure. A more reliable method is to look for a piece of ground
that has bits of prehistoric pottery scattered on top. The broken
pottery may be just ancient rubbish in which case, though, you're
"warm," as this is a definite indication of a former civilization or
it may mean that someone in plowing a field or making a road
has struck scientific pay dirt. In the latter case it is most probable
that untouched graves are to be had for the digging, for unless the
erstwhile plower or road digger happened upon gold or precious
stones he undoubtedly shrugged his shoulders and went home.

Once a site has been selected the same preparations take place
as in attacking a monument. Here, though, you are apt to run up
against the problem of getting workmen, for many natives have
superstitious feelings about digging up the bones of their ancestors.

PREFACE IX

This can be got around either by not telling them what you hope
they may find or, if that won't work, by giving them extra money,
A little cash goes a long way in laying a ghost or, rather, bringing
his remains to light, and the native's opinion of you will not be
affected in any case, as he is convinced from the start that you are
crazy.

In any scientific expedition the workmen, unless specially trained,
do only the heavy work. The moment they strike a skeleton or the
objects which were supposed to accompany it to a better world
they are moved on to virgin ground; and the archaeologist takes over
with a whisk broom, a paintbrush, a little shovel and a knife. His
resemblance to an infant playing games doesn't seem to bother him;
.and he will contort himself into unmentionable positions while he
flips off dirt with his knife and blows and brushes until the entire
grave is cleared.

Even if something wonderful turns up, you've got to let it lie
until the whole works are exposed and photographed, and then it is
usually snatched out and concealed from envious eyes so that you
don't see it again until it turns up in some museum. There's nothing
to do, however, but swallow your sense of frustration and hope that
next time you'll spot something good and can slip it in your pocket
before anyone notices.

Archaeology, though, can be a great deal of fun especially if
you don't take it too seriously and can ignore the technical parts.
That way you turn it into a treasure hunt with the single difference
that you can't keep the prize even if you win it. What's more, no-
body can say that you don't go places. And what if they are some-
times the wrong places and more than you bargained for? At least
your life is never dull.

ELEANOR LOTHROP

Parti

Chapter 1

MOST people say that honeymoons are overrated events.
Diane, my best friend, warned me about mine. "You feel
awkward/' she told me, "and uncomfortable. While your husband
is courting you, so to speak, you strain to be at your best every minute
and only relax when he goes home. But on your honeymoon he
doesn't go home and you let your skin dry out and strain your eyes
because you're afraid that the shock of seeing you with grease on
your face or reading glasses on your nose will be too much for him.
Not that you can do much reading/' she added bitterly. "You may
be bored as hell after all, nobody can be entertaining twenty-four
hours a day but if you should pick up a book, you get a guilty feel-
ing that it looks as if you weren't having a Good Time. You'll see,"
she said grimly, nodding her blond curls in superior fashion. And I
was deeply impressed, for Diane had had two honeymoons and was
in a position to know.

But Diane was wrong about me. My honeymoon wasn't all fun,
111 admit, but it certainly wasn't dull and I never had time to be
bored. I married an archaeologist!

It was as much a surprise to me as to my family and friends, for
I had long had other plans. When you're very young you generally
have a definite idea what you want to do with your life; it's only as
you grow older that uncertainty sets in. Some girls are bent on having
careers; they are barely out of kindergarten before they begin to

THROW ME A BONE 5

think of themselves as the Jane Austens, the Florence Nightingales,
the Sarah Bemhardts of the future. Some girls are less ambitious;
all they want is to get married, have children and live happily ever
after.

I thought of marriage too, but that was to be only the begin-
ning. What I wanted was to travel and see foreign countries. And
the best husband for such a life, I decided, was a diplomat.

Night after night I dreamed of exotic out-of-the-way lands, of
luxury liners and Oriental express trains, of brilliant dinner parties
where many languages held sway. And though I could hardly dare
hope to capture anyone over the rank of Third Secretary, in my
dreams my husband was always The Ambassador. "Mr. Ambas-
sador" I could actually hear the third butler say it "the car is wait-
ing/' "And what will you wear tonight, Madame?" my imaginary
French maid would ask, and I'd be so busy thinking up an answer
that I could close my ears to Mother, as she sternly told me to pick
my socks off the floor. I even mentally designed my clothes from
the hostess gown in which I would graciously pour tea for a few
specially invited Cabinet Ministers, to the formal evening dress
(with train) to be worn at the reception in our honor at the Royal
Palace. For years I continued to play the game of travel and of
glamorous sojourns in foreign lands. Well! I have traveled and I
have seen out-of-the-way places. And if it wasn't exactly in the
manner of my dreams, at least I've covered more ground marrying
an archaeologist than I ever could have as an ambassador's wife.

At the time I met my then future husband, I suppose I knew as
much about archaeology as most persons who had no special interest
in the subject. Yd studied ancient history and could talk about the
Acropolis (which I'd never seen) and the Roman Forum, where
I'd been dragged at the age of seven. In addition, my aunt's sister-
in-law had married an assistant to Lord Carnarvon, which made me
feel that I had a personal link with Tutankhamen's tomb and the
royal curse. So when my hostess at a gay cocktail party presented me
to "Sam Lothrop, the famous archaeologist," I was not particularly
impressed but only surprised that he wore no beard, that he was

6 THROW ME A BONE

cocktails and that he was quite young. (I suppose I be-
that archaeologists were kept locked up until they were fifty
or so and thee suddenly released on an unsuspecting world.) Any-
how, 1 led right off with the Acropolis, the Forum and King Tut and
was startled when my companion, rudely interrupting, said, "I am an
American archaeologist."

"Of course/ 7 1 answered, irritated that my conversation had failed
to impress him. "I know the Lothrops come from Boston. So what?"
But it seems I had missed the point An American archaeologist, it
was explained, is an archaeologist who specializes in the archaeology
of the Americas North, Central and South.

Now in these days of continental solidarity and good neighbor
policy, most people north of the Rio Grande know more about
Latin Americans than these people know about themselves. News-
papers and press agents have highlighted the villainy of the Argen-
tine, the gay life of Mexico, the incomparable flavor of Chile's wines.
Donald Duck has flown down to Rio, good dancers must perform the
samba, and the Incas and Aztecs are more or less household words.
Until fairly recently, however, we arrogantly thought of ourselves as
Americans, not North Americans, and all roads (archaeological)
led to Rome.

It might thus seem that I had made anything but an auspicious
start toward impressing a man of science. Sam Lothrop, though,
must have been attracted by my ignorance, for he acted as if nothing
could give him greater pleasure than to correct popular miscon-
ceptions and fill in the vacant spaces of my mind. He went even
further. He married me.

Our honeymoon was different from the usual honeymoon; it was
also an archaeological trip. It was different in other ways, too, for it
turned out to be a honeymoon for three.

The third member of the party was Mr, George G. Heye, and
although he went along only in spirit he was in many ways the most
important of the trio. Mr. Heye was Sam's boss at the time, head
of a museum which boasted the ponderous name of Museum of the
American Indian, Heye Foundation, and you would no more think

THROW ME A BONE 7

of leaving out "Heye Foundation" when you mentioned the title
than you would omit the G. from Mr. George G. Heye's name.

Mr. George G. Heye was not an archaeologist he was an execu-
tive and his great passion was collecting the art of the American
Indian. For years he had lived in a sumptuous apartment on Fifth
Avenue where he dispensed wonderful food and drink and which
was filled to overflowing with archaeological specimens. Gradually
his collection grew so large that the American Indian threatened to
displace Mr. Heye, and at that point, in self-defense, he sought an-
other home for his trophies. Thus, the Museum of the American
Indian, Heye Foundation.

Sam had talked to me about his boss before we were married and
had mentioned, rather casually, that he was interested in our trip.
Interested? It was his trip. I found out later that everything had
been arranged before our departure. The Museum had received a
grant of money and had decided to blow it on sending Sam to Chile.
(The fact that he had acquired a wife was incidental, purely inci-
dental.) He was to do a little digging, a lot of collecting and, in
general, travel through the country and see what was what.

It wasn't that I didn't like that kind of trip. It was just that it was
my HONEYMOON, and Fd pictured spending it as we pleased and
not as Mr. Heye pleased. The fact that Mr. Heye and I liked lots of
the same places was fortunate for me, but it had nothing to do with
the principle of the thing.

It would have been all right if Sam had occasionally been willing
to cheat a little. Like spending Christmas with friends instead of in
a dirty little hotel in the Chilean backwoods. It couldn't be done,
said Sam, because there was some sort of Indian celebration going on
in those backwoods, and Mr. Heye might be interested in Sam's
seeing it. "If the Indians can celebrate Christmas, why can't we?"
I asked, but this got me nowhere. Sam had a conscience.

As a matter of fact, all archaeologists have consciences. The trou-
ble is that their consciences are one-track affairs and are directed only
toward their work. There is no use in getting upset or pulling any
"darling, you don't love me any more" kind of talk, because an
archaeologist just doesn't understand. He may love you madly, but

g THROW ME A BONE

a wife, ailing child or personal desire is pushed aside

the JOB rears its head.

I've often wondered why this is so and have come to the con-
clusion that it most be because an archaeologist cares terrifically
about his profession. God knows he'd never have picked it otherwise.
He's invariably sent to unhealthy tropical climates, his body is a
continuous exploring ground for insects and, at best, what can he

hope for?

Fame? Only among fellow scientists. I'm willing to bet that
ninety-nine persons out of a hundred don't know the name of a
single archaeologist. Or of any archaeological discovery. With the
possible exception of Tutankhamen's tomb and that only because
there was a curse and a lot of mystery and scandal connected with

it

Money? Certainly not! That's something reserved for bankers and
bookmakers and movie stars. A good archaeologist won't starve, but
unless he has an income on the side he had better accustom his
stomach right from the start to boiled beef and bread with oleomar-
garine, rather than squabs, or mushrooms under glass.

At the beginning of our trip I didn't know all that. At the begin-
ning of our trip archaeology meant little more to me than an
impressive word that was difficult to spell, and I expected archaeo-
logical life to be like my dreams of diplomatic travel with adventure
attached.

We spent one glorious unscientific week in Santiago, capital of
Chile. The hotel was good, the people we met attractive, and we
went to the races, danced, ate gigantic lobsters from nearby Robinson
Crusoe Island and, all in all, were typical newlyweds. One week!
Then the honeymoon ended

I didn't know it was over. I was still starry-eyed. Even when Sam
said, "Have you ever heard of Taltal?"

"It sounds like a disease. Like beriberi," I added. I didn't realize
at the time how psychic I was.

Sam laughed. "Taltal is a port on the north coast," he explained.
"Used to be a flourishing nitrate center until nitrate began to be

THROW ME A BONE g

made synthetically. It's no longer quite so flourishing, but there's
some archaeology I'd like to check on. The boat leaves tomorrow."

"I'd love to go/' I said, looking at my hero with complete confi-
dence.

"The boat's not very big/ 7 said Sam. "Not like the Grace liners/*

"Why don't we take a Grace liner then?"

"The Grace liners don't stop at Taltal This is the only boat for
thr. next week that stops. You see, Taltal isn't so flourishing any
r.i'ore," lie repeated rather lamely.

"Oh, that's all right/' I said. "A smaller boat will be fun." I was
the scientist's wife. His helpmeet. Until I saw the boat the following
day. It was called the S.S. Huemul after some Indian. Drab and
dingy, it huddled defensively at the pier, as if recognizing its own
limitations. It was about the size of a small yacht, but there the
similarity ended. The S.S. Huemul looked just like a cattle boat.
That was because it was a cattle boat. But I didn't realize that at the
time.

We had a gay send-off, with presents. One friend brought a can
of bedbug powder, another, a new roach remedy. The Chileans
have a wonderful sense of humor, I thought, although not very
subtle. By some lucky chance, however, I kept the powder.

Not that I was any novice at traveling. I had made eight trips to
Europe with my family and had nothing but scorn for the type of
American who talked about the French as "frogs" and the Italians
as "dagoes" and who thought the little old U.S.A. was good enough
for him.

I loved going places. We always crossed on the French line be-
cause of the food, and most of the stewards were my friends and
gave me special service. I felt entirely at home at the Hotel Crillon
in Paris, Claridge's in London and the Excelsior in Rome. To say
nothing of the Hotel de Paris at Monte Carlo and the Negresco
at Nice. The family agreed that you sometimes got more atmosphere
in small hotels but, as my father said, "Why not have a comfortable
base and go out to find your atmosphere from there?"

And we did need large rooms as we always had so much luggage.

J0 THROW ME A BONE

We carried an extra supply of shirts for Father and extra underwear
for all of us, as it was agreed that you couldn't be sure of havmg any-
thing washed properly unless you were in London or Pans. Father
couldn't sleep except on his own pillow, which was o giant sizeand
made of especially soft feathers; so that was carried along toe. Then
there was the leather kit which held two hot-water bags (Father was
subject to occasional attacks of dyspepsia), plus a sterno stove to
heat the water. And the drug case, which was enormous and con-
tained, among other things, aspirin, rhubarb and soda tablets, three
remedies for heartburn, and two different mouthwashes which
Mother claimed she couldn't do without. There was a small suitcase
for linens which held outsize pillow cases for Father's pillow, and a
supply of linen hand towels, as Mother thought hotel ones were apt
to be scratchy. She didn't like the soap you got in hotels, either, so
she used to provide herself with a large assortment of cakes from
Roger & Gallet (Violette or Fleurs d'Amour). And an extra supply
of wash rags and always two Kent nailbrushes.

Hotel managers were apt to be quite upset when we arrived, but
Mother would look pathetic and helpless (she was by far the most
efficient member of the family) and the gallant manager usually
ended up giving us a larger and better suite than the one that had
been ordered, at the same price. Especially in France.

A psychiatrist would have had a field day with Mother, who had
an obsession about cleanliness. She washed her hands before meals,
after meals and at least six times in between. She always carefully
examined the beds when we first arrived in our hotel rooms (even
the Ritz!),.and she upset the chambermaid by pulling the sheets all
the way out each morning to make certain that the beds would be
entirely remade. In the dining room she would wait until the maitre
d'h6tel wasn't looking and then quickly wipe off her plate and
cutlery with her napkin, and if she spotted a waiter's thumb closer
than an eighth of an inch to her food, the food was sent back or left
uneaten. Father and I laughed at her, but I could hardly help but
be influenced.

I thought of Mother all the way to Taltal. And after we got there.

Chapter 2

I THOUGHT I was prepared mentally for almost anything that
might happen on an archaeological trip, but traveling in a cattle
boat was something I had failed to take into consideration. I'm
glad, though, I had the experience. Now that it's over. It is funny
what preconceived ideas one has. I used to think that a cattle boat
was a boat for cattle. I even believed that Sam had had to wangle
special permission for us to be on board, thus cheating a couple of
cows out of their trip. "Move over, Bossie, and let the lady look at
the ocean," I expected him to say.

As a matter of fact, a cattle boat is a boat for cattle, but it is for
everything else too. The cows come first, as indeed they should, but
where they won't fit, any other animal or piece of freight that has
the right angles is tied up or deposited. What space remains is given
over to passengers.

The S.S. Huemul was so crowded that I don't believe the agents
would have dared sell another ticket to a mouse. The passengers
were mostly rotos or half -breeds, with a few Indians thrown in, and
they occupied the deck. Not in deck chairs, wrapped up in steamer
blankets, with stewards serving hot consomme, but sitting or lying
squashed up against each other. Like pressed caviar.

Bow and stern were filled with cattle, about two hundred in all,
and from the heartbreaking moos that came forth they were evi-

THROW ME A BONE 13

dently in the last stages of agony. Crates of chickens were piled
frighteningly high, the inmates adding to the din. Goats and pigs
were tied up in every convenient spot, protesting bitterly, and
additional strange noises which I couldn't identify increased the
madhouse atmosphere.

We had been allotted one of the two passenger cabins; which was
lucky, as there was not an inch of room on deck. The cabin was too
small for both of us to stand up at the same time, so Sam remained
vertical and I stretched out on the narrow berth. "How about re-
versing positions?" I asked, after the first half hour. 'Til stand for a
while and you lie/' But just then a little man appeared, like an
angel out of the sky, with an invitation from the captain to lunch in
his quarters.

We rushed out on deck and came up against a solid phalanx of
bodies. A fat Indian woman clutched me as I tried to wiggle
through, and one of her little darlings grabbed my ankle. I leaned
down to disengage it and Mama let out a deep belch. A combined
odor of garlic, sweat and general filth hit me in the face. "Help," I
yelled at Sam. "Minnehaha stinks."

Sam has endless ingenuity, and instead of arguing or trying to pull
me loose, he threw the child a penny, which she promptly put in
her mouth and swallowed. Minnehaha began to whale her for
losing the coin, and in the ensuing excitement I managed to free
myself and we advanced to the bridge of the boat.

The captain met us with a flourish and introduced himself
"Santiago Galindo Mendez, at your orders" and there was more
name than captain. His five feet and few stray inches barely reached
my shoulder, and the biggest thing about him was his stomach,
which came to meet you before he did. He got around himself very
well, though, and when he ushered us into his cabin it was with the
grace of a Fred Astaire.

That small room contained two moth-eaten but comfortable
chairs, a kind of couch, which obviously turned into a bed at night,
and a wooden bench, placed in front of an immovable table, on
which three places had been set. In a corner stood a phonograph,

14 THROW ME A BONE

vintage of 1910, and a pile of records. Nothing more. A far cry this

from the captain's quarters on the lie de France, but to me it spelled

heaven. ,

Dust overlaid everything except the phonograph which was pol-
ished within an inch of its life. It was the type with horn outlet and
detachable handle which the Victor Company used to advertise
by a picture of an unpleasant-looking dog listening like mad to His
Master's Voice, The handle here, however, had been discarded and
the machine connected by an elaborate and confusing system^of
wires to a small electric fan which, minus fan blades and protecting
cage, managed to run it electrically. Wooden pulleys had been at-
tached to the motor of what-had-been-the-fan to gear its speed to the
speed of the phonograph, making the tempo of what came forth
somewhat erratic. It did work, though, without having to be wound
by hand, and Rube Goldberg could have done no better. The cap-
tain's pride as he showed us his creation was like that of a father
exhibiting the latest photograph of little Willie, and finally, unable
to contain himself any longer, he bowed to Sam and murmured a
question in Spanish of which I distinguished the word "dance."
"Sam," I giggled, "he's asking you to dance with him/'
'Idiot/' said Sam, "he's asking me if he may dance with you."
So Sam accepted with pleasure (for me), and the captain "call
me Santiago," he said put on the top record and, clutching me as
close as his stomach allowed, bounced me around the room to the
strains of "I Can't Give You Anything But Love, Baby/' It was like
dancing with a rubber ball

When the record ended he moved the needle back, reset the
electric fan and off we galloped again. With Sam's permission, of
course. After three more rounds and three more permissions I got
slightly desperate. "Please, please, refuse me/' I begged Sam. But
he was having a wonderful time, and I'm sure his generosity would
have held out indefinitely had lunch not suddenly appeared.

This was a four-course affair soup, fish, chicken and dessert and
it was delicious. Not because it was served in a stuffy cabin in a
miserable little hulk on the Pacific; it would have been delicious

THROW ME A BONE 15

anywhere. Whoever had cooked that meal would have been able
to take a piece of bark and some grass, add a sprinkling of herbs,
and turn out a dish of Cordon Blen quality. No wonder the captain's
stomach was out of proportion to the rest of him.

The food was literally smothered in garlic, but I enjoyed it so
much that I never thought of the consequences. After we left the
table, however, I was seized with a most terrific itch. Scratching
gave some relief but was inadequate, and Sam glared at me each
time I applied fingernails to body. "Garlic always gives me hives," I
whispered, but he kept on glaring and shaking his head.

Now Fd been brought up right, too. I'm sure Mother wouldn't
have approved of my scratching in public, but the problem had
never arisen, for every time Fd come out in hives Fd been whisked
to bed and a skin doctor had been called in to apply a soothing pink
lotion and assure the family that it was really nothing serious. Sam
didn't seem at all worried, though (except about my manners), so
I kept right on scratching and he kept right on glaring.

Except for the itching, I was very happy in the security of the
captain's cabin and hated to contemplate a return to our cell. After
all, I would have itched wherever I was. What's the outside limit,
I wondered, that guests can stay after lunch is over? And still be
reasonably polite, of course. Then the solution came to me. I would
charm the captain so that he would lose all track of time. What if
the ship did hit a rock? I was willing to take a chance.

Fd go right on dancing to his antiquated phonograph if necessary.
And Fd make my conversation so interesting and amusing that he
couldn't bear to let me go. Unfortunately Fd overlooked the fact
that it is difficult to charm anyone with conversation when you
don't speak the same language.

I did know a little Spanish. As a matter of fact, Fd studied at
a language academy for three weeks before we'd left New York. It
was a very modem academy. The instructor either spoke no English
or didn't feel like doing so. He stood on a platform back of a large
table on which a lot of different objects were placed. First he picked
up a pencil and, holding it high so that all the class could see, said

l6 THROW ME A BONE

In sing-song tones, "el lapeeze, el lapeeze." Then he hit the table a
smart blow. "Maysah," he said "La maysah." That over, he laid
down the pencil and told us it was on the table, which we already
knew.

Next he picked up various other objects a pen, ink, a book and
went through the same routine. Suddenly, pointing straight at me,
he asked, rather harshly I thought, where the pencil was. I knew, of
course, and the question was idiotic anyhow; but when put to me
that way I couldn't say a thing and just goggled at him. Someone in
the back of the room yelled 'MAYS AH" and the instructor nodded
his head and gave me a nasty look. That was the end of the first day's
lesson.

The second day we went on to colors and numbers, the third day
to animals and household effects, and by the end of the week we
got more personal and discussed the family and family relationships.
After three weeks, I had acquired a vocabulary of perhaps a hundred
words, a collection of useless phrases, and was out twenty dollars.

Fd done better when we reached Chile. There were the practical
expressions I picked up like "Where is the toilet?" or "Run away
you dirty little squirt," the last of which worked like a charm when
whining children accosted you on the street. But obviously neither
of these sentences was going to get me to first base with the captain.

Then, too, I could say u Te quiero" ("I love you"), which was the
title of a Mexican song I'd heard on the radio, but this seemed like
a pretty strong beginning for any new relationship and might give
him the wrong idea. Anyhow, it was shooting the works all at once.

So we all sat down and smiled at each other, Sam, who spoke
fluent Spanish, evidently felt he had nothing to say. Call-me-Santiago
was equally silent I knew we'd never last long at this rate, so in
desperation I fell back on my school days. "Little Spanish, me/'
I said. 'Want to hear?" He nodded enthusiastically. "The pencil is
on the table. School Spanish/' I added, so that he wouldn't think
me crazy.

But the captain only looked puzzled and dug a hand into his

THROW ME A BONE 1J

pocket where he thought he had put his pencil, and where, of course,
it was. "Ah, Americano joke," said he. "Ha, ha, ha."

If he's that easily amused, I thought, it's going to be a cinch. And
I asked him where the cat of his grandmother was.

"Ha, ha, ha, ha/'

This unexpected triumph intoxicated me. "Mrs. Brown does not
like her brother-in-law," I stated, pulling out my tramp card.

But apparently I'd struck the wrong note. "Who is Mrs. Brown?"
asked Call-me-Santiago. "Do I know her?" He looked reproachful,
as if to rebuke me for being a gossip.

"It's no use," I said to Sam. "We might as well give up." It was
clear that no three weeks of lessons could turn me into a Spanish-
speaking siren. But before we left I made up my mind to get some
practical information. "Taltal, good hotel?" I inquired.

"Ha, ha, ha!"

"Sam, you ask him/ 7 1 said desperately.

"Captain Galindo," asked Sam, "has Taltal a good hotel?"

"Three hotels," he answered. "The Palace, the Grand and the
Olympia."

This at least sounded encouraging. "But which is the best?" Sam
pursued.

"Ha, ha, ha, there is no difference. Ha, Ha."

I didn't like the way he laughed, although I later discovered the
reason for it. It was only three o'clock, but Sam and I stood up and
murmured our thanks and glumly set out for our cell. "At least stop
scratching," he said irritably, as we emerged on deck.

"Sam," I said pitifully, "I've got hives."

"Nonsense. They're fleas. Fve got 'em too. What do you expect
on a cattle boat?"

Up to then Fd known only one flea. I'd known him intimately.
Our mutual contact had taken place in- Biarritz, where my family
had reluctantly been persuaded to leave me for an extra ten days of
sun and amusement while they returned to Paris to shop. When

jg THROW ME A BONE

the? I moved out of the ocean suite we'd been occupying

and took a room in a small hotel off the beach, close to a villa where
friends were living. The hotel was unpretentious and not very com-
fortable, but I spent virtually no time there except to sleep.

One morning I felt something in bed with me and, peering under
the sheet, discovered a large, fat flea. Shocked, horrified and
ashamed, I grimly gave chase. I finally managed to get my thumb
over his body and press him down on the bed, but this, unfortunately,
did not finish him off and when I tried to pick him up he escaped.
Three or four times I covered him with a finger, but each time he
got away and hopped over to another part of the bed, where he
sat laughing at me.

The following morning, there he was again. And every morning
from then on. I was never able to kill him. The closest I got was
catching him between thumb and forefinger, but when I tried to
squeeze him to death he slipped out.

I was brought up very strictly. "Be courteous and honorable/'
my mother used to tell me. "If you make a mistake, admit it. If you
break something, don't try to hide the pieces and let someone else
take the blame. And be considerate of other people if you expect
them to be considerate of you/' So when I was ready to leave
Biarritz I thought of the next occupant of the room, and even
though it humiliated me, I confessed to the proprietor that I was
leaving a flea in my bed. "I'm dreadfully sorry," I said weakly, wait-
ing for him to turn on me;

"Bless your heart, Mademoiselle/ 7 He laughed. "Only one? Why
the hotel is full of fleas. I've got cats, you know/'

He was nice about it, all right. But I couldn't get over the feeling
that I'd gotten into the wrong kind of hotel. A dive, probably. Any-
thing might happen in a place like that. Thank Heaven the family
didn't know to what I'd been exposed. So I never told them or any-
one else about my flea.

Looking back on this experience, I think it's funny. The intense
and unsuccessful work I put in to kill one flea strikes me as pathetic.

THROW ME A BONE 19

Now, of course, there is absolutely nothing about fleas that I don't
know.

In the first place, the sooner you realize that ieas are made of
rubber, the better. There is no such thing as squeezing them to
death. It is sometimes possible to squash them between ) r our finger-
nails, but there is always the risk of their escaping. There is only
one sure method of getting rid of a flea.

After you spot him whether on the floor, the furniture, or on
y OU we t a finger with your tongue (the forefinger works best) and
dive for him. The flea, once covered with a wet finger, is out of luck.
He can't hop until the finger dries. Here's your chance, then, to pick
him up and hold him between dampened digit and thumb. Don't
waste time trying to smother him. It can't be done. But if a flea's
body is made of rubber, at least, thank God, he can drown. And
there's your solution.

If you're lucky enough to have plumbing, there's nothing to it.
Just drop him into the washbowl, the tub, or the toilet and run the
water or flush. If there is no plumbing, he can be deposited in a glass
of water or other liquid, where eventually he'll drown, or you move
on to another place, leaving glass and flea behind.

Of course I knew none of this, that day on the S.S. HuemuL It
was one of the few occasions when the knowledge wouldn't have
helped much anyhow. The plumbing, so-called, or "WOMEN,"
was something only to be approached for dire necessity. Sam claimed
that "MEN" was equally bad. There was no glass in our cabin, nor
room for one. And we had each acquired such a parade of fleas that
the simplest thing was to brush them off as well as possible. This is
what is called fouling your own nest. But we were too miserable
to care.

Chapter 3

T 71 THEN I was fifteen, I fell in love with an umbrella salesman
V V and I spent most of my time squinting at the sky and
gloomily predicting rain, then suggesting to my friends that they go
to Snellenburg's store to buy umbrellas from Jim. And after I was
married I yearned to do the same kind of promotion for Sam. So
when the S.S. Huemul dropped anchor in the harbor of Taltal I
was breathless with excitement This was it. My first chance to
practice being a scientist's wife. Through me Sam was going to be
the best-known archaeologist in the world. (I already thought he
was the best.) I've learned since that it is a great deal easier to
promote umbrellas than archaeology and that the greatest help an
archaeologist's wife can give her husband is negative just not being
an impediment But at the time I was all set to find lost Spanish
treasure and a new civilization (for him), and even now, after years
of painful discovery that it is the pottery you don't break and the
skeleton you don't move by mistake that endears you to an ar-
chaeologist, I still dream hopefully of being a power behind the
scenes.

The cattle got off at Taltal before we did. We waited two hours
after we had anchored, watching while belts were placed around
the cows' middles and they were hoisted into the air by some sort

21

22 THROW ME A BONE

of derrick and then let down Into a lighter. There was no use com-
plaining, for, as Sam said, a cattle boat is run for cattle, not passen-
gers. And when we finally did land, I wondered why I'd ever been in a
hum*. After fifteen minutes on shore nothing would have made me
so happy as to be back with the cows.

Taltal was born out of the desert which runs along the entire
northern coast of Chile. Shaped literally out of sand, for no sprig of
green had relieved the monotony of this arid wasteland until pipes
had been installed to bring down the necessary water from the
melting snows of the Andes, some hundred and fifty miles away.
Taltal was built as a shipping port for the nitrate which was found
far inland, and in the days when the mines were spewing forth their
precious salts it was a boom town, rich and gay and lively. Millions
of dollars of business had been conducted in its busy center, and
crowds of miners came there each week end to enjoy themselves.
Bars and dance halls and hotels lined the streets. Stores sold luxury
goods. Money was made to spend, not to keep.

When we saw Taltal all this had changed. The invention of
synthetic nitrate had killed the value of the mines which, though
still productive, lay almost idle. When we saw Taltal it had become
a phantom town. The streets were still enormously wide. The
houses, constructed of expensive Oregon wood, still stood, topped
by corrugated iron roofs. Stores, bars and boarding houses still
crowded each other.

But the wide streets were unpaved and at the mercy of the shifting
sand. The houses, paint peeled off and roofs sagging, rotted in the
sun. Most of the bars and stores were closed and those that were still
functioning had pitifully little to offer. Poverty overlaid everything,
like a damp cloth. Taltal, in short, resembled a once elaborate but
since abandoned movie set which had become drab and dirty with
disuse.

We first tried the Grand Hotel. But after one look we grabbed
our bags and trudged on to the Palace, which was nearby. Then the
Olympia. The captain had said there was no difference between
them ha 7 ha, and he was right. So we stayed at the Olympia.

This was a small two-storied building, wedged in between two

THROW ME A BONE 23

similar ones. The bedrooms were on the second floor and lined both
sides of a narrow corridor which ended in a covered porch, just
large enough to hold a couple of chairs. Each bedroom had one
window looking out on the corridor. The windows had no curtains.
There was no air, no light and no hope.

The frowzy proprietress, who resembled a Madam, showed us our
room and asked for a deposit. Sam paid her, and she swished off,
leaving us to musty horror. I quickly opened the window which,
being on the corridor, left the atmosphere unchanged. Two little
girls chased each other screaming up and down the hall, and one of
them leaned on the sill and poked her face inquisitively into the
room. I closed the window.

In the dimness we could just recognize the shape of two sagging
beds, a couple of early early-American chairs and a bureau with the
drawers missing. In a corner hung an electric light bulb, suspended
from the ceiling. "Let's see the worst/' I said bravely, and turned it
on. Nothing happened. "Sam, the light is out of order. Go tell
Madam Pushbottom."

He was gone only a moment "The Madam's compliments," he
announced in a tough falsetto voice, and he put his hand on his
hip and wiggled his behind the way she did hers, so that in spite of
my misery I had to laugh. "The Madam says 'what do you expect
for twenty-five cents a day with food?' The Madam says 'the lights
are turned on at 7 P.M. and off again at 10 P.M. and if you don't
like it you know what/ "

"You're making it up," I said, giggling. And then sat down on
my bed and burst into tears. "Can't we please get out of here, Sam.
Please. Please."

"There's no place to go," remarked Sam practically.

And there wasn't. When we walked out on the porch to look
around, we could just make out the lines of that queen of the
Pacific, the S.S. Huemul, disappearing into the horizon. Our last
friend had deserted us.

"Cheer up/' said Sam. "If things aren't better tomorrow 111 see
about hiring a car and motoring down the coast." But things were
worse, not better, and we didn't get a car.

24 THROW ME A BONE

" Sam had been right about the lights. They, or rather it, did go on
at seven. This made practically no difference, though. The bulb
was the size of a golf ball-probably half a watt, I decided, although
I could never see well enough to check on this-and gave just suffi-
cient illumination to keep us from running into the furniture.

It wasn't strong enough for us to see the insects, so we never did
know just what bit us. We could guess, though. Fleas, of course
both the ones we'd brought with us and a new lot. Bedbugs, almost
surely, for life in bed, in spite of the powder we sprinkled about,
was a series of hypodermic injections. And some sort of winged
creatures that from the noise they made must have been the size of
hummingbirds. An entomologist with a flashlight would have had
a wonderful time.

I spent most of the Erst night sitting up on a rickety chair, with
a pillow back of me and my feet where the bureau drawers had
once been. Sam, irritatingly enough, was able to sleep. So I waited
until five o'clock to wake him and then asked what time we could
leave.

"Leave?"

"You know, that car."

"Darling," said Sam, "we can't leave yet. We have to stay at least
a few days to examine some archaeological sites. I told Heye. . . ."

"Sam," I interrupted, "do you think Mr. George G. Heye would
be willing to spend one hour in this hellhole?"

"Maybe not. But he's paid for the trip. . . ."

"I'll pay him back."

"No."

"I'll pay a hundred dollars extra."

"No."

"Two hundred. I'll use Uncle Walter's wedding check."

"NO."

The days were considerably better than the nights. We'd get up
early, take a picnic lunch and walk some two miles south, where
the archaeological sites were located. These were right on the ocean,

THROW ME A BONE 25

and we'd first tear off our clothes, dip them in the water to drown
any insect life still extant and spread them on a rock to dry. Then
hurl ourselves into the ocean to "be deloused.

"This Florida resort life is wonderful/' I said happily the first
morning, as I floated on my back, gently scratching bites.

"A little cold/ 7 Sam countered. "Probably a bit early in the
season. How about getting out and going up to that elegant hotel,
the Bellavista-Miramar-Seaside, to warm up with an aperitif?"

"I could stay here forever/* I answered lazily, "and, anyhow, I
don't think the hotel would let us in without clothes."

"Eleanor," said Sam, gently but firmly breaking up the game,
"how about a little archaeology? You know, what we came for."

Reluctantly I left the water and we applied ourselves to the
archaeology. Somehow it wasn't my idea of what archaeology
should be. I had never seen this science on the hoof, so to speak, but
I'd pictured it clearly in my imagination. There would be a number
of workmen tearing up the ground until they hit upon a lot of tombs,
after which Sam and I would be carefully lowered into the grave to
pull out gold and emeralds. When my hands and pockets were
filled, I would signal "ahoy," like a diver at the bottom of the sea,
and the waiting workers would pull me up.

The archaeology in Taltal wasn't like that at all. Along the beach,
as far as the eye could see, was a pulverized mass of sand, ash,
carbonized material, shells, and broken and discarded stone imple-
ments. At intervals deep trenches had been sunk into this gritty
mixture, apparently by some previous digger, and scattered through
the holes as well as over the adjacent surface were hundreds of
pieces of broken pottery. The pieces were of all sizes and shapes,
faded and dull. They didn't even fit together.

"What/' I asked Sam, "is all this?"

"You might call it prehistoric swill," he answered romantically.
"An ancient refuse bed or garbage dump. Also a cemetery."

"A cemetery in a garbage dump?"

"There were no sanitary laws in those days," said Sam. "No
garbage collectors. No incinerators. The trash was thrown right out

2 6 THROW ME A BONE

the door. And the custom in many places here, for instance was to
bury your deceased relative either under the floor of your house or
to dig a hole outside in the refuse and put him into it."

"You mean Poppa was put right in with the slops?"

"Under the slops/' corrected Sam consolingly.

After all, I decided, what they did in the old days was their
business. And garbage after the first hundred years can't be very
repellent It would be well worth going through it to get at the gold
and emeralds. "When do we start digging?" I asked eagerly.

"We're not going to dig/' said Sam. "Lots of archaeologists have
dug hare. I just want to check their conclusions."

"You mean this whole ghastly trip is just to see what someone
else has already found?"

"Exactly/' he answered, and his eyes lit up with that gleam which
only pure science can arouse. "You see, I don't agree with the
archaeologists who worked here. They called the stone implements
they found paleolithic and I believe that's a mistake. Fd like to
prove it."

I gaped at him. "Paleolithic" was a word I'd vaguely classed with
such other unreal terms as "Neanderthal man" and "dinosaur/'
and I didn't know a thing about any of them except that they were
all TERRIBLY OLD. Why oh why had I wasted four years at col-
lege studying such useless subjects as French and psychology and
EngKsh literature?

Sam must have noted my expression. "Paleolithic/' he explained
kindly, "is a very early culture found in Europe which is characterized
by rough stone implements. Now the stone implements here are
similar in style, which explains why the archaeologists who worked
in Taltal called them paleolithic. But if that were true it would
make this site more than a hundred thousand years old by European
standards. And I don't think that's possible. Do you?"

The site might have been any age as far as I was concerned, but
I was so flattered at being consulted that I wrinkled my brow and
then consideredly said, "Well, I would imagine. , . ."

But Sam wasn't listening. He'd already disappeared into the

THROW ME A BONE 2J

bottom of some pit. Suddenly he gave a cry of triumph and emerged
with a handful of broken stone and a few bits of clay. "I've got it,"
he shouted. "I've got it!"

"What have you got?" From the excitement in his voice it might
have been the Kohinoor diamond.

"My proof/' cried Sam happily. With a flourish he helped me
down some six feet into a partly filled-in trench. Here, apparently,
had been an ancient grave, although its contents had long since been
removed. The walls, however, were untouched, and in them could
be seen layer upon layer of virgin trash broken pottery, some old
stones, corn cobs, and a few dried beans. Poppa, it is true, had been
dug up, but the garbage dump that had surrounded his grave re-
mained intact

"See?" asked Sam.

"See what?"

"The trash is in layers, and there are bits of stone and pottery in
the same layer. As pottery didn't exist until comparatively recently,
the stone can't be paleolithic. Isn't that clear?"

"No."

"You wouldn't find the stone and pottery together if they weren't
the same age."

'Why?"

"Oh, God!"

"Sam," I begged, "pretend I'm the idiot child who should really
be in an institution. For some reason you've got to make this idiot
child understand. Now start all over again."

"All right," he said, with unflattering agreement "The wall of
this trench is made of earth. The earth contains all sorts of ancient
refuse. The ancient refuse is in different layers, one on top of the
other. The deepest layers are the oldest and so on up. Get it so far?"

"Of course. You must think I'm an idiot I"

Sam went right on speaking in short sentences and pronouncing
each word slowly as if it stood by itself. "The paleolithic age existed
a hundred thousand years ago. Pottery didn't come into existence
until thousands and thousands of years later. Here, though, you

2 8 THROW ME A BONE

find pottery and stone in the same layer. And near the top. Sic! The
stone can't be paleolithic/' He looked as if he had pulled a couple
of rabbits out of a hat. "Do you see now?" he pleaded.

"Of course. Nothing could be simpler/' I lied. "And that's what
we came to Taltal to discover?"

"Just that"

'Then we can leave. Hooray!" I threw my arms around his neck.

Sam quickly disengaged himself. "Not at all," he said, rather
coldly. "I've found only one example. It will take several days to
go into other trenches and find additional proof. Pll have to take
detailed notes. You can help me/' he added quickly as he noted my
dismay.

"It's not my idea of archaeology/' I wailed. "I don't want to go
burrowing after a lot of secondhand swill."

'"We'll put in our own dig/' promised Sam, "after we leave here/*

That afternoon we celebrated by visiting the Club Social of Taltal.
This, we'd been told, was the gathering place for the town's leading
citizens, where they convened for cocktails, dice-throwing and
gossip. At one time the Club Social had boasted a membership of
nearly fifteen hundred, but when we were there the active members
had apparently shrunk to five.

The barroom was immense and seemed quite gay, what with rat-
tling of dice and clinking of glasses; but I'd no more than set willing
foot within its door when a little waiter swept me out and into
something called "Ladies Lounge." It seemed no women were al-
lowed in the bar.

Ladies Lounge was furnished with a plush sofa, which had been
consumed by moths right down to its skeletal frame, several equally
decayed plush chairs and a table holding a copy of the Saturday
Evening Post for December 1923. The walls were painted a jaundice
yellow, patterned by the life-blood and squashed anatomies of what
had once been mosquitoes. On one wall hung a gigantic paint-
ing of a group of cherubs, ascending into a fleecy-clouded bright-

THROW ME A BONE 29

blue heaven. Murillo Junior had given the cherabs cute little chubby
bodies and lovely golden curls, but something had soured his brush
by the time he reached their faces. It may have been the light; but
to me those little darlings had expressions of unmitigated evil and
resembled nothing so much as a bunch of precocious rapists.

From the close, musty atmosphere I guessed that no one had
entered Ladies Lounge during the last year. Clouds of dust arose
as I sat down on the plucked couch and waited for Sam to bring me
a drink. Sounds of revelry emerged from the bar, but no Sam. After
ten minutes, I bravely walked back into the forbidden room and
managed to call "hey" before the same little waiter bore down on
me.

Sam was in the middle of a dice game and apparently winning,
for he didn't look particularly pleased at the interruption. Neverthe-
less he appeared in Ladies Lounge a few minutes later, bearing a
partly consumed highball and followed by the leading citizens of
TaltaL There were five of them, and although they were of all sizes,
shapes and nationalities, a general seediness and an expression of
frustration linked them in indissoluble brotherhood. It was obviously
curiosity that had impelled them Ladies Loungeward probably, I
decided, to see what a white woman looked like, for I was sure that
any wives or non-native girl friends must have fled Taltal long ago.

I was presented first to a tall, lanky American named Jim, then
to a Norwegian, who for some reason was known as Fish, a German-
Peruvian called Don Oscar, and a little Chilean who spoke no
English and whom everyone addressed as Stay. And, finally, to the
Colonel.

The Colonel might have stepped right out of the pages of Kipling
or Somerset Maugham. A few stray hairs were plastered to the top
of his head, and a white walrus mustache, slightly yellowed by
tobacco, hung down from a face that was frighteningly red. He
brought to mind all those peculiarly fascinating British expressions
like "tiffin" and "safari" and "pukka sahib" (not quite he!). I
could picture him drinking his whisky and splash in some remote

^ THROW ME A BONE

colonial outpost. He had that unmistakable British look that no
Englishman, even if he has not touched home base in forty years,
can ever lose.

The Colonel advanced upon me with military if slightly unsteady
steps, and it was apparent that he hadn't gone thirsty; not for the
past three hours, anyhow. In one hand he held a whisky and soda
and in the other a cocktail glass filled to the brim with a concoction
of a color that Schiaparelli has since christened "Shocking Pink."
"I've brought you a little drink/' he announced, bowing deeply and
thereby spilling some of the pink liquid on a suit already so spotted
that it was hard to guess what the original color had been.

"How nice/ 7 1 said, and reached eagerly for the highball.

"No, indeed/' protested the Colonel coyly. "That's a man's
drink. No good for a lovely little lady like you. I had Jose shake up
a special cocktail in your honor/' With that he handed me the rose-
tinted horror.

If I'm ever foolish enough to come to this club again, I decided,
Fll wear pants and a false beard. But in thirsty desperation I downed
the cocktail, which, from its taste, I guessed to be one third gren-
adine, one third gasoline and one third rubbing alcohol. "Delicious,"
I managed to say when the burning in my throat subsided.

Fish, Stay and Don Oscar had returned to the bar, and Sam,
eyes begging forgiveness, started after them. "Sam/' I said firmly,
my eyes glued to his empty whisky glass, "bring me back a drink.
You know, a drink."

The Colonel beamed. "I'll get us some more," he said gaily and
staggered off after Sam.

I was left with Jim. "How do you like Taltal?" he asked politely.

"Does anyone?"

Jim laughed. "You get used to it after a while."

"Heaven forbid. But why should you? Why do you stay? What
do you do? And what do those other men do?" I was determined to
discover one good reason for any civilized person living in this
rotting ex-metropolis.

And Jim puzzled me most of all. He had a look of general neglect

THROW ME A BONE 3!

which cried for a woman to take care of him. His suit was impressed
and dirty, with two buttons missing, his shoes were scuffed, and his
hair must have been cut with manicure scissors. But his deeply
tanned face held warm blue eyes under bushy brows and a smile
that in spite of the uncared-for teeth it exposed was a contagious
one. Of all the Taltal relics I had seen, he at least was human.

According to Jim, he had come here when very young. He had
signed as crew on a South American cargo boat in order to see the
world, and when the boat reached Taltal he'd found color and
gaiety and excitement. So when the ship sailed on, it sailed without
Jim. When his money ran out, he got a job on the lighters that were
used to load and unload the ships which anchored in the harbor,
and after a few years' hard work he was made manager. Wealth
rolled into his pockets in a steady stream and his future, he thought,
was assured. Then came the discovery of synthetic nitrate. Almost
overnight, Taltal and its brisk shipping trade collapsed. But Jim
stayed on. He still managed the lighters, which sagged in their
berths waiting for the occasional small boats which touched at
Taltal The rest of the time? Jim shrugged his shoulders.

The story was the same in almost every case. The Norwegian, Fish,
was employed by the railroad which had been built to carry men
and supplies to and from the mines. The railroad was almost idle
now, but Fish remained. Don Oscar, too. He had owned large
nitrate interests and had lived in the biggest and best house in
Taltal. It was still the biggest and best house in Taltal, though
sagging and woebegone. And Don Oscar still lived in it.

The Colonel had been in Taltal since anyone could remember.
No one knew just what he did, although he spoke vaguely of mining
interests. He always seemed to have plenty of money, though.

"Remittance man," I said immediately. "Probably cashiered out
of the army." We were back with Kipling and Maugham.

Jim merely raised his eyebrows. The disintegration of Taltal, he
continued, had affected the Colonel less than anyone. He apparently
still had enough money to spend and he still spent almost all of it
r on liquor.

5 2 THROW ME A BONE

"And Stay?"

"Stay?"

"The little Chilean/*

"Oh, you mean Julio." Jim laughed and explained that Julio was
addressed as "listed," which is Spanish for "You," and that in Chile
people have a bad habit of not pronouncing their final d's. Julio, it
seems, was a mining engineer who had come up from Santiago in
boom times. And he, too, had failed to go home.

It was difficult to understand. None of these men seemed really
to be friends. Only adversity and desperation had drawn them
together. Each afternoon they met at the Club Social for a dice
game and some drinks, after which they ate their supper at one of
Taltal's inferior restaurants and then looked for a woman, or a
gambling game, or fust got drunk. Except Don Oscar, who always
went direct from the club to his once elegant house and his plump
little German wife.

"But why?" I asked. "Why stay? Why not get the hell out?"

Jim shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know," he finally said.
"We're used to it here, I guess."

It was the Lotus Eaters over again. Only in Taltal there was no
lotus.

When the Colonel returned he seemed even unsteadier than
before. But this time he had not trusted the drinks to his shaky
hands. They were on a tray. And there were four of them. Two
highballs and two shocking-pink horrors. Jim repaired to the bar
to get reinforcements for himself, while the Colonel parked the tray
on the table and, handing me a glass, tried not too successfully to
sit down next to me.

"That's me, not the sofa you're sitting on," I remarked, gulping
my drink before he could spill it. And I moved to one of the chairs.

"Damme, that's good," he said. "Damme if it isn't." He picked
up one highball and downed it. Then the other.

I quickly grabbed the remaining cocktail before the Colonel
could. By this time it was beginning to taste a little better. As I was

THROW ME A BONE 33

putting the empty glass back on the tray he reached for my knee and
pinched it. I kicked him in the shin and he let go. "Damme, but
you've got spirit, girl Damme if you haven't/'

Where was Sam? Where was Jim? Where was anyone? I looked
desperately around the room and caught the eye of the third cherub
from the left. He gave me a lecherous wink. There was no help
there.

Suddenly Don Oscar poked his head into the room. He was the
captain who rescues the shipwrecked mariner, the St. Bernard who
finds the traveler fallen in the snow. "Hetto" I said. "Do join us." I
even thought in italics.

Don Oscar looked slightly astonished. "I just stopped by to see
if you and your husband would like to come to our house for supper
tomorrow night"

"We'd love to."

"We eat at eight. Come early if you like and take a bath."

"How wonderful" I said. It never occurred to me to be insulted.
I realized that Don Oscar must have seen the bathroom in the
Hotel Olympia. It was a bathroom in name only. The last plumber
had undoubtedly left Taltal years ago, Leaving the once shiny fixtures
choked up and useless. They had now been put to other purposes.
The toilet gaily housed a growing cactus plant. The washstand was
used as a wastepaper basket. And the bathtub was a storehouse for
everything for which no other place could be found. In it, when I'd
last looked, were potatoes, cloves of garlic, dirty wash, a Flit gun,
a hammer and some dried beans. Over the sides a bunch of babies'
diapers had been hung to dry. "How did you fenow?" I asked Don
Oscar. I was choked with emotion.

"I've lived here a long time," he said matter-of-facfly. "Well,
I'll see you tomorrow."

"Don't go," I begged. But he'd already set forth toward home
and wife, and I was back where I'd started.

The Colonel remained quietly on the couch. Trickery, no doubt.
I prepared for a sudden lunge. But nothing happened. I looked at
him more closely. He was asleep.

,j THROW ME A BONE

Jim finally removed him. Apparently it was something he was
used to doing, for when he and Sam returned to Ladies Lounge he
didn't seem very surprised. "It's a little early for it," was all he said,
looking at his watch.

'We'd better go, too," suggested Sain.

"Sam, please, I need a drink first."

"Poor darling, of course. I'll get you a highball right away/'

"Sam," I said, "I want a double cocktail, one of those nice pink

ones."
He looked at me with concern. "Do you feel all right?"

"I feel fine."

After the drink arrived I felt even better. I sat back on the couch
and looked at the cherubs, all of whom were now giving me provoca-
tive looks. Their attention pleased me. I was warm and content.

"Eleanor," announced Sam, "we've got to get back to the hotel."

"I won't go back to the hotel. Ever. I'll stay right here and sleep."
I was slightly hysterical

Just then a roach the size of a rat walked across the floor in my
direction. "All right," I cried quickly, "let's go." At least our hotel
room was too dark to disclose the animal life.

Sam helped me to my feet as I took a last look at the cherubs.
The third one from the left gave me a final lecherous wink. "Good-
by, Colonel," I said, and we were off.

Two days later we left Taltal in a hired Ford. As we started on
our way Sam relaxed in the back seat and counted the flea bites
on his right arm. "Seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five. . . /'

"Sam, isn't it wonderful to be leaving?"

"Yes. Seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight. . . /'

"Just where are we going?"

"Don't make me lose count. Seventy-nine, eighty. . . /'

"But where .are we going?"

"To La Serena. Eighty-one, eighty-two, eighty-three I've got a
hundred and four bites," he finally announced. "Just from elbow to
wrist That's a record/' He seemed genuinely pleased.

THROW ME A BONE 3^

"Sam, tell me honestly/' I asked. "Wasn't Taltal the worst place
you've ever been in all your life?"

"Honestly/" said Sam 7 holding my hand, "it was the worst place
I've ever been to in my life/'

Warmth and happiness flooded me. Marriage was a wonderful
institution. Sam and I had shared adversity and it had brought us
closer. I felt the last four days had been worth all the misery we'd
suffered. Especially as they were behind us.

I don't know what Taltal is like now. With the terrific demand
for nitrate during the recent war ? it may again have become a boom
town. The Hotel Olympia may have repaired its plumbing. The
electric lights may work all day. Fll never know. Neither God nor
Mr. George G. Heye can ever drag me back to see.

Chapter 4

I USED to feel that Mr. Heye took a fiendish pleasure in picking
out the most villainous spots in Chile for us to cover. Whenever
we were at our lowest ebb I would torture myself by imagining him
comfortably ensconced in his magnificent apartment with a box of
specially imported Havana cigars and some newly acquired first
editions. Or sitting in one of New York's luxurious restaurants
washing down breast of guinea hen sous cloche with a bottle of
Montrachet, 1911. "Poor Lothrops," he would undoubtedly be
saying, as the waiter filled his glass for the third time. Actually, of
course, Mr. Heye did not direct our itinerary. It was Sam who de-
cided on the places he believed Mr. Heye would like us to visit. But
when the choice proved to be a miserably uncomfortable one, I
preferred to blame Mr. Heye.

I was happy as could be, though, when we reached La Serena. La
Serena was a large town, capital of the province of Coquimbo,
which nestled a mile or so back from the ocean in an attractive
green valley. It was clean and modern with remarkably well-stocked
stores and a pleasant club, or casino, where we went for our evening
cocktail. Atmosphere in La Serena had no doubt been sacrificed to
sanitation, but to us this was more than made up for by a holiday
from scratching and a feeling of confidence that a cheese sandwich
would be a cheese sandwich, and a bed a bed instead of home

37

^8 THROW ME A BONE

grounds for insect life. Atmosphere can be a fine thing if you don't
have to get involved in it personally.

The leading hotel, called the Grand, was nothing like the Hotel
Crillon in Paris. But it wasn't like the Hotel Olympia in Taltal,
either. The rooms resembled cells, clean and bare, and were just
large enough to contain a bed, a chair and a chest of drawers. A
small window, high up in the wall, gave light but no view. In fact
the air was one of such thick celibacy that when I went to see Sam
in the adjoining cell I felt like a nun visiting a monk.

Sam had picked La Serena because, from what he had seen in
the museum in Santiago, he knew this region to be rich in archaeol-
ogy. What he wanted was to put in his own dig, in a spot near
enough to a town to make it unnecessary to establish a camp to live
in, and La Serena seemed to fit the bill. Unlike Taltal, it had never
been dug professionally; what specimens had come to light had been
the result of accidental discovery by the natives.

The problem, now, was to find the exact spot which would pro-
duce ancient graves. After all, a cemetery can be just so large, and
to hit it right on the nose takes a good bit of doing.

People are always saying, "How did you happen to know just
where to dig? Your husband must be psychic." As if it were magic
that leads an archaeologist instinctively to the right spot. Unfor-
tunately it's not that easy; as a rule tedious and hard work is neces-
sary in order to bring in the prehistoric bacon. The technique most
commonly and most successfully employed is to ask questions, with
the idea that if you do so long enough you will eventually find some-
one who knows something. You make a nuisance of yourself hurling
inquiries at everyone you see chambermaids, bartenders, business-
men because sometimes someone has a friend who knows a man
who has a friend who dug up an old bone by mistake. If this fails, your
best bet is to chase directly after the men who farm the land, for in
ploughing or tilling they are apt to turn up remains of another era.
Heaven knows what archaeologists would have done without agri-
culture.

We drew a complete blank with the waiters and the bartenders

THROW ME A BONE 39

and the local gentry of La Serena. So we hired a car and made a

tour of various estates in the vicinity, stopping at the small huts

in which the workmen lived. The first four calls proved fruitless.

The natives were polite and disinterested and obviously thought us

crazy. The conversation, so called, went something like this:

Q. "Have you lived here long?"

A. "Yes."

Q. "Have you done any ploughing or digging around here?"

A. "Yes."

Q. "By any chance have you come across any ancient skeletons or

pottery or ornaments?"
A. "No."

Q, "Do you know anyone who has?"
A. "No."

You could hardly accuse the Chilean peon of being expansive but
at least he was definite. The fifth try, though, brought results. Our
unenthusiastic host his name was Jaime had returned the same
brisk answers as his predecessors, but as we were leaving Sam noted
a fat pig guzzling his dinner out of a delicately painted prehistoric
bowl "What's that?" he asked, trying to control his excitement

Jaime looked at us pityingly. "A pig," he said finally.

"I mean what is he eating out of?"

"A pot"

Calvin Coolidge had nothing on Jaime for taciturnity, but after
we had softened him up with a couple of packages of Chesterfields, a
chocolate bar and two pieces of chewing gum, he admitted that the
pot had been found in a field a mile or so away. Yes, he could show
us the spot and he would be willing to dig for us if Don Luis, owner
of the land, gave permission. Jaime even consented to sell the pot for
the equivalent of ten cents, and in a burst of cordiality he pulled out
his shirttails and cleaned out what the pig hadn't

We found Don Luis at home. He was a shriveled little Italian,
almost a hundred years old, who had come to Chile some eighty
years before. We had been told he owned thousands of acres of land,
but his wealth had certainly not made him a spendthrift, for he

AQ THROW ME A BONE

lived in a tumbledown one-story house, alone, except for four dogs,
three cats and a goat which, from the atmosphere that rose to meet
us, must have been the indoor type. Don Luis greeted us enthusias-
tically, but as we soon discovered he was stone-deaf and spoke no
English I didn't count on my relationship with him getting very far.

Any intimacy between him and Sam was foredoomed to failure,
too. If there is anything on four feet (or even two) that Sam loathes,
it is cats. A cat does to him what a spider does to me. His hackles
rise and he becomes almost physically ill at the very thought of one.
I myself have no feeling one way or another about cats, although
for smartness and meanness I don't know their equal. The instant
a cat-hater enters a room, Pussy senses his reaction and slyly attaches
herself to him. I admit there's something to be said on her side as
her feelings are undoubtedly hurt, but the revenge she takes is out
of all proportion,

Don Luis's cats were not of the most attractive variety and they
were even meaner than the general run. Just a glance at Sam sitting
unhappily in a corner and they rushed his way, one leaping to the
arm of his chair while the others rubbed themselves affectionately
against his leg. I could see him flinch and perspiration beaded his
forehead, but he sat rigidly still, with a smiling-the-boy-fell-dead ex-
pression. If we'd been visiting the Prince of Wales he would doubt-
less have gotten up and left, but this was archaeology. And we had
come to ask a favor.

The question of communication was slightly difficult Sam almost
burst his lungs asking Don Luis for permission to dig on his land.
No result. He repeated his request in a normal voice, pushing his
mouth into strange shapes in the hope that our host could read lips.
No result. Finally he repaired to the car, cats at heel, and carried in
our recently acquired pot, at the same time making digging gestures
with his free hand. At this, Don Luis nodded genially and, escorting
us to the back door, pointed out the outhouse.

Sam looked discouraged, so I decided to try. I adore all sorts of
quizzes and guessing games, and my favorite dream for some years
has consisted of being tapped for action by one of Dr. I. Q.'s radio

THROW ME A BONE 41

henchmen. "I've got a lady In the balcony, Doctor/" he says with
rare perception, and then the good doctor brings forth a quotation,
flubbed by other contestants week after week, which, If answered
correctly, will net me fourteen hundred dollars. The quotation is
an obscure one ? but In my dream, of course, I know the answer.
"John Donne/' I state modestly but firmly, and to the envious
plaudits of the audience, I give my name and walk off with the cash.

When we were in La Serena, of course, radio quizzes were still
a thing of the future, but I had been brought up on such minor
teasers as anagrams and Twenty Questions. "Let's play charades/'
I yelled at Don Luis, and although he obviously didn't understand
a word, he looked interested and willing to play anything. So I hid
the pot under a straw mat which decorated the living-room floor.
Then I collected a shovel I had seen leaning against the back door
and, holding it in both hands, I dug at the mat until I finally scooped
it up and exposed the pot.

Don Luis guessed the answer right away. "Dig/' he beamed. "Of
course."

Fm still convinced that he thought we wanted to dig for an
outhouse, but his "of course" was all we needed, and we quickly
thanked him and said good-by. As we reached the car Sam relieved
some of his frustration by doing a beautiful piece of leg work on the
cats, which had followed him out. I'm glad the S.P.C.A. wasn't
there to see.

Everything was now set. We had a site that was likely to bring
results, permission to excavate and a workman to do the dirty work.
Sam was in charge and I was his willing if ignorant assistant, and
nothing could stop us. I wouldn't have been surprised if we'd
turned up a second Rosetta stone.

When Sam and I first became engaged, I offered to study archaeol-
ogy. "Good Lord, no/' said Sam. "I think that would be a great mis-
take. You stick to your field and let me stick to mine/'

I didn't dare confess I had no field. What I did have was a talent
for knowing a little about a great many things and an even greater

42 THROW ME A BONE

talent for giving an impression that I knew a lot I could generally
sense what the answers should be. Thus I'd groan over the banality
of Tschaikowsk/s Palhetique (although secretly I loved it) and
rhapsodize over Marcel Proust when, actually, he bored me stiff.
And if I was uncertain just how to react if, for instance, someone
asked what I thought of Dali or Gertrude Stein I could always say,
<4 Oh, Dali," or "Oh, Gertrude Stein/ 7 in a middle-of-the-road tone of
voice, so that it could be interpreted either as enthusiasm or scorn,
depending on what my companion wished to hear.

This technique, of course, was no good for archaeology. And, be-
sides, I was sincere about wishing to be a little helpmeet to my
husband and all prepared to grasp archaeology to my bosom. So
when Sam discouraged my taking on this science any more deeply
than a 'learn as you go along" procedure, I was genuinely disap-
pointed. Even if it meant he could have no comeback when I turned
out to be a scientific dud.

What I had the greatest difficulty getting through my head was
that you could put on a dig without scores of workmen. Somewhere
Fd read an article about an expedition to Egypt, illustrated by a
series of intriguing photographs. One of them, I remember, showed
a titled Englishman in a topee and khaki shorts, smugly watching
while hundreds of busy natives filed by, carrying off earth from the
excavations in baskets on top of their heads. Another pictured Lord
Pishposh holding up a jeweled crown while the same flock of natives
watched goggle-eyed in the background. When I told Sam about
this he remarked somewhat wryly that the article had probably been
a fiction story, the photographs, drawings by a popular illustrator,
and that we'd be lucky to get one workman without a basket.

Which was just what we did get. Jaime, carrying spade and pickax,
appeared at the hotel the following morning to direct us to the spot
where the pig's pot had been discovered. It was arranged that in
future he would meet us at the site promptly each morning at seven.

After a ten-minute drive we reached a large open field, which was
IT. IT looked just like every other field except that bits of pottery
and cow dung were scattered thickly over its surface. The cows, ap-

THROW ME A BONE 43

patently having consumed everything in sight except the pottery,
had fortunately been diverted to greener pastures. Jaime waved his
arm in a vague gesture, and Sam, employing, as far as I could tell, the
"eenie, meenie, minie, mo" system, outlined a square on the ground
and Jaime swung his pick.

There's no use pretending I wasn't excited. You don't have to
have a scientific viewpoint or a particular desire to increase the
knowledge of the world to be spellbound by a dig. In the earth are
things that have been buried for hundreds of years. You may find
them. You may not. They may be dull. They may be spectacular.
A dig is something like a treasure hunt, like waiting for Santa Glaus
to come down the chimney, like the mailman approaching your
door. Anything can happen.

I stood, hands clenched, eyes glued to the ground which Jaime
was attacking so spiritedly. Remember, it was my first dig. What
happened, of course, was that nothing happened. "Relax/' said
Sam. "He's hardly started. Nothing can turn up yet."

But I couldn't relax. I was afraid if I moved my eyes away for one
second I would miss out And then, after an hour, it happened.
There was a sudden scrunching noise. Jaime's pick had struck some-
thing solid.

Before I could say "ah/' Sam had leaped to the spot, waving
Jaime out of the way. In no time at all he had grabbed a small shovel
and a knife and was busily at work. No surgeon could have wielded
his instruments with more dexterity, and while I, speechless, watched
the operation, the outline of the grave was gradually exposed.

When this stage was reached Sam generously pointed to a second
knife and said, "You can help me clear." I was so excited that my
hands shook and I was sure I'd make some disastrous mistake, but
I bravely flipped away the earth as I'd seen Sam do. When every-
thing showed up clearly, we climbed, out of the pit and quietly
surveyed our handiwork.

In the center of the grave lay a skeleton, knees drawn up to his
chest, as if he were the victim of a bad case of cramps. And placed
around him in no particular order were two red jars, one cracked

44 THROW ME A BONE

pot and some stones which had been rubbed smooth by use. "Isn't
he WONDERFUL?" I said rapturously.

Later on in my archaeological life I got so spoiled that I groaned
at the sight of a skeleton. I would sniff if a pot wasn't decorated and
feel personally put upon if the poor dead Indian wore no jewelry.
But that was later on. The first grave you dig up is something special.
Like your first evening dress or the first time you go to the theatre
or your first date with a boy alone. You can never repeat the sensa-
tion. To me that moldy bunch of bones surrounded by a few coarse
clay pots and some hunks of rock was Alexander the Great, King
Midas and John D. Rockefeller all rolled into one. I've never felt
that way about a skeleton since.

As a matter of fact, we'd been extraordinarily lucky. Archaeologists
often spend days before they find something. Or find nothing at all
And we had struck pay dirt after only an hour's digging. What's
more, in the next four weeks we unearthed more than seventy
burials. Let Lord Pishposh in Egypt with his hundreds of workmen
do any better, thought II

According to Sam, this was a very significant dig. That was be-
cause there were three layers of burials and each layer was of a
different type. The skeletons in the top layer were flexed, which is
the technical term for the position I had interpreted as a case of
cramps. The second layer contained stone tombs, in which the
bodies were buried full length with their possessions set right in
with them. Either the Indians of that era had been lazy, or their
families had been enormous, for the tombs were filled to overflowing.
Skeletons were squashed down one on top of the other like a sand-
wich, and you could rarely tell whose arm or leg belonged to whom.

All that had gone before was simplicity, though, compared to the
bottom layer. Here the burials were bundle, or what is called
"secondary," burials actually just a pile of loose bones heaped to-
gether. Along with them were skeletons of llamas, the South Amer-
ican camels, that had been sacrificed to accompany the dead and
whose bones were intermingled with theirs. And elaborate pottery
and occasional objects of gold and silver and turquoise. But none of

THROW ME A BONE 45

this hodgepodge appeared at first sight. An underground flow of
water had covered everything, and it was only by baling that you
could get an occasional glimpse of what was there. Or you could
put your hand down into the mushy ooze and pull out almost any-
thing. Like a prehistoric grab bag.

The site was so packed with ancient remains that it was thoroughly
confusing. There were so many bones. Sam patiently tried to teach
me their names but as I could never even manage to remember
whether leg bones were called tibia and fibula or fibia and tibula,
I soon gave up.

In general, though, I was getting wiser. You can no more be
exposed to an archaeologist without acquiring some knowledge than
you can fail to get a cold if someone consistently sneezes in your
face, I learned the hard way, just the same.

When you r re young you tend to exaggerate the importance of
your failures and for years they come back to haunt you. Two oc-
casions still stick in my mind as spelling heartbreaking misery: my
unpopularity at my first big dance when I spent the evening hiding
in the dressing room, and the night My Hero of the moment took
me out and I was in such a state of excitement that I threw up in
front of him. To these earlier fiascoes I can add a third, no less pain-
ful to think back upon: what I did to Sam's best grave at La Serena.

It was the second week of the dig. We had spent the previous
day uncovering and cleaning the skeletons and surrounding objects
in the middle layer of what apparently was a very important grave.
"You go on ahead/ 7 Sam had told me that morning, "and meet
Jaime. Get him started breaking new ground. I have some business
in town and I'll be with you in a few hours. 7 '

So I had gone to the site and, after picking what I hoped was
a good spot for Jaime to work on, I looked around for something
else to do. And there was yesterday's grave, spick and span and
bulging with remains. "Ah!" I said to myself, 'Til surprise Sam.
Pll show him what an apt pupil I am/' So I grabbed a handful of
paper bags which always accompanied our digging paraphernalia

>6 THROW ME A BONE

and carefully, lovingly, I extracted each pot, each bit of stone, each
skeleton, and placed them in separate bags. Nothing brolce. How
proud Sam will be of me, I thought, feeling the anticipatory warmth

of his approval.

When even-thing in sight had been removed I took my little
trowel and dug down until I reached the burials in layer No. 3. Here
things were more complicated, as you could only feel, not see, what
lay beneath the water. I worked feverishly, though, immersing my
arms in ooze, pulling out a mess of bones, pottery, a beautiful
turquoise bracelet, and putting away each trophy neatly, as I had
seen Sam do. The grave was almost cleaned out when he arrived.
"Darling, look what I've done." I beamed happily.
Sam looked. I don't believe I have ever seen such dismay on a
human countenance. "You haven't. ... You couldn't. . . - You
didn't . . . pull the grave to pieces," he fairly moaned. "Every-
thing is gone. Now I have no records of any kind."
"I thought. . . ."

"Don't you know that the procedure is to clear away the earth
until the contents show up sharply so that you can take notes on
the burials and photograph them. Until that's done, move noth-
ing"

"I didn't. . . ."

"It's the only way an archaeologist gets a chance, later on, to
study the material as it was buried and to work out its relationship
to other objects. It's the only way he can reconstruct the story of how
ancient peoples lived. And this is what Really Matters."

"I tried "

"'This is what Really Matters," he repeated. "The meaning of
each piece, not the piece itself. A bone can be as significant as an
emerald, a pottery fragment as important as a turquoise bracelet."
"I found. . . ."

"Of course, if you happen to find gold or precious stones it's all
to the good, but it isn't the Main Consideration."
"I'm sorry," I finally managed to say, inadequately enough.

THROW ME A BONE ^J

"I guess I didn't make it clear before/' said Sam, becoming kind,
which made things much worse.

"I'll never never do it again/' I promised fervently. "Just try me."

"Maybe you'd better watch me work for a few days/* he suggested,
dashing my hopes to the ground. "You'll catch on quicker that way/'

I did watch and I did catch on, although I made more mistakes
in the process. Fortunately they were never again as serious as the
first one.

There was the time I was removing the contents of a grave
(a grave already recorded and photographed!) and I put an archaeo-
logical specimen in my pocket. It was nothing but a dirty hunk of
something with a few tiny blue stones showing. I hardly looked as
I slipped it into my pants pocket in order to have a memento of my
first dig. And then forgot about it.

That night in the hotel, as I was shaking out my pants to get rid
of the dirt, out fell the hunk. Sam pounced like a kitten after a ball
of wool. "And what/' he asked accusingly, "is that?"

"Oh, that! 1 With a sinking feeling I realized I had sinned again.

"Yes, that. Where did you find it?"

"Why, Sam, it's nothing. You know I wouldn't have taken any-
thing that was any good. This is just an old hunk I kept as a souvenir.
An old hunk with a blue bead or two that I found in the ground/'

"I see/' said Sam, meaning he didn't. "It just so happens that that
old hunk is a bone figurine with inlaid turquoise eyes." He fondled
it as if he were fondling a baby and then wrapped it tenderly in
toilet paper. That was the last I saw of it.

But it wasn't the last I heard. I never had a chance; the odds were
four to one. How could I, alone, win an argument against Sam,
What-Would-Mr.-Heye-Think, God-How-Could-You, and SCI-
ENCE? This was another lesson I never forgot.

I learned other things, too. About skeletons, for instance. Fd
never known that a skeleton had sex. To me skeletons were just
a bunch of bones of neutral gender. I even used to call a skeleton
"it." So that when Sam, busily clearing the remains of a long-dead

^g THROW ME A BONE

Indian, remarked that he was working on a girl of about eighteen
years of age, I looked at him as if he were Sherlock Holmes. "How
do you make that out?" I asked admiringly.

"There are hundreds of variations in the bone structure of a male
and of a female/ 7 he answered. "A woman's jawbone is usually
smaller and more delicately constructed. Her eye sockets are apt
to be rounder and her two central incisors wider. She has less chin
and a thinner brow ridge. There are other differences, too, although
no one of them is conclusive in itself. But when you find several of
these characteristics true to form, you can make a pretty good guess/'

"But how can you tell she is eighteen years old?"

"I can't Only approximately. The teeth are the best clue. If you
spot baby teeth, naturally you have a baby. And the more worn
the teeth, the older the person is. The sutures in the skull are
significant, too. As you grow older, the sutures close up." Having
finished his lecture, Sam again applied himself to his eighteen-year-
old girl

The game sounded like fun. "Sam," I said, "I want to play, too.
Three to one I hit the right answer." With great care I pulled a skull
from the mire where I was working and examined it for at least five
minutes. "It's a woman," I said. "She's forty-seven years old and,
from the strange shape of her head, looks mentally deficient. Come
quick and tell me if I'm right"

Sam reluctantly abandoned his bony charmer and picked up my
skull. He looked it over from every angle, no trace of expression on
his face. "That," he finally pronounced, "is a male llama."

Gradually, though, I was being whipped into shape. I lapped up
information as intensely as a participant in a lifeboat drill in war-
time, until finally I felt certain that if I didn't know everything one
did do, at least I knew what one didn't. I even got smug about my
knowledge. "This," I said to myself, "is easy." And then TROUBLE
started and it wasn't easy at all. All the rules Fd learned were off.

TROUBLE started with a little boy who wandered into the field
and stayed to watch us work. He was the type of child who stares

THROW ME A BONE 49

continuously and who won't or can't talk He must have used sign
language after he left us, though, for In the afternoon, back he came
with three little friends. They didn't talk much either, just giggled
inanely, which was disconcerting if nothing more.

The real onslaught began several days later. There were young
girls, there were women some pregnant, some nursing their
babies there were able-bodied men with apparently nothing to do
but gawk 7 and there were more children between the ages of five
and fifteen than any self-respecting community has a right to beget
in ten years. Some of them toddled along, attached to Mama's skirts,
and some, the tough ones, came in gangs; but the majority drove up
in busses, three hundred strong, accompanied by their teachers.
School had been suspended in our favor. We were an educational
free-for-all a combination zoo, museum and nut farm and the
kiddies had a wonderful time. We didn't

The teachers, having delivered their charges at the new play-
ground, disappeared. Chaos followed. One of the children stole my
sweater. Another stole one of Sam's pet skulls and organized a ball
game with it, and by the time the skull was recovered all that was
left was teeth. We had been In the habit of going back to the hotel
for lunch until, on our return one day, we found a game of leap frog
going on and the contents of the trench in which we'd been working
smashed into small particles. After that we brought sandwiches and
ate them in the hot sun, bitterly guarding ancient bones.

What was so maddening was that we were helpless. Each evening
Sam lodged a complaint with the local authorities, and each evening
they promised that the matter would be attended to the following
day. And each day was just like the day before.

We couldn't even count Jaime on our side. During the first two
peaceful weeks of the dig, we had followed archaeological rules.
Each time that Jaime struck evidence of a burial Sam and I im-
mediately took over, and Jaime, with pick and shovel, was shooed
off to start a new trench. This was no longer possible. We didn't
dare leave anything exposed when we were not on hand. Thus only
one burial could be kept going at a time which, when cleared, could

JO THROW ME A BONE

be quickly photographed and taken up. Until then no other could
be started. As a result, Jaime spent most of his time sitting under
a distant apple tree, smoking cigarettes and consorting with the
enemy, He ? naturally, was very happy about this arrangement, and
at times we suspected Mm of having hatched up the entire hideous
plot.

After a week, school finally returned to Its own home grounds.
This didn't eliminate visits from anyone of non-school age or from
the covey of curiosity seekers that had been raised by the publicity
of our official complaints. They were fairly silent watchers, though,
and their behavior was better. We were weak with relief. And then
I had the misfortune to find a gold earring. One puny little gold
earring. It was ugly. It wasn't even pure gold.

The earring was one of a number of objects which I extracted
from the ooze, and the Instant I spotted It I concealed It; but It was
too late. "Gold. Gold. Gold." You could hear the word tossed In
whispers from one end of the field to the other, like a football.
"They're finding gold. It's gold they're after. They're robbing us of
our gold/" The whispers became frenzied.

The next morning when we came to work, the site was one mass
of excavations. The treasure-seekers must have been digging all
night Pulverized bone and smashed pottery were sprinkled like
confetti over the earth. "The such and such so and sos," said Sam,
Indignantly letting forth a series of unmentionable words. "ROB-
BING OUR GRAVES!"

As far as I could see It was a question of dog eat dog, but I thought
It wiser not to say so. "Do you suppose they found any gold?" I
asked.

"How should I know," said Sam, shrugging his shoulders re-
signedly.

We never did know, either. We didn't stay on at La Serena long
enough to find out.

Chapter S

UNTIL I went to Chile I always thought the Indians were
poor oppressed creatures, noble and brave but gullible. (After
all, hadn't they been persuaded to give up the island of Man-
hattan for twenty-four dollars" worth of trinkets?) I felt ashamed
and sorry and wanted to show my sympathy. So when Sam an-
nounced that we were going to visit the Araucanian Indians in
southern Chile, I was pleased as could be. No one could have accused
me of being a great success at digging, but here was my chance to
make good. Here was where I could apply the psychology Fd
studied in college. Personal contacts had always been my forte and
I could hardly wait to try my talents on the Indians. "The darling
Indians," I said to myself. "They may be difficult but 111 win them
over/' I pictured myself dandling sweet little brown babies on my
knee. I fully expected to be adopted into the tribe.

Sam tried in vain to quell my enthusiasm. The trouble was I had
never known any real Indians; all my experience had come from
books. My friends were Pocahontas and Hiawatha and the warriors
who peopled the novels of J. Fenimore Cooper. They were romantic
and inspiring and just what I expected the Araucanians to be. I was
wrong. The Araucanians are without doubt very famous Indians.
They Ve been the subject of books and poems, too, and they too must
once have been romantic and inspiring. But when we saw them

5*

THROW ME A BONE 53

they were about as romantic as the characters in Tobacco Road, and
the only thing they inspired was pity. After a few months we decided
they were more interesting to read about than to meet and better
admired from afar.

There are still more than a hundred thousand Araucanians living
in southern Chile, and Sam's plan was to study their civilization
and to make a collection of its material evidences. This isn't as easy
as it may sound. To learn about the Indians' customs you often
have to sneak up on them to see what they are doing, and you are
as apt to be received with a carving knife as with a smile. And in
order to acquire a collection of what they wear and use, you more or
less have to pull the earrings from their ears, the clothes off their
backs and the chamber pots out from under their bunks. This is
called ethnology and it is an uncomfortable science for all concerned.
It is true you are dealing with live subjects, not dead ones, but after
a few weeks that doesn't seein to be an advantage. After a few weeks
we decided that "Lo, the poor Indian" might well be changed to
"Lo, the poor Lothrop."

The Araucanians proved to be tough, independent and un-
friendly. It is not surprising. They are the real fighting Indians of
all time, and their life has been one continuous struggle. The Incas
in their heyday attacked them and got soundly trounced. The
Spanish conquerors in the sixteenth century were more success-
ful, but only for a short time; and after a series of revolts the Indians
managed to free themselves and remained free for almost three
hundred years.

This is now changed. In 1883 the Chileans, having gained their
independence from Spain, finally licked the Araucanians but it
took machine guns to do so. The Indians were incorporated into the
Chilean government and most of their property was confiscated.
However they still continue to raise food and sheep on the little land
left them. Few of them can read or write and few speak anything
but their own language.

They keep to themselves. They weren't glad to see us. They took
Sam's money and gave as little as possible in exchange, and there

;j.| THROW ME A BONE

was no dandling of little brown babies, no initiation into the tribe.
In fact they hated the sight of us.

This, of course, did not affect Sam's program in the least For
months we chased after Araucanians, collecting what we could and
taking rebuff after rebuff in our stride.

We first made our headquarters in Temuco, a town almost twenty-
four hours by rail from Santiago. Temeco had been founded during
the wars of the nineteenth century as nothing more than a frontier
post, but it had grown rapidly and, in contrast to the towns of
northern Chile, seemed modem and progressive. The streets, though
made of cobblestone, boasted sidewalks and gutters, and real trolleys
and taxicabs rattled up and down" their length. The main hotel,
except on the various occasions when the plumbing faltered, was
excellent In fact Temuco seemed too comfortable to be true at
least for scientific research.

Luckily, though, it was the center of the district that held the
Mapuche Indians, main tribe of the Araucanians, and that was
why Sam had chosen it. A fifteen-minute drive in almost any direc-
tion would take you into Indian territory.

Starting work in a new place is always something of a problem.
And although it is easier to find ethnological specimens than archae-
ological ones for their owners at least are above ground you Ve got
to go about it right in order to get results. So we inquired as to who
might help us and were told of a Frenchman who had lived in
Temuco for many years. He was a teaching brother, Brother Claude
by name, and he was interested in the Indians and had even learned
a little of the Mapuche dialect. We decided to pay him a visit.

Between him and me it was dislike at first sight. Brother Claude
was soft-spoken and smooth, and he was swathed in a heavy cloak
of piety which might have been made of cellophane for all it failed
to conceal When I remarked on this to Sam he was shocked and
rebuked me, so it was with pardonable satisfaction that I re-
ceived the news some years later that Brother Claude had run off
with a young French girl and had been expelled from the Church.
At the time, though, I strained to treat him with politeness, for

THROW ME A BONE 55

In spite of the fact that he turned out to be an unworthy pillar of
the Catholic Church, he was of great help to Sam.

As a matter of fact, onr relationship if not pleasurable was mu-
tually beneficial. The order to which Brother Claude belonged was
a pathetically poor one and provided him with nothing beyond bare
necessities. While he served as our guide, his expenses were paid
(by Mr. Heye) and he had a wonderful time. Time and again I
gagged over food that tickled his palate and bruised myself on beds
that to him apparently seemed equipped with Simmons mattresses.
Insects passed him by for more succulent subjects, and when we
traveled together he would appear each morning, rosy and rested,
to face my hollow-eyed and itching envy. But he was a good guide
and he knew just where to take us.

We started our collecting by going to the Indian agencies which
flourished in Temuco. These were a combination of old-fashioned
general store and Indian trading post (like those in the western
U.S.). The Indians came from long distances to pawn their posses-
sions or to exchange them for such commodities as hoes and shovels,
pots and pans, knives, needles, nails, or staples such as rice and flour.
A special room was devoted to exhibiting articles that the Indians
had left behind and contained silver jewelry, saddle blankets, woven
saddlebags, ponchos and even, occasionally, a worn pair of pants.
The pawning of these, we were told, represented a complete low in
an Indian's financial state. How he could manage to get home,
pantless, I never quite understood.

The agencies treated the Indians well. They were usually given
three months in which to redeem their possessions, and no amount
of verbal persuasion or even bribery would induce the agencies to
break their word. Sam used to browse around among smelly ponchos
and saddlebags until he found what he wanted. 'Til take this," he'd
say to the shopkeeper who would then pull out his little book and,
after an interminable amount of calculating, say "Very well, sir,
you may have that in twelve days if. Or this one next Tuesday if."

There was a silver necklace I had coveted for weeks, and on the
magic day when it was to be mine I discovered that "if" had ma-

-6 THROW ME A BONE

teriallzed the night before and claimed it. Lots of objects, of course,
had passed their time limit, and Sam bought cases and cases of
woven articles as well as some lovely silver ornaments, but the
things we wanted most remained tantalizingly unavailable, depend-
ing on that potential "if." So we decided to try the direct approach.
This meant going after the Indians on their own home grounds.
Sam therefore hired a car, and one bright morning, full of enthusi-
asm, he, Brother Claude and I set forth on our hunt. We left the
car at the edge of a large field and walked toward a cluster of small

O CJ

"huts that were scattered over the landscape like flies on flypaper.
The huts were called rucas and they all looked alike. They were one-
room affairs with heavily thatched roofs and eaves that came so close
to the ground that it was impossible to stand up beneath them, A
tiny aperture in front took the place of a door. There were no
windows.

Every mca was guarded by two or three emaciated, flea-ridden,
mangy dogs which rushed at us fiercely when we approached.
I stuck close to Brother Claude, the lesser of various evils 7 for he
carried a camera and a fully extended tripod with which he warded
off canine attention.

Brother Claude, we discovered, had been an expert fencer in his
youth and he had forgotten little of this art. "En riposte" he would
cry, assuming the classical posture of left hand above head, right
arm stiff, as with unerring aim he pricked a snarling dog in the
shoulder. "Touche" I expected the dog to howl as he ran out of our
way.

Unfortunately we could not use a tripod on the Indians. At the
first three rucas we were received with (i) a hiss, (2) a spit, and
(3) a curse. All three they were women then turned their backs
and swished into their homes. If there had been such a thing as a
door they would have slammed it.

After a good deal of effort we wheedled our way into a ruca. The
single room measured about fifteen feet by twenty and was crowded
with inmates. At one time or another I noted Papa, Mama, Grand-
mama, an indeterminate number of relatives and about nine kiddies,

THROW ME A BONE 57

although it was so dark I may have counted the

twice. There were similar difficulties totting up the score on the pigs ?

chickens and dogs which nosed about underfoot

Wooden "bunks for sleeping lined the walls and were the only
articles of furniture, except for some little wooden seats about a foot
high which served for guests and for the head of the family. Everyone
else sat on the dirt ioor. In the middle of the room the dirt hacl been
hollowed out to make a fireplace, and smoldering logs supported
a large caldron from which emanated an odor that spoiled my
appetite for the next week,

Papa Indian was spokesman. Brother Claude officiated for our
side. The conversation was in Mapuche, a language which sounds
like a drawn-out whine. As is often the case when someone does not
know a language well, Brother Claude spoke in a slow singsong, as
if he were addressing a child of three or a congenital idiot. The In-
dians obviously disliked him as much as I did.

Sam had made a list of things he was interested in buying and
Brother Claude chanted through them one by one. Papa Indian
was evidently set on being as difficult as possible. If he was asked
for one article he would shake his head and counter with something
entirely unrelated. It was as if you were to go into a grocery store
and request flour only to be told there was none but that you could
have a mousetrap instead.

"Have you any earrings to sell?' 7 whined Brother Claude.

"Corn," Papa Indian whined back.

"Spears?" Brother Claude continued to whine.

"No. Ponchos/ 7

"Silver necklace?"

"No. Earrings."

"Yes, yes, earrings," said Brother Claude eagerly.

"No earrings/' whined Papa Indian with deadpan expression.

"Let's go," I suggested, after this brisk repartee had been trans-
lated.

"Patience," said Sam. "You can never hurry an Indian. It takes
time."

58 THROW ME A BONE

Heaven knows we had plenty of time, and I wouldn't have
minded waiting if it hadn't been for the atmosphere of concen-
trated venom which surrounded us. Not an ounce of friendliness
was exhibited except by the pigs, the dogs and the children.

For the benefit of those sentimentalists who gurgle over anything
under the age of seven, I should like to state that there is nothing
either sweet or cute about the young Indian fry of Latin America.
They are rade, they are incredibly dirty, they whine. You may feel
desperately sorry for them as it isn't their fault they've been
brought up that way but that doesn't make contact with them any
more enjoyable. The poor kids are friendly enough, but you suffer
in direct ratio to their friendliness. "Gimme, gimme/' they whine
pathetically about anything that catches their eye, and if that fails,
they resort to their invariable habit of applying sticky hands to your
dress or purse or whatever you happen to value most, making it next
to impossible to detach hand from article.

This, though, is to be expected. After all, any children anywhere
whose families are not in the upper brackets and who have no
Mademoiselle or governess in attendance are apt to put their little
fingers in every sort of mess. Particularly disconcerting about Indian
children, however, are their continuously runny noses. They either
sniffle or drip. Or both. And until a child is old enough to wipe his
own nose (and decides he wants to do so), it stays as is. Mama her-
self may be clean as can be (although she usually isn't) , but nothing
will induce her to touch Junior's nose. This is a superstition that
exists all over Latin America and has existed for centuries.

I once asked a distinguished ethnologist what it was based upon,
and he got very technical and went into long explanations about body
functions and anal complexes and other unpleasant psychological
terms. So I gave up trying to be well informed and bent my energies
to staying as far away from the South American papooses as possible.

In this I was licked from the moment we stepped into our first
ruca. Out-of-doors you at least stand a chance of dodging them, but
try sitting bunched up on a midget seat with endless little creatures
suddenly appearing out of the darkness and pouncing on you. There

THROW ME A BONE 59

was one particular pest who could not have been more than three,
although his face had the craft}* wisdom of forty, and who kept mat-
Ing strange noises with his month that might have meant something
to Mama and Papa bet which sounded to me like "glug ? glug-* 7
Glug first make a dive for my hair and pulled out a hairpin, which
he pensively sucked and then handed back. I shook my head and
waved a hand in a "keep it" gesture.

That was my mistake. He had now smelled victory and was out
for better things. While I was busy fending off a pig Glog managed
to get his hand into my pocketbook, and when the hand emerged,
my compact was attached to it. Papa Indian mnmbled something
unintelligible, and Glog shook off the compact which fell to the
ioor and broke ? spilling bits of powder in all directions. One of the
pigs immediately poked his head into the mess and emerged with his
snout coated with Guerlain's best. 1 suppose it was funny. Sam and
Brother Claude laughed. Glug gave me a winning smile. I didn't
smile back.

It took us over an hour even to get started. Brother Claude kept
on chanting Mapuche and Sam accompanied him with a rattle of
coins, specially brought for the occasion. These last finally
succeeded in flushing out various pieces of wearing apparel, a wooden
spoon, some rather inferior silver jewelry and the wooden seat,
which by then I considered a permanent part of my anatomy. When
the business was transacted we said good-by with relief. All I wanted
was to get home quickly. The way Papa Indian and family looked
at us, I gathered our departure would make them equally happy.

In the next three weeks we picked up a lot more specimens. We
managed to crash about one raca in every four, and although our
reception was never what you might call enthusiastic, we did get
along better, and the antagonism shown us was not so great. Except
for the woman who chased me with a carving knife.

I was only trying to be helpful. Mama Indian in this case was fat
and swarthy and apparently very vain. Her neck, ears and wrists
were loaded down with silver, and although she was anything but
a Lorelei, she continuously combed her long, black and rather

60 THROW ME A BONE

greasy hair. At one point she put down the comb and scratched her
head with both hands (probably lice I decided ) , and I picked up the
comb, which was a curious one and obviously homemade. Sani, I
was sure, would be interested in adding it to his collection. With
that, my fat friend stopped scratching and picked up a knife. I
could see she meant it too. I dropped the comb and all dignity and
ran like hell out of the TUC<L

Sam and Brother Claude joined me almost immediately. I was
still shaking as we slunk to the car. "What did I do?" I asked Sam.

f Tou picked up her comb and it probably had some of her hair
in it. The Indians believe that if you get hold of hair clippings or
nail parings or any other parts of themselves, it puts them in your
power and you can practice witchcraft on them."

"I don't want to practice anything on them/' I said bitterly. "I've
decided I prefer archaeology to ethnology. I like my Indians better
dead."

Sam was lost in thought. "And just as I was working up to buying
some of her silver/' he said sadly.

This episode didn't stop our collecting activities, although I never
again touched anything unless it was handed me. Sam's fever of
acquisition lasted until he had exhausted all the rucas that we were
allowed to enter. He was interested in every material object that
came into the Indians' daily lives implements for eating, for cook-
ing, for farming, gear for their horses, fighting instruments.

We bought pots and cups and spoons. Ponchos and mirrors and
looms. Silver bridles, stirrups, bits and spurs. Drums, whistles and
jewelry. Bags by the score made of net, calfskin, lambskin, horse
head, calf head, horse leg, as well as of the unmentionable parts of
the cow and bull. Wooden masks, trumpets and pipes. Baskets.
Burial poles, "From cradle to coffin/' might well have been our
mottol

Sam's fever only subsided when he had practically cleaned out the
Indians. There were boxes and boxes of specimens. There was so
much, in fact, that I was sure the Museum of the American Indian,
Heye Foundation, would have to build an extra wing to make room
for their new collection.

Chapter 6

WE WEREN'T through with the Araucanians by any means.
Collecting was only part of Sam's job; he was equally
interested in studying the customs of the Indians and in witnessing
some of the ceremonies they still practiced. And, above all, in taking
pictures.

We had brought along a movie camera from the States (courtesy
of Mr. Heye) which had all sorts of trick gadgets that completely
baffled me and, as it turned out later, even confused Sam. Mr. Heye
had also supplied thousands and thousands of feet of film enough,
I was afraid, to turn Sam into a second Burton Holmes. Wherever
we went the film went with us, filling at least six suitcases to
overflowing. We also carried a tent, although we never used it. And
camping equipment and excavation materials. All this, combined
with the bags that housed our modest personal paraphernalia, made
quite an imposing array of luggage.

I was reminded of a summer spent with my family at Aix-les-Bains,
when the outstanding event of the season had been the arrival of
the Aga Khan at the hotel where we were staying. Literally moun-
tains of trunks and elegant Vuitton bags preceded him and his
entourage, which consisted of his latest wife (or concubine) and a
couple of dozen valets and French maids. When he entered the
lobby I could barely see him for the nauseating bowing and scraping.

61

THROW ME A BONE 63

that surrounded him. u Who Is it?" ! Inquired of one of the bellboys,
who said something In awed tones that sounded like "Thaggalcon."

That afternoon 1 described the excitement I had witnessed. "Who
was It?" asked Mother, always ready for a juicy piece of gossip.
"A Mi. Kahn/' I answered. "Some famous Jewish banker, I believe."
"Not Otto?" asked Father, suddenly Interested, **I guess so/' 1 said,
wishing to please.

We were soon enlightened as to the Identity of the famous guest.
The personnel of the hotel continued to bow and scrape, as was only
to be expected with a man whose subjects pay him his weight In gold
and jewels each year. The Aga Khan and his wife (or concubine)
sat at a table nearby to ours In the dining room, and we used to watch,
fascinated, while he guzzled the exotic foods specially prepared for
him by the chef. "Disgusting performance/' remarked Mother,
delicately wrinkling her nose. "Why not?" said Father mildly. "It
pays him to eat!**

In a small way I compared our trek to obscure Chilean towns
with the Aga Khan's triumphant descent upon European watering
places. Sam's entourage, It Is true, only consisted of a wife and a
French cleric (no handmaidens or handmen), and our ample lug-
gage held utilitarian articles rather than creations from Chanel or
Savile Row, but to the hotelkeepers In the obscure towns we visited
I expected us to appear as awe-inspiring as the Aga in AIx. It didn't
work that way. Chilean hotelkeepers received us with stunned
amazement, all right, but they neither bowed nor scraped, and our
impressive entrance didn't improve either the rooms or the service.
The extra suitcases were a nuisance, that's all, but they continued
to go with us.

A camera is a mysterious thing and can be as temperamental as
any artist. To me who was weaned on a sweet and gentle Brownie,
which turned out good results even when I forgot to focus It, our
movie camera was an absolute monster. He obviously didn't like us.
He wouldn't cooperate. Whenever Camera's performance was of
no particular importance he reacted like a lamb, but if something

g^ THROW ME A BONE

exciting was going on which we wanted to record for posterity,
Camera got coy or sick.

In Temuco Sam got into his photographic stride by taking pictures
of me and of the scenery outside town.

Having tried out his wings on me, so to speak, he now prepared
to focus on Indians. Unfortunately they weren't as keen as I to be
photographed. After a good deal of effort he persuaded an old crone
to let herself be filmed while weaving a poncho. Preparations were
made with great care. Grandma was induced to wear all her jewelry
and her most picturesque costume. The loom was moved out-of-
doors so that there would be plenty of light. The bench on which
the old lady was to sit was placed in such a way that each stage in
the process" of work would show up clearly. Then the camera was
tried out at endless different angles until the perfect one was found.
Finally all was set and Sam started the machine running. At this
point Grandma ran too. "She probably thought she heard a swarm
of bees/' I said helpfully, trying not to laugh at Sam's expression of
dismay. "Shell come back/ 7 But she didn't. Nor were we ever able
to induce anyone else to take her place.

It was some consolation when Brother Claude and Sam's ever-
flowing stream of coins combined to obtain us permission to film
some of the Indian girls making mote. Mote is a sort of corn meal
which is made by soaking the com in water and lye and then putting
it into baskets and trampling it. This performance is obviously not
suitable for anything but a short short, as there is little if any varia-
tion in tramples, but Sam thought it would be interesting to record
it photographically. He did.

But the tramplers were almost as shy as the weaving lady, and
although they did not run away, they refused to face the camera and
did their trampling with backs turned. Each time Sam moved the
camera they reversed. Thus, except for the fact that they were
standing in baskets, which gave a slightly mad aspect to the scene,
they might have been any group of fat-hipped brunettes anywhere,
waiting for a bus on a midwinter day and stamping their feet up
and down to keep warm.

THROW ME A BONE 65

None of these small discouragements counted, though, in the
light of our one great triumph. 'Tve arranged to photograph a machi
ceremony/' Sam exulted one night as he and Brother Claude re-
turned from a special Indian hunt "Are you listening, Eleanor?
FVE GOT A MACHI!" He sounded as if he had just caught a
four hundred pound swordfisk But I was excited too. A machi cere-
mony was something few outsiders had ever been allowed to see
much less record photographically. Sam had succeeded in crashing
the inner circle of Indian life. The holy of holies.

A machi is a witch doctor. She for machis are almost invariably
women is looked upon with tremendous reverence and is believed
by the Araucanians to be the interpreter of their most important
god, known very simply as the Supreme Deity. Some of her functions
are to discover the sorcerer who is responsible for death; to bring
rain; to predict hidden or future things; and, above all, to cure the
sick. This is a big order, and to be a machi is the greatest thing a
woman can aspire to, but there is apparently no percentage in trying
for the profession as it is imposed on her supernaturally, either by
the Supreme Being himself or by a spirit through interior revelation.

There is no use in her saying to herself, "I want to be a machL"
Either she is tapped from above for this exalted work or she goes
on leading her normal life as a wife and mother. No one seems to
be very clear as to how the tapping, so to speak, takes place: the
Indians, even if they know, refuse to discuss it. My first thought was
that an enterprising female would have a wonderful opportunity
for cheating. "A spirit came to me last night/' she can so easily say,
and there she is, fixed for life. But when I mentioned this, Sam told
me I had a suspicious nature and that the Indians were too super-
stitious to indulge in such chicanery. However I still have my doubts.

Once IT has happened to her, the potential machi is taken in
hand by an older and more experienced machi and is trained over a
long period before she is consecrated and allowed to practice. The
mctchi's job is obviously too important to take any chance on her
fumbling it. Once set, though, she is at the disposal of all in need.
The unhappy bring their troubles to her door. The ill come to her

66 THROW ME A BONE

for treatment. For simple sickness she usually prescribes herbs,
which she prepares in some secret way, but with something more
serious, or in case of catastrophe, she resorts to a ceremony.

Each machi owns what is called a machi pole. This is the long and
massive trunk of a tree which is sunk into the ground and into which
steps are cut, making it into a kind of ladder. The upper part is
carved in the semblance of a face, the top of which is leveled off to
form a platform about two or three feet wide ? and green branches
are tied to the back and sides of the pole to carry out the illusion of
a tree. During the ceremony the machi ascends to the square-cut
top and dances on it, at the same time steadying herself by holding
on to the branches, which quiver and shake as if animated by the
tree's spirit itself. As she dances, she prays and chants sometimes to
cure sickness, sometimes to bring on rain, sometimes so that children
may be produced.

The machi Sam had netted was a big fat woman of forty-odd years
whom we called Lupe because her real name was unpronounceable.
She had been a machi since she was seventeen and was either more
intelligent or more venal than the majority of Mapuche Indians. At
any rate, she had agreed to let us attend, with camera, a ceremony
at which she was officiating to pray for some badly needed rain.

Unfortunately, God got ahead of Lupe, for on the day the cere-
mony was to take place it poured steadily. I took one look out of
our hotel window and suggested a game of Russian Bank. "How
can you think of such a thing?" asked Sam reproachfully, as if I
were responsible for the downpour. "We are going to Lupe's house/*

"But how can she pray for rain when it is already raining?"

"You can't tell," said Sam, without much conviction. "Maybe
it's not raining out there."

It was raining "out there," all right, and we got thoroughly wet
and knee-deep in mud, but the trip was worth while, for after a
consultation and promise of an extra financial bonus Lupe agreed
to have a ceremony, anyhow, on the next clear day. Just what she
was going to pray for this time we weren't sure, but it didn't make
any difference.

THROW ME A BONE 67

The following day was bright and sonny, and Sam, Brother
Claude and I arrived at dawn at Lupe ? s ruca, in back of which the
machi pole was planted, all dolled up for the occasion in a fresh set
of branches. Sam deposited a suitcase of extra film in the shade and
set up his camera, fiddling around with light meter, tape measure
and other appliances until everything was fixed to his satisfaction.
Then we waited.

"Do find out what's wrong/' Sam said impatiently to Brother
Claude. "I'd like to get started while the light is good." But Lupe
was apparently in no hurry. She combed her hair, she put on a new
pair of earrings, she smoothed down her skirt and, finally, all
spruced up, she dove into the ruca and reappeared with a baby which
she proceeded to nurse.

"Why not film this maternal scene?" I suggested. But Sam wasn't
interested. His camera was all set up for the big event and he wasn't
going to risk getting it out of line, even by an inch. So, waiting un-
happily while potential storm clouds raced across the sky, we
watched Lupe until she had fed the baby enough nourishment
surely to give it indigestion.

After what seemed like hours, an audience of some thirty men,
women and children gathered around the pole, and Lupe disposed
of the baby, gave her hair a final pat and prepared to start. Sam
took his stance, like a golfer addressing his ball, but before he could
so much as touch the camera, Lupe had shinnied up the pole with
lightning speed and was safely on top. "Make her come down/' he
yelled agonizedly at Brother Claude, and after a hasty dialogue
Lupe descended, quite good-naturedly, and began to climb up all
over again.

This time Sam caught her at the takeoff, and everything was go-
ing fine until Lupe had reached the halfway mark, when the film
stuck and the camera stopped working. Sam gave it a rather un-
professional shake to loosen it, and Lupe was again lured down to
repeat her ascent. By now she had lost some of her good nature, and
you could hardly blame her as she was undoubtedly developing a
Charley horse. The audience, too, had begun to give us baleful

68 THROW ME A BONE

looks, and I was scared that Papa wouldn't be cured of his piles, or
that Mama would stay sterile and we would be blamed.

So when the camera broke down again this time for good we
pretended all was well and watched the ceremony with smiles on our
faces and exasperation in our hearts. When the dance was over Lupe
climbed down and collected her money, Sam collected his suitcase
of unused film and we went home. "At least we saw the ceremony/'
I said rather weakly, trying to cheer up Sam. "No one you know has
ever got that far." But he refused to be consoled. "That Lupe/' he
kept muttering. As if she had let him down purposely.

Sam immediately sent the camera to Santiago, urgently request-
ing a quick repair job. In the meantime we continued to carry the -
film and various gadgets with us from town to town, hopefully
wiring the repair shop our new address each time we moved. The
camera was returned in perfect condition three days before we
left Chile for good.

Of the thousands of feet of film which had traveled around South
America, fifty feet had been used. These were developed in New
York. They showed a two-second view of a panic-stricken Indian
woman weaving and a brief exposure of the behinds of five or six
girls jigging up and down. The rest of the film consisted of pictures
of me against a beautiful scenic background. They were excellent.
"Oh, Mr. Heye/' I laughed to myself when I saw them, "this one is
my round/*

Chapter 7

7f LL in all, we spent not quite three months in southern Chile.
jT\ Half of this time we were in and around Temuco, a town
hardly to be described as brimming with entertainment or luxury
but one which I thought of nostalgically each day we traveled
farther from it. The other six weeks were spent visiting little towns
in the south towns so uniformly miserable that, looking back, it is
hard to distinguish one from another. Fortunately I kept some sort
of record.

The entries in "My Trip Abroad" (a wedding present from a
second cousin once removed) are anything but comprehensive. I am
afraid they describe a state of mind rather than a country. Here, then,
is what I find:

Dec. 21. Truf Truf: (Left Temuco this morning). Stayed in Pension.
Outhouse falling to pieces. No seat.

Dec. 23. Labranza: Bathroom but no tub. Toilet clogged. Fleas.

Dec. 25. Nueva Imperial: Hotel France (nothing like)! Asked man-
ager where I could wash. He escorted me to plaza and pointed out public
baths. What a Christmas!

Dec. 30. Carahue: Grand Hotel! No sleep. Bedbugs.

Jan. i. Puerta Saavedra: Beautiful scenery. No bath.

Jan. 3. Collico: Fleas. Bedbugs. Roaches. Indians.

fan 4. Hacienda Lanalhue: Estate belonging to millionaire engineer,

69

THROW ME A BONE JI

High hopes. Fooled. Bathtub used for storage. Outhouse built over stream.
Docks in stream. Very disconcerting.

Jan. 7. Puren: Eighteen days since I have had a bath.

Jan. g. Los Sauces: Brother Claude is beginning to smell.

Here the diary ends. It doesn't matter. The remaining weelcs of
one- and two-night stands followed the same pattern: Dirt. Indians.
Insects. Dirt. There were occasional variations. Like Ancud. I don't
need a journal in order to remember that experience.

Ancud is a tiny port on the very lovely island of Chiloe, northern-
most of the Magellanic Islands and directly off the coast of Chile.
At the other end of the island was our objective a town named
Castro, which was thickly settled with Indians. It was necessary to
spend a night in Ancud on the way, and we had wired ahead to the
only hotel asking for the best room available.

We arrived by boat, and although the trip had been both rough
and wet I was in a cheerful frame of mind, for we had finally shaken
off Brother Claude. The Hotel Chile, as it was called, was a one-
story building and contained six guest bedrooms. The architectural
arrangement was somewhat curious. Each bedroom opened into the
next, so that each had two doors except for No. 6, which was a dead
end and had only one. Thus, to reach your room you started from the
lobby and worked your way through No. i, No. 2, etc., until you
struck your own particular haven. We had been allotted No. 6.

This meant a long walk and seeing life in the raw, so to speak,
but it was the best room and the only one to have privacy. At least
that's what we thought until the manager escorted us there and we
discovered that three people besides ourselves had No. 6 too.

The other tenants were all men. As a rule I prefer men to women,
but these were as evil-looking a bunch of specimens as Fd ever seen,
and I was certain that if I dared go to sleep I'd be murdered. The
manager wasn't at all sympathetic. It was only after an outburst of
tears on my part (genuine) and Sam's promise to pay for three extra
board-and-lodgings that our roommates were transferred. One of
them, who resembled pictures Fd seen of Jack the Ripper, gave me

T7 THROW ME A BONE

/ M

a look which made me regret I'd married an archaeologist instead
of a policeman.

The room itself was large and light, with a nice view of the sea. It
contained six beds, the best of which, next to the window, the
manager indicated was mine. The room was a shambles. The only
bed that boasted clean sheets was Sam's. I smiled at the manager.
"When can my bed be fixed?" I asked pleasantly. The four spares
could stay the way they were, I decided. It wouldn't do to be too

fussy.

The manager gave me a smug look. 'The Minister of the Interior
slept here last night/* he announced proudly.

"How nice. But when can I have the bed made up?"

"You don't understand/' he insisted. 'The Minister the Minister
of the Interior slept in that bed/'

"I know how it is/ 7 1 said soothingly. "He probably left here late.
So inconsiderate. But if you could just send me the chambermaid/'

"Madam/' he said, "I thought you would like everything left just
as it is. It was the Minister of the Interior himself."

I looked at the dirty sheets, at the ashes scattered over the counter-
pane, at the chamber pot under the bed. "No/ 7 I said firmly, "I
would like the bed made fresh and the place cleaned up." The
manager appeared shocked but resigned. I could see I'd made two
enemies already.

When the chambermaid arrived, we decided to take a walk and
embarrassedly sneaked through Rooms No. 5, 4, 3, 2 and i. The
hotel was jammed each room had its quota of guests to correspond
to the number of beds, and in two of them an extra cot had been set
up. The occupants were mostly men, although there was a flashy
blonde in No. 2 and there were a couple of little girls in No. i.
Having worked our way through several rather intimate scenes, we
decided to stay put until we were ready to retire, so as not to disturb
our fellow guests any more than necessary, although the situation
seemed to bother us more than it did them.

We went to bed early. At 4: 30 A.M* I woke up from a nightmare
that I was lost in the desert. My throat burned from our highly

THROW ME A BONE 75

spiced supper; I was feverish with thirst. There was no sign of water
in the room. "Sam," I whispered, '"could yon please get me some-
thing to drink/' Sam slept on. "SAM!"

Sam opened one eye. "I didn't kill Brother Claude/" he mumbled.

**Sam 7 please wake up. I need you."

"Of course, Aggie."

At this I jumped out of bed and shook him. Aggie was a preten-
tious little bleached blonde who had been after Sam for years.
"What about Aggie? Tell me, did you ever . . . ?"

"I dunno. Gotta go sleep now or Brother Claude won't like." Sam
turned on his back and began to snore.

I gave up. There was nothing for it but to make a trip to the
dining room, at the other end of the hotel. So I put on my shoes
and a top coat over my nightgown and started on my trek.

Dawn was beginning to break, and its dim light helped me on my
way. All three occupants of No. 5 were asleep. I reached No. 4 with-
out incident, to find that Bed 4A, the bed by the window correspond-
ing to mine, was occupied by my friend Jack the Ripper in a night-
shirt. He was awake and grunted as I hurried through. In the next
room the flashy blonde (who belonged in No. 2) was just getting
out of 3C's bed. I rushed on. Room No. 2 was quiet and normal,
except for the blonde's empty couch. No. i was equally quiet until
I tripped over a toy go-cart and one of the children woke up and
howled.

The return trip was engineered in double-quick time. As I
entered Room No. 4, 1 heard giggles emerging from the bed of 4A
and I realized that the blonde (26) must have graduated from
3 C. I ran like hell back to 6B and Sam before the blonde could.

On our way back from Castro, a week later, we arranged to reach
Ancud in time to take the boat back to the mainland the same day.
We had three hours to spare, but we sat on the dock and waited,
quite happily.

I didn't really feel clean until we reached New York, and even
then, although I had spent most of my time both in Santiago and on

74 THROW ME A BONE

the boat sitting in a bathtub, I felt that the scars of our last six weeks
in darkest Chile must be there for all to see. So when we were invited
to dine with the Heyes a few days after our arrival ("We'd like to
meet the bride/ 7 said Mrs. Heye coyly), I wasn't very enthusiastic.
But one doesn't turn down the Heyes lightly (said Sam), so we
arranged to go.

We were greeted cordially, Mrs. Heye, a handsome if somewhat
overpowering woman, wore an evening gown which, I decided, had
irst seen light of day in the atelier of either Lanvin or Patou. Her
wrists and hands bristled with jewels. She swam in a sea of Chanel
No. 5. I felt shy and awkward in last year's flowered chiffon, like
a country girl on her first visit to New York. Chile was too recent:
I had barely removed its soil from under my nails and its flea bites
still itched.

We were ushered into the drawing room and introduced to our
fellow guests. A butler served ice-cold cocktails, and another passed
a tray on which reposed a five-pound tin of fresh caviar, garnished
with the appropriate hard-boiled egg, onion and lemon. The caviar
was passed three times.

Then dinner. A handwritten menu adorned each place. "Green
turtle soup sherry. Oyster crabs Newburg Johannisberger, 1893.
Saddle of mutton, pommes souffles, petits pois el la francaise Cham-
bertin, 1906. Fresh strawberries Chantilly Veuve Clicquot, 1911."
Not a lengthy dinner but surely an adequate one (oh, shades of
Taltall).

Coffee and liqueurs for the ladies were served in the drawing
room. "Now tell me all about your trip," said Mrs. Heye, drawing
me down next to her. "Imagine!" she stated to the assembled group
of expensive-looking women. "Mrs. Lothrop has just come back
from a year in Chile. In the wilds. Living with Indians and other
strange people. So courageous." She sniffed daintily at her Napoleon
brandy. "Poor child. It must have been awfully hard on you," she
added, echoing my own sentiments.

"It was a wonderful trip." I heard the words come forth, clear and
definite. To my surprise, it was I who was saying them.

Part II

Chapter 8

WHEN I broke the news to my family that Sam and I were
going away again this time to Guatemala they sighed
deeply and said, "Well, anyhow, it's not as far as Chile/' That was
true enough., but where we eventually landed, in an Indian village
on the shores of Lake Atitlan, was more or less the end of the world.
At least it seemed so.

Lake Atitkn is in the highlands of Guatemala, some six hours by
car from the capital, and it is a storybook lake. The water is deep
blue, shot with occasional green, and an unbroken chain of moun-
tains encircles it. Huge volcanoes tower in the background purple
and brown cones with cottony clouds covering their tips and twelve
small villages, named after the Twelve Apostles, dot the rocky slopes
as they meet the water. Of these, Santiago Atitlan is the largest. It
is also the most colorful, the most charming and the most frighten-
ing place I've ever lived in.

Sam had visited Lake Atitlan some years before and, not satisfied
to relax and enjoy the scenery, had traveled around the lake sniffing
for ruins. He'd found some beauties, too, on a steep hill called
Chuitinamit, and then and there he made up his mind that some
day he would return to excavate them. And return he did, although
it was five years later. An archaeologist is like an elephant. He never
forgets.

When I first saw Lake Atitlan I understood why no one could

77

THROW ME A BONE ^g

forget it. It was a warm day in January (in Guatemala the seasons
are reversed and January is like our June), and the lake and the
mountains and the sky were all so bright that they looked as if they
had been freshly painted on a piece of cardboard. A modem hotel
for tourists clung close to the water, shiny white in contrast to the
blue of the lake. Here we spent the night. "It's got everything," I
said happily. "Hot water, good food, superb view. There must be a
catch somewhere. Archaeology was never like this." 'The catch/'
said my husband drily, "is that this is nowhere near where we are
going to work. The rains are on the other side of the lake."

So the next day we took a launch and for an hour and a half we
chugged across the water to the village of Santiago Atitlan, which
is directly across the harbor from the ruins of Chuitinamit, and
where Sam hoped to find some sort of house to rent. Francisco, the
boatman, was anything but encouraging. "This is an Indian village/'
he said. "There will be nothing fit for you to live in."

"It's clear to see he's not used to archaeologists/' I protested.

"We'll manage/' Sam declared hopefully.

All of us were right. Francisco was not used to archaeologists, there
was nothing fit to live in and we did manage.

Santiago Atitlan, or Atitlan as it is commonly called, looked as
unreal as its surroundings. Built on a tongue of lava that slopes
down from the side of the volcano, it extends far into the lake, water
lapping three sides. The surface of the lava had been eroded into
boulders of all sizes and shapes, and where the boulders weren't,
the village was. Houses, their walls partly stone and partly vertical
bamboo poles topped by roofs of thatch, had mushroomed wherever
there was sufficient level ground.

The streets, actually nothing more than stony paths, wandered
at random from the highly perched plaza down to the water. In spots
where they were too steep for anything but a mountain goat, stair-
ways had been cut. The over-all effect was that of an unpatterned
fortified hill, and as you twisted your way up and down the crooked
streets you had a feeling that anything might be waiting round
the corner. Like a nursery rhyme, I thought at first, and I wouldn't

g THROW ME A BONE

have been surprised to run into Jack and fill or to see Humpty
Dtimpty perched on a wall. But after we had lived in Atitlan for a
while, I realized that the character of its inhabitants was very far
from being simple or like a nursery rhyme.

I have never felt so much a foreigner as I did in Atitlan. The
Indians were generally polite, occasionally belligerent and always
inscrutable. At best you felt an undercurrent of passive indifference
beneath their deliberate calm. After a while you realized that even
their politeness was a parody. "Very well/' they usually answered
to whatever you asked of them, and you could only sense that they
were adding under their breath, "Well do it, you lug, but only
because we damn well have to/* This attitude didn't make for any
deep friendships. In fact, of all unfriendly Indians these were the
most so. Their past history and isolated position probably had a
good deal to do with it.

Santiago Atitlan is a village of some ten thousand inhabitants.
Of these, about two hundred are ladinos, a mixture of Indian and
Spanish. The rest are pure Zutugil Indians, a branch of the Mayas.
Long before the advent of the Spanish they were fighting for their
existence against neighboring tribes, and as a result, they developed
a dependence on each other and a distrust of anyone else. The
Spaniards conquered but were never able to assimilate them; nor
could they break through this defensive armor. The Indians accepted
the fact that they had been defeated, but they stuck together even
more closely and, except for a certain amount of tmding with nearby
peoples, had little contact with the outside world. Foreigners were
frankly unwelcome. To them you were either a Zutugil Indian from
Atitlan or you were poison.

The Church had obtained a small foothold, but it wasn't a very
secure one. As far as the Indians were concerned a little Chris-
tianity went a long way, and although officially they had been con-
verted to Catholicism and had their own church, they used it for
rites that were certainly not according to Hoyle or the Vatican.
Nobody, they had decided, was going to tell them how to conduct
their religious life, and when the local priest in the eighteenth

THROW ME A BONE 8i

center}' tried to do just that, the Indians showed their disapproval
by killing him. After which they were left pretty much alone, except
for an unfortunate visit by the Bishop of Guatemala, who came to
make shocked protest at the news that the Indians were worshipping
Judas. The visit was unfortunate for the Bishop, who was chased out
of town by his would-be flock brandishing machetes, and barely
escaped with his life. The Indians had decided that Judas was holy,
and not even a bishop was going to tell them different. Nor did
anyone try to interfere with their special brand of Catholicism again.

I suppose I was naive to think we could ever become pals. We
never stood a chance. Except for a handful of men, the Indians had
had no education and spoke no language but their own dialect. We
were up against the basic mistrust of all uneducated people for
something they do not understand. Here were two white intruders
in funny-looking clothes who could only communicate with them
through an interpreter and who apparently had come to buy the cos-
tumes off their backs and to dig up their ancestors. All Indians are
superstitious those of Atitlan particularly so and afraid, above
everything, of witchcraft. Maybe they thought we would hurt their
crops. Maybe they believed we would ruin the peace of their buried
kin. At any rate, they did their best to make things so unpleasant that
we would be forced to leave.

Of course no one in his right mind except an archaeologist would
ever have gone to Atitlan to live. To visit, yes. For a short visit
Atitlan was wonderful and one of the most picturesque sights in
Guatemala. So much so that it was a drawing card for all American
tourists in the vicinity.

Every week a boatload or two of people would ride over from
their comfortable hotel on the other side of the lake and clamber
up the dock, squealing with delight and breathless at their daring.
The women, usually in high heels, would stumble along the stony
street up to the plaza, carrying elaborate picnic lunches carefully
wrapped in wax paper, and oh-ing and ah-ing about the scenery and
the town. "How quaint/ 7 they used to murmur and, when they first
saw the Indians, "Gee, aren't they cute/'

82 THROW ME A BONE

The Indians, wised up to the ways of the world by the ladinos,
soon learned to take advantage of this windfall. Meekly, tongue in
cheek, they would offer goods for sale at outrageous prices goods
that usually had been obtained by trade from Guatemala City
while the children would ran along with hands extended, whining
"pennylady, pennylady," the only English they knew. In the after-
noon the tourists would go back to their comfortable hotel, loaded
down with "Indian" goods and atmosphere, and the town would
relax and compose itself for the next onslaught.

A visit to the Lothrops was part of the tourist program. I think
they expected to find a cross between Mr. and Mrs. Robinson Crusoe
and Admiral and Mrs. Byrd. Generally we were lucky enough to
be away working, but occasionally we were caught. "What fun it
must be living in this wonderful place," the tourists usually said.
And invariably, "The Indians are the sweetest things, aren't they?
So nice and friendly!" To which we smiled and said nothing.

At first, of course, I, too, thought the Indians sweet and friendly.
"They're just shy, poor things/ 7 I said to Sam when the women
looked the other way instead of returning our greeting. "They'll get
used to us," Sam agreed hopefully. That was before we'd heard the
stories about the Priest-Who-Was-Killed or the Bishop-Who-Was-
Chased, and before we found out that no foreigner had dared live in
Atitlan since seventeen hundred and something. Until we came
along.

On our first visit, house-hunting, I was full of optimism. If anyone
had tried to tell me what these Indians were really like, I wouldn't
have believed them. They looked so attractive. And so gentle. They
were rather small, as if built on a slightly reduced scale, and they
were handsome and clean and held themselves erect and proud.
The women wore white cotton blouses, with a red scallop em-
broidered deep at the neck, and bright red skirts, set off by touches
of yellow and white. Their shawls were red and blue. Headbands,
usually of orange, green and purple, were interlaced in the braids
wound around their heads, giving the effect of a halo. The men
wore white knee-length trousers, striped in yellow and purple and

THROW ME A BONE 83

embroidered with small figures. Their shirts ? either red or blue, were
held In at the waist with wide red belts patterned in black

It was an amazing sight to see hundreds of Indians massed to-
gether in the market place. There never were such brilliant colors
reds so red or blues so blue or yellows so yellow. "What a
combination for a dress!" I said to Sam. But he discouraged me.
"You'll never see these colors In modern industry/' he explained.
"They're too expensive for commercial use. The red is cochineal,
obtained from an Insect; the blue comes from the indigo plant; the
yellow is made from bird droppings and the purple from the juice of
shellfish. Hardly practical for manufacturing on a large scale."

The ladinos flitted through all this native color like a few sparrows
mixed in with birds of Paradise. They wore conventional and drab
clothes and looked like any ordinary laborer. But it was a Ictdino
named Diego who finally consented to rent us a house.

The procedure was simple. There was no bouncing up and down
on mattresses to try them out or Indulging In "How many closets
are there?" and "How large Is the Icebox?" kind of talk. It wasn't
necessary. The house we were taken to see had no mattresses, no
icebox, no closets. It did have four walls and a roof. And as they
were the only four walls available in all of Atltlan, there was no
problem of choice to confuse us.

Diego's house had been a bar, and It was only on the market be-
cause he had decided to go out of business. It stood In a large yard
right off the main thoroughfare, doubtless brooding on more amus-
ing days. The entire house would have fitted into an ordinary
living room, and it was divided into two sections, one of adobe and
one of boards, topped by a tin roof. The adobe room, to be used for
sleeping, as its walls were better able to keep out the cold, had a
door which gave onto the yard; no window. The other room had a
large window opening on the street, which had served as invitation
to the bar and through which drinks had been dispensed. A wooden
shutter was attached to it and could be hooked either up or down
no doubt to conform with the hours designated for drinking.

For furniture, the house contained one large table, which had

84 THROW ME A BONE

held bottles and on which we planned to eat, a wooden stool and
three feeble wooden chairs. We would have to bring our own cots,
There was plenty of room for them.

In one corner of the yard was a tiny shack made of stalks of bam-
boo. This was the kitchen. A block of adobe reached to working
height, and on it were piled several pieces of wood. This was the
stove. "And the toilet?" I inquired.

"The toilet?" echoed Diego politely. He looked around his
miniature property as if he himself had forgotten where it had been
placed. Finally he waved his hand vaguely back of him, where no
building of any kind defaced the landscape.

"That won't do," I said. "Insist, Sam, please." So Sam insisted.

"You mean you want an outhouse?" asked Diego. "A real out-
house?"

"Yes," chorused the Lothrops.

"Very well, I will build you one/* said our future landlord, "but
it will double the rent."

"How much?"

"Five dollars a month instead of two fifty. That's furnished, of
course," added Diego quickly, indicating the decrepit chairs and
table and obviously worried by our startled expressions.

"Outrageous," Sam told him, "but I suppose we will have to pay
it"

As we climbed back into our launch we were smug with triumph.
"I told you," said Francisco, "there would be nothing fit for you to
live in."

"Ha," we said, "that's where you're wrong." We meant it, too.
The outhouse was to be constructed without delay, and our land-
lord had promised to wash down the floors with kerosene and to nail
down the wooden shutter, as any bar we ran was going to be for our
own consumption. Our new home was to be ready in a week, and we
planned to return, cots, baggage and cook in tow, to take over
occupancy. We could hardly wait.

Chapter 9

I HAD thought so much about Atitlan I was almost afraid to see
it again, for fear it might have changed. But as our loaded launch
glided up to the dock I sighed with relief. Everything was just
as before. The town still perched precariously on its rocky slope, as
if holding its breath to keep from sliding down into the lake. It was
as beautiful as I remembered it The Indians splashed the wharf
with the same extravagance of color. And if they failed to give us
a rousing welcome, I was too excited to notice.

We approached our new home with as much awe as if the grounds
had been the gardens of Versailles and the house the Petit Trianon.
Diego had done a good job. Our mansion had been neatly swept and
the yard cleared of the pig and chicken droppings that had decorated
it on our last visit. And, triumph of triumphs, a brand-new outhouse
had blossomed into being.

The outhouse was constructed of reeds, on top of which a rusty
piece of corrugated iron perched crookedly, like a beret on a woman
who has had one drink too many. The reeds had been tied in bundles
and fitted together with great care, so that not even the most curious
eye could find a peephole. After which, I suppose, Diego had gotten
tired. At any rate, he had failed to construct either door or protection
of any kind for the gaping entrance which sociably faced the street.
"We'll get to know our neighbors in no time at all/' said Sam.
"Just the other way round/' I corrected him.

85

THROW ME A BONE 87

It Is usually quite a hurdle to make a complete change in your
mode of living, but in Atitlan we slid painlessly into our new
existence. What helped, of course, was that we were comfortable
and well looked after.

There was Maria, whom we had brought with us from Guatemala
City. Maria was our cook. She \vas also chambermaid ? waitress,
laundress, nurse, as well as a friend on whose ample shoulders I
leaned when I became discouraged about life. Maria was pure
Indian. She had been brought to the capital from her native village
when very young, and there she had stayed, working hard and only
returning home when, for some strange reason (the words were
hers) she suddenly found she had produced a child.

"I certainly didn't expect it," she would say, as if the baby had
dropped from a tree, "but it is the will of God, and my mother will
be happy. She is old now and has no little ones of her own/ 7

And Maria would work a little harder and send back more money
to take care of her ever increasing brood.

"Why not get the father to contribute?" I once asked her.

"The father!" she retorted, looking unutterably shocked. "There
is no father!" And she was so definite that she almost convinced me.

As a matter of fact, it was because Maria loved children that we
happened to get her. She had been working for American friends of
ours who had a little boy of five. His name was Robin, but to Maria
he was el rey (the king), and the king could do no wrong. Un-
fortunately el rey's mother and father were unable to agree with
her, and when the little king was naughty he was duly punished.
This shocked Maria, who believed he should enjoy the same im-
munity that is accorded royalty.

The climax came when Robin, left alone one day and idly search-
ing for trouble, came across a bottle of glue and happily poured it
into his father's shoes. When Papa discovered this unfortunately
only after slipping his foot into a leather boot, which subsequently
had to be cut off he whacked hell out of his offspring, and Maria
announced flatly that she could no longer work for barbarians who
kcked appreciation of such a superior being. Maria was a wonderful

88 THROW ME A BONE

servant; and for a weak moment Mama was tempted to spare the
rod and spoil the cook, but she decided it would be easier to find a
new cook than a good psychiatrist for Robin later on.

So Maria was turned over to us, who had no children, and she
transferred her affections to me, I never quite reached the exalted
position of the little king, but if Sam, justifiably annoyed at times
by my mistakes, spoke to me harshly or impatiently, Maria would
frown and begin to look fierce. It got so that he never dared criticize
me. At least not until we were alone.

There was Jesiis. Jesus, a pretty young Indian girl, had been en-
gaged to help Maria. Her principal duty was that of water girl. As
all our water for drinking, washing and cooking had to be brought
up from the lake, a distance of about two hundred yards, Jesus made
at least seven trips daily, carrying the water on her head in a jar
which she emptied into one of the large clay containers set up against
the shady side of the kitchen. All Indian women in Guatemala carry
water (and just about everything else) in this way, and although
water jars boast two handles, these are only used to hoist the jars
up and down, for no self-respecting female would dream of holding
on to or even touching her burden once it has been placed on her
head. This naturally makes for a wonderful sense of balance and
magnificent posture.

Every time I looked at Jesus I automatically pulled in my stomach
and my chin, threw out my chest, stood on the balls of my feet. I
even practiced making a porter out of my head, beginning with an
empty tin cup and graduating to a cup filled with water. But after
several days of getting drenched and catching a severe cold, I resumed
my accustomed slouch.

There was Cristina. Cristina was the spinster daughter of Diego,
our landlord. I don't know whether her home life or an unhappy love
affair was responsible, but something had frozen her face into a
permanent mask of disapproval which even her rare attempts to
produce a smile could not break through. She was an indispensable
part of our household, however. Maria and Jesiis were both hard-
working and agreeable, but they were unable to communicate with

THROW ME A BONE 89

each other as their respective dialects had about as much similarity
as Hebrew and Chinese.

On Cristina, then, who could speak Spanish to Maria and Zutugil
to Jesus, devolved the duty of being interpreter. She did little else.
Like most ladinos, she was allergic to manual labor and she spent
most of her time sitting on a stool in our yard, a queen holding
court, occasionally deigning to tell Jesus that Maria needed more
water or wood, or to ask Maria what she wished Jesus to do next
For these services she received the equivalent of $3.50 a month.

Maria was the highest-paid member of the household, earning
eight dollars monthly. She did most of the work and she worked
hard. She cooked three big meals a day. She waited on the table.
She kept the house in order. Although the house was small it was
an effort to keep it clean, both because of the dust that blew in
from the yard and because of the insects which., before we came upon
the scene, had run unmolested about the premises,

Our first act on arriving had been to resweep the dirt floors, splash
them lavishly with Flit and finally cover them with pine needles
in lieu of a carpet. Even so the goodly heritage of fleas that Diego
had left behind persisted, and twice a week fresh pine needles were
obtained from up the mountain and Maria swept the old ones (plus
fleas) into the yard. Sam believed that exposure to the sun would
kill our little friends, but L was sure the warmth only caused them
sufficient discomfort to inspire them to hop back into the house,
healthier and hungrier than before.

Maria was in complete charge of the kitchen. It was her home,
her castle, and in spite of its deficiencies she was so proud of it she
rarely allowed anyone else inside. Which was sensible, for the room
was tiny, and with Maria in it, plus kitchen implements and a large
and elaborately constructed figure of Christ in the manger, which
accompanied her on all her travels, there was hardly an inch of space
left over.

Maria slept on the floor, though how she managed to sleep I
never understood. Her bed was a thin straw mat, the bottom of
which protruded (as, therefore, did her feet)" from the opening

go THROW ME A BONE

which served as an entrance. When I first saw the mat I was shocked
"Don't yon want a cot?" I aslced her.

"And where would I put it, Senora?" She laughed, as if it were
a great joke. Nor did she ever complain, although cold winds swept
through the unprotected room each night, penetrating her blankets
and leaving her covered with a layer of ashes from the top of the
stove.

The stove was a feeble affair, but miraculously Maria breathed
life into it. She was a natural cook, and as the food in Atitlan was
good, we ate well In the beginning, until digging started, I did
the marketing. The market was held in the plaza, a ten minute
walk from our house, and each morning I set forth, accompanied
either by Maria or by Jesus with an empty basket in which to bring
back our purchases. At first I used to take Cristina with me as
interpreter, but her obvious scorn of my shopping technique de-
pressed me so much that I decided to depend on the universally
understood methods of pointing at an object (I want that! ) , fingers
tentatively stretched out (how much?) and hands, protestingly
raided high (too much! ) .

The market was held daily, from early morning well into the
afternoon. In the main square, dominated by the ancient church,
hundreds of Indian women squatted on their haunches, their wares
piled in front of them, the massed color of their costumes almost
too bright for the naked eye. Here were sold brooms, brushes, gourds,
women's headbands, and materials for their skirts (the textiles
brought in from neighboring towns and regularly sold or traded for
articles and food native to Atitlan ) .

Also turkeys, chickens, dried fish, black beans, potatoes, bananas,
plantains, alligator pears and other local produce. The turkeys and
chickens were held by a string looped around one leg, the other end
of which was attached to the owner's wrist, and they were sold alive.
Sometimes they rested apathetically on the ground; more often they
nervously scratched the sun-baked earth, flapping their wings and
pecking at your hand if you tried to examine them closely. They
had my complete sympathy (for who can blame a chicken for

THROW ME A BONE 91

objecting to having its breast pinched or tickled?), and as a result
I did my buying by instinct, depending in most part on whether
the look on the chicken's face appealed to me.

Unfortunately this was no good as an indication of age or condi-
tion, and after I had twice brought home painfully scrawny and
antique specimens, Maria decided I needed help. Not being as soft-
hearted as I, she prodded and poked her way right through the
market until she found what she wanted. After which the poor
chicken or turkey, both legs now tied tightly together, was placed
protesting in her basket among less active purchases.

Eggs presented a different problem. Sam has always said that
there is no such thing as one egg. "You must eat two," he insists,
"or three, or even four if you feel so inclined, but one egg just
doesn't count. After all, you don't talk about one twin/' he is apt
to add triumphantly. Here, of course, is my chance to say that you
don't talk about three twins or four twins either, but I've always
refrained, as I know what he means.

The Indian women, however, didn't understand this. They were
poor, and few of them owned more than one laying hen apiece,
and the moment the hen let loose an egg it would be rushed to the
market. This made for a fine degree of freshness, but to pick up
enough eggs for a couple of breakfasts was apt to take a good half hour
of searching and bargaining.

To bargain is routine with the Guatemalan Indians. It is a game
they play and enjoy, and a game they expect you to play with them.
The first price mentioned is automatically discounted. You might
offer fifty cents for an article for which the seller hopes to get twenty-
five but he (or she) will turn you down flat. By the same token you
must not accept the seller's asking price, even if it seems low. After
three or four offers and counteroffers both sides reach a sum ap-
proximating the most the buyer will pay and the least the seller will
take. At this point hand over your money, grab your purchase and
run, before the Indian's pathetic wails about being done in the eye
(all of which is part of the game) upset you too much.

The food in the market at Atitlan was very reasonable. Reduced

Q 2 THROW ME A BONE

to average terms (after haggling), a chicken cost twenty or twenty-
five cents, a turkey thirty-five. Eggs were a cent apiece. Vegetables
w-ere scarce and (except for very inferior corn) were mostly imported
from neighboring towns, but even so, forty cents would get you
enough squash, tomatoes, onions and peas for four meals. The most
spectacular buy was alligator pears. These were large and tender
and full of flavor. The price varied according to the season, but the
highest reached was four cents apiece, while in ordinary times you
could buy twelve dozen for a dollar, a little more than half a cent

a pear.

We always seemed to be hungry and we ate extraordinarily well
Except for meat. This was sold in a little shop facing the plaza, and
because there was no ice it was painfully fresh. We did manage to
buy an occasional tenderloin of beef that wasn't too hard on the
teeth, but as a rule we stuck to chicken or turkey or meat out of cans
that were part of the supplies we ordered from the other side of the
lake. Butter, too, came in tins, as well as certain fruits and vegetables.
Most of our food, though, was bought locally, and rice, potatoes
and black beans the latter made into a smooth puree, crisp on the
outside and served with fried plantains rounded out our menus.

Because we had no ice, turkeys and chickens had to be eaten
freshly killed, too. So freshly killed, in fact, that they were practically
rushed from deathbed to oven. This didn't seem to interfere with
the succulence of the chickens but turkey meat was apt to be so
tough that neither knife nor molar could dent it. Until Maria solved
the problem. "Why don't you get him drunk?" she asked one day.

"Get WHOM drunk?" I said, startled, looking at Sam.

"Why, the turkey, of course," she answered. (The bird in question
was a lady, but to Maria all fauna were masculine.) "It's simple,"
she continued. "I've done it before. You give him some aguardiente
(the local rum) and he will pass out. Then, when I get ready to chop
off his head, he will be relaxed and, in consequence, tender when
you eat him."

Sam and I both laughed but we decided to humor her. So while
Maria held the turkey, Sam opened its mouth and I poured down the

THROW ME A BONE 93

ram. One good slug and "he" was out like a light. Maria wielded
her ax and all was over. "I don't suppose it will work/" I told Sam,
"but at least the poor turkey has had a pleasant end/*

It did work, though. Our bird had apparently relaxed into a state
of delirious tenderness while in its cups. "Wouldn't the Temperance
Society be shocked?" we laughed as we happily stuffed ourselves.

But when the American Ambassador's wife came to lunch it
wasn't quite so easy. We had received a letter from Guatemala City
announcing her projected visit to Atitlan with two friends and
asking if they could all come and picnic with us. "Don't go to any
trouble/* she wrote. "We can bring our own sandwiches and maybe
you will give us coffee. I know you must be living very primitively/'

"Well show her how primitive we are/ 7 1 said to Sam. "Ill serve
her as good a lunch as she can get in her old Embassy. And we will
have a turkey!" So I wrote Mrs. Ambassador and told her to leave
her sandwiches at home and we would do our best to see that she
and her friends did not go hungry.

The day before the luncheon, Maria and I went to pick out our
main course. Maria must have poked and tickled every turkey in the
market. She inspected their eyes, their crops, their feathers, their
toenails. With the possible exception of the knee-jerk, she gave them
a complete neurological examination. After one hour she picked
out her victim an enormous turkey gobbler which she claimed had
passed every test. Because of his size and special qualifications he
cost half a dollar, but to hell with the extra fifteen cents, said I, we
don't have an ambassador's wife to lunch every day.

"Look at Goliath/' said Sam, when we brought him home. "Isn't
he superb?" Maria and I beamed, and the turkey arched his back
feathers and strutted around the yard.

At seven the next morning we started activities. "Where's the
liquor?" I asked.

"You're not going to give him a drink this early in the morning?"
Sam shuddered. "That's carrying depravity too far."

"The turkey doesn't know the time." (I would have felt more
sympathetic toward poor Goliath if his gobbling noises hadn't kept

g^ THROW ME A BONE

me awake most of the night.) "Let's get started. Where's the
whisky?"

"Why whisky?" asked Sam. "Rum does the trick just as well,
and we only have one bottle of Scotch, which we need to serve before
lunch."

"This is a very special turkey/' I insisted. "And it will only take
one small jigger. We'll have plenty left." But I was wrong.

Goliath was hard to handle. He scuffled about madly, in spite
of Maria's and Sam's restraining hands, and at least a jigger of our
precious whisky watered the ground before I managed to pour a
good-sized drink down his throat. Goliath did not take to it kindly.
He sputtered and choked, spilling some of the liquid on his feathers
and some over Sam, then broke loose from Maria's grasp. After
some minutes we jockeyed him back into position and I gave him
another dose. This just seemed to add to his strength and again he
broke loose. Now, though, he was slightly unsteady and easier to
recapture. After four drinks he began to stagger. Two more and his
legs gave way. "There he goes," I said, but he managed to pull him-
self together and was up at the count of five.

"What a turkey," said Sam, admiringly. "What capacity!"

"He's wonderful," I agreed and tipped the bottle toward his
open mouth. At long last Goliath was down for good. A smile
seemed to settle over his face. He was finished. So was the bottle
of whisky.

The party was a huge success. Never, agreed everyone, had a
turkey been so tender. Or had such a wonderful flavor. Before lunch
Mrs. Ambassador handed me a package. "You wouldn't let us bring
food," she said, "so we brought you some Scotch. I hope you can use
it."

"We can" Sam and I chorused fervently.

Chapter W

WHEN you move into a new community, you count on
building up some sort of relationship with the inhabitants.
In an Indian town, of course, it is more difficult. I hardly expected
the Zutugil matrons to call on me and invite me to dinner, but I did
think that eventually we might develop at least a nodding acquaint-
ance with our neighbors. The Indians of Atitlan, however, didn't
go in for nodding. The only reaction we got was resentment from
the men, curiosity from the women.

The women's curiosity was so strong it overcame even their
shyness. We were hardly settled before they began to stream into
our yard, babies in arms, the rest of the family trailing behind. They
were grave, silent and interested. Our home was given a terrific
once-over. They examined the kitchen, in spite of Maria's dark
looks. They examined the blankets on our cots. They fingered a
dress of mine which hung from a hook on the wall.

"Hello," I said.

Silence.

"Cute baby," I said, poking a finger at a little bundle one of the
women was carrying under her arm. Mama quickly pulled the red
cap Baby was wearing down over its face.

"They always do that," Sain explained, "if you get too close to
their babies. They're afraid you've got the Evil Eye." I quickly
backed up.

95

THROW ME A BOXE 97

"Nice day/ 7 1 tried next, in a Hud of pidgin Spanish.

Silence.

"They won't talk/' I announced rather unnecessarily.

"They don't speak Spanish/' said Sam. a At best what would come
out would be *Ug, ug/ "

"Even that would be better than nothing/' I said. But in the days
that followed, although we were the subject of constant visitations,
not even an "Ug" was loosed our way.

The men were a little more communicative but hardly more
affable. They resented us from the start. And showed it. The day
we moved into our house I bought some of the gay red material
at -the market out of which women's skirts were made, and Maria
and I tacked it up as a curtain on the gaping outhouse. "Privacy and
local color in one/ 7 I announced. "It will be an inspiration/' The
next morning our inspiration was gone. "Some mistake/' we decided.
"The Indians wouldn't steal. The wind must have blown it away/'

So I bought more material, and we rigged up another curtain. The
next morning curtain No. 2 was gone. There was nothing to do but
buy curtain No. 3 (or give a free exhibition) , but from then on we
took it to bed with us each night, rehung it each morning.

Other things disappeared, too. A washtub we had left in the yard,
a tin cup, a pair of stockings I had hung out to dry. "It couldn't be
the Indians/' I insisted, unwilling to admit these seemingly nice and
simple and unworldly people could have an impure thought. "Who
else?" said Sam unhappily. And after that, when we went out, Maria
or Cristina were always left on the premises to protect our property.

I still don't believe the Indians stole for any other reason except
to annoy us. They never took things for which they had any use.
They drank out of gourds, not tin cups; their laundry was done in
the lake, not in washtubs; and no self-respecting Indian woman
would have been seen dead in a pair of stockings. Their pilfering was
an irritation campaign, nothing more. We were outsiders, inter-
lopers, mysterious strangers who were obviously cooking up trouble;
and the sooner they could get rid of us the better.

We worked and worked to break down the shell of distrust in

gg THROW ME A BONE

which the Indians enclosed themselves. We gave them presents
trinkets to the women, cigarettes to the men, canned goods to
stock the family larders and the presents were politely and un-
enthusiastically received and their attitude remained unchanged.
We offered to help in cases of sickness or emergency, and our help
was accepted and their attitude remained unchanged. I once read a
book called How to Win Friends and Influence People, but I doubt
if the author would have had much success in Atitlan. We didn't
try to influence anybody. We never got as far as winning friends.

There was one exception. We made one friend among the Indians.
Just one. His name was Pedro Mendoza and he lived in a house al-
most directly back of ours. One windy morning a rather intimate
article of apparel swirled across the back fence and landed on the
kitchen roof. ("About time something blew in, not out/ 7 said Sam.)
Five minutes later a worried-looking individual came in our front
gate to retrieve it. "I'm Pedro Mendoza/' he announced. "That"
pointing sheepishly toward the kitchen roof "belongs to my wife/*

"Sam/ 7 1 said. "Did you notice? HE SMILED!"

It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Unfortunately it
was a friendship that didn't improve our standing in the com-
munity, for Pedro was an Evangelist (a term used in Latin America
for all Protestants) and he was as much of a pariah in Atitlan as
Sam or I. We once asked him how he had happened to become
converted,

"I had heard about the Bible Institute which had been organized
in Panajachel, across the lake/' he told us, "and one day out of
curiosity I visited it. Stories from the Bible were being read and
explained in Indian dialect (I, of course, have always been able to
speak Spanish/' he announced proudly) , "and classes were being
formed to teach my people to read and write. It was a good thing/'
he added simply. "So I became an Evangelist and now I too try to
spread the good word."

"Have you had much success?" we asked interestedly.

Pedro shook his head. "Very little so far. There are few of us here
in Atitlap, too few. We tjy to teach the rest but they are not

THROW ME A BONE 99

receptive. *You think we should learn to read and write/ they say.
"What for? Reading and writing will not produce good crops/ TOE
tell us God wants us to stop getting drank/ they say. 'Why, our ram
is God's gift to us. Why shouldn't we use it?' 'You are a traitor/ they
say. 'You are selling yourself for the foreigners' money/ It is diffi-
cult," he continued, "but they will learn in time. And I have already
converted my family/' he added triumphantly.

Converting Pedro's family meant converting a large portion of
the population of Atitlan. There was Lucha, his wife. There were
Consuela and Juana, married daughters with children of their own,
and Pepita, still single. There were Salvador and Jose, the older sons,
and six or seven younger Mendozas ranging from thirteen years to
two. By all indications another little Mendoza was on the way.
Birth control had apparently stopped short of Atitlan.

All three generations lived together. The house, fortunately, was
a large one, for by Atitlan standards Pedro was rich. He was a man
of property, a big landowner, and his numerous scattered holdings,
on which he himself worked, yielded enough produce both to feed
the enormous Mendoza clan and to bring in a comfortable income
on the side. When I first saw Pedro's house I was surprised. I had
expected something out of the ordinary, but except that it was about
double the size and very clean (the usual pigs and goats and chickens
were not allowed inside) , it was like all other native houses.

There were the regulation walls of stone and bamboo topped by
thatch, and the regulation yard enclosed by stone boundaries. Inside,
the house consisted of one very large windowless room with an
alcove used as a kitchen. Hammocks hung from the beams, and
chests for clothing and small squatting stools were scattered gener-
ously about.

But although the Mendoza family lived in native style they were
much more advanced than most of the Indians of Atitlan. They
spoke Spanish. They had learned to read and write. Pedro, as a
matter of fact, was well educated and had even traveled about the
country. On one of his trips to Guatemala City he had taken
Consuela, his oldest daughter, with him. That had been seven years

1OO THROW ME A BONE

before we knew her, but she still talked about her experience to
anyone who would listen. "Imagpte!" she would say. "I have seen
the biggest city in Guatemala the biggest city in the whole world.
There were automobiles all over the streets, and the streets were
smooth! And enormous houses. And" the climax was always the
same "I rode in a streetcar!"

"That streetcar/ 7 said her mother, laughing. "She will never
forget it" But there was a bit of envy in her laugh, for Lucha had
never been to the capital, had never seen an automobile, had never
ridden in a streetcar.

Next to Pedro, we got to know Pepita best. Pepita was seventeen
and, by Atitlan reckoning, an old maid. This was not because she
was unattractive, but because her father had been so inconsiderate
as to become an Evangelist before she had reached marriageable
age. As a result the boys and girls she knew had been told to stay
away from the family of "that traitor Mendoza." Pepita was phil-
osophical, however. "Even if I am too old to marry and have chil-
dren/' she said, "there are other things. Father has promised to take
me to Guatemala City on his next trip. And in the meantime I will
go on with my weaving/'

Pepita was the best weaver in town. She made most of her family's
clothes and she worked with speed and skill and grace. So when
she consented to weave a blouse and shawl for Sam to buy, he was
inordinately pleased. Sam was trying to make a collection of all the
different articles of clothing worn in Atitlan and until we met the
Mendozas had had very little luck. The women made clothes for
themselves and for their families to wear, not to sell; so that in order
to acquire a costume it was usually necessary to buy one already
worn, if not right off the owner's back.

Nor was that easy. An Indian's wardrobe is a limited one when
a blouse or shirt begins to wear out someone in the family weaves
a new one and even in cases where there were "spares" at home,
the owners weren't anxious to let us have them. We were The
Enemy, after all, and it was perfectly possible (so they argued) that
we would practice witchcraft on them if we had their clothes in our

THROW ME A BOXE 1O1

possession. Occasionally a more enlightened Indian, or one in need
of money, would disregard this risk, but such individuals were few
and hard to find.

Sam kept on trying, though, and his technique was generally the
same. He would go to the market place, accompanied by Cristina
as interpreter, and pick out a likely prospect usually a woman, and
always a well-dressed one. "I like your costume/ 7 he would say
(through Cristina). "Haven't you another like it at home? If so,
do let me buy this one/ 7

The woman as a rule either shook her head or giggled at his
proposition and ignored it In which case Sam would go right on to
the next smartly dressed individual and repeat the procedure.

When I was along I was thoroughly embarrassed by this approach,
although to my surprise the Indians didn't seem at all insulted. It
was as bad, I told Sam, as if I were to go up to a comparative stranger
at home and say, "What a beautiful dress, Mrs. Snodgrass. Where
did you get it? I want one just like it. How about selling me yours?"

But Sam told me I was wrong. "The Indians," he said, "are used
to selling their blouses or shirts or coats secondhand. Whenever they
need to raise money for parties or for Easter ceremonies or to pay
a witch doctor they pack up their extra clothes and anything else
they may own and travel to the nearest town that boasts a pawn-
shop. There they either borrow money on their possessions or sell
them outright. That doesn't mean," he added quickly, "that they
will be willing to let me have them, but it can't hurt to try. At worst,
they will only ignore me." Which is just what they did do.

The Mendozas were therefore a godsend. They were helpful and
generous and they stripped themselves to add to Sam's collection.
"I don't need this shirt," Salvador would say. "Take it, and Pepita
will weave me another." "Would you like a shawl?" (This from
Juana.) "It is a ceremonial one which I won't use until Holy Week,
and by then Pepita can make me another." "Take this coat, this
handkerchief, this belt, this bag." The offers poured in from all sides.
And always, "Pepita can make me another."

Poor Pepita! Although she didn't seem to mind. She had attached

1O2 THROW ME A BONE

herself to us, her new friends, and our Interests were hers. When
Sam told her he wished to photograph the different steps in weaving,
she was delighted. "Good/ 7 she said. "You will take my picture and
then you will not forget me/' And conscientiously, whenever the
blouse or the shawl on which she was working called for a change in
process, she would stop her work until Sam could be there to take
photographs or to make a sketch. Sometimes Sam was busy, and
Pepita would have to wait days before she could continue her
weaving. "Poor Salvador/' I said. "When will Pepita find time to
make his shirt? Or Juana's shawl? Or Pedro's belt?"

But Sam was so captivated by his growing collection of textiles
to say nothing of the documentary evidence he was amassing on the
technique of weaving that he paid scant attention. "Poor Salvador,
poor Juana/' he repeated dutifully. But without much conviction.

The friendliness of the Mendoza family merely served to high-
light the surliness of the other Indians. If only they had been willing
to let us alone! Night was the worst time. Almost every night, just
as we were getting ready to sleep, loud voices would be heard on the
street side of our house. Then a knock on the boarded-up window
in the next room. "Open up. We want a drink." The first time this
happened we tried not answering. But the knocks became blows.
"Open, do you hear. Open. We want rum."

"This is no longer a bar/' Sam finally called out.

More blows on the window, this time with fists. "We want rum!
We want rum!"

"Go away/* I yelled, when I could stand it no longer. Although
the yell was more of a quaver.

"Ah! A woman," came back from outside. "Open the window,
little one, and serve us." And the shouts and the pounding continued
until, finally, the would-be drinkers got tired of waiting. After they
had gone we lay in bed, wakeful, until the next lot came along.

This performance took place at least three nights a week and
was more or less the same each time, although the language of our
persistent visitors varied according to their state of intoxication. On
occasions when we were left in peace it was almost as bad, for each

THROW ME A BOXE

time we heard steps coming up the street we waited, tense, for the
steps to stop and the pounding and yelling to begin. "Do you think
they will ever learn that Diego has given up his bar?" I asked Sam.
"Or are they doing this purposely?"

"I doubt it," said Sam. "The news must certainly have got about,
but when the Indians are drank or thirst}' they probably forget every-
thing except that they want another drink And their feet bring them
here automatically/*

But if the disturbance on the street side of the house was acci-
dental, that on the yard side wasn't. This took place at night, too.
Almost every night. It was a quieter attack and, just because of that,
more frightening. It usually started with a shuffle of feet, no voices.
Suddenly the handle of our door would begin to turn, and although
the door was always locked on the inside, it was a flimsy lock and
gave but little reassurance. "Sam," I would say, trembling, each
time this happened, "they're going to break in."

"Don't worry/' he'd answer, patting my hand. "They won't break
in. They only want to annoy us/'

"How can you be sure? 97 I'd ask desperately, and I'd wedge a chair
under the doorknob, like a young girl trying to defend her honor.

Sam was right, though. They never did break in, and I don't
believe they tried very hard. But the nightly invasions shuffle,
shuffle, rattle, rattle continued. Sometimes Maria would wake up
and fearlessly, broom in hand, chase the invaders. And they would
go away. Only to return later.

In desperation I consulted Pedro. "That is bad," he said, shaking
his head commiseratingly. <r Very bad. Although I am sure the
Indians would do no harm. They are like children. It isn't that they
dislike you personally; it is that they dislike anything strange to
them. But if you are nervous/' he offered, "Salvador or I can sleep
outside your door."

Dear Pedro, I sighed with relief. But to my dismay Sam turned
He-Man. "Of course not, Pedro," he said. "We wouldn't think of
such a thing." And then, the "we" becoming even more editorial,
"The Indians don't frighten us! 9

?. ; c ^\$ t **.:?*?s

Chapter II

HPHE reason for living in Atitlan, of course, was to be near
J[ Chuitinamit, the site which Sam planned to excavate. It
should have been easy to get started. The usual technique is to ( i )
pick your site, (2) get permission to dig, (3) engage workmen,
(4) get yourself and said workmen to the site, (5) make some holes
in the ground and (6) pray that you will find something. This
sounds simple, and up to the point where you find something (or
don't) it usually is. But in our case, the only part of the program
that was simple was picking out the site, and this had been done five
years earlier. We had permission to dig, it is true, but between a con-
tract signed in the capital and enforcing that contract in an Indian
town many miles away there is a big difference.

All formalities had been attended to. We had gone to see the
Minister of Education in Guatemala City for our permission. We
had played the HOW game with him. In Latin America it is con-
sidered good form to disguise or at least sugar-coat all business deal-
ings. This is done by obscuring the issue with polite chitchat in order
to see how long you can take before coming to the point, so that
when you do finally reach it, it seems almost like an accident. Hence
the HOW game.

The Minister of Education played so well that Sam and I were
almost whitewashed. He started in as we were shaking hands.

105

1O6 THROW ME A BONE

"HOW are you Sefiora? HOW are you Sexior?" "HOW are you Mr.
Min " we managed to get out just In time before he countered
with "HOW is your mother? HOW is your father?" (As these ques-
tions were addressed to each of us separately, he scored four points.)

'Very well, thank you, Mr. Min"

"HOW are your children?" he interrupted (a question which in
my opinion should have penalized him), but noting my expression
he quickly corrected himself. "Ah, that's right. No children. Too
bad, too bad." The way he said this made us feel so guilty that we
lost our turn and the Minister got back into his stride with "HOW
was your trip down? HOW do you like Guatemala? HOW long do
you expect to stay?"

Three times Sam tried to break in with "HOW can I get permis-
sion to dig, Mr. Min " but the Minister paid no attention, and it
was only after he had won the game by a score of eighteen to two
with a final "HOW can I be of service to you?" that Sam got his
chance.

Once the game was over, there were no difficulties. The Minister
agreed it would be a good idea to explore the buried treasure of the
Mayas (especially as by law anything we found would be kept by
the Guatemalan government), and he scrawled a few lines to the
political chief of the department in which Atitlan was situated,
saying in effect, "help Lothrop." We shook hands once more and off
we went.

"Mr. Min was certainly helpful," I commented. And, mistakenly,
"The rest should be easy."

The political chief's headquarters were in Solola, a town some
twenty miles from Atitlan. We called on him three days later and
it was a repetition of our call on the Minister. We again played the
HOW game. Mr. Chief also won (although by a less imposing
score) and he, too, gave Sam a "help Lothrop" letter, this one
addressed to the Alcalde or Mayor of the town of Atitlan.

The Mayor was apparently not the type who cared for games.
"What do you want?" he grunted as soon as he saw us, and without
waiting for an answer he called in his assistant, Mayor No. 2, who

THROW ME A BONE 1OJ

was an Indian and who eyed us with more distaste, if possible, than
had Mayor No. i. So without preliminaries Sam handed over the
latest "help Lothrop" letter, which was digested in silence. The
Mayor, it seemed, was not anxious to help Lothrop. Neither was
Mayor No. 2. What they both wanted was for Lothrop to get the
hell out and not bother them. Naturally they didn't say so, but as
time went on it became more and more evident.

It was grudgingly conceded that we might dig "as long as the
political chief says so, although what you'll find besides weeds I
can't imagine/ 7 stated Mayor No. i, in a way that made it clear he
hoped the weeds would choke us.

"The first round is ours," whispered Sam, and he quickly sealed
his victory by requesting an interpreter and eight workmen, the
latter to be paid the unprecedented sum of twenty cents a day,
which was five cents, or twenty-five per cent, more than the current
wage.

But when we returned to the town hall to interview our prospec-
tive helpers, we found just one a puny little guy named Nicolas.
Nicolas, it turned out, was the interpreter, and he insisted on being
put on the pay roll immediately although there was nobody for
him to interpret.

The Indians were not anxious to work for Sam, even at increased
pay. To prove this, Mayor No. i requested No. 2 to round up
various individuals from the street, and he put the question to them
then and there. Each one emphatically shook his head, and No. i
shrugged his shoulders and tried not to look pleased. Of course, as
the language used had been absolutely unintelligible to us, No. i
might very well have asked the unsuspecting Indians such questions
as "Did you take a bath this morning?" or "Have you been stealing
eggs?" or even "Would you like to work for this dirty foreigner-if-
you-say-yes-God-help-you?" The expression on Nicolas' face seemed
to bear this out,

"What can I do?" asked the Mayor smiling happily. "Everyone
is busy. You had better go back where you came from."

I was beginning to agree with him, but Sam's face took on that

108 THROW ME A BONE

"archaeology here I come" look. "If you can give me no assistance/'
he threatened, "I shall have to get in touch with the political chief."

"Come back tomorrow/' said No. i quickly, "and I will see what
I can do."

After two weeks of daily visits to the town hall and threats of
communicating with the political chief, the Minister of Education
and even the President of the Republic, we collected a group of
eight workmen. I don't know where Nos. i and 2 had discovered
them, for in no way did they resemble the good-looking if un-
friendly Indians around Atitlan. These men were villainous; next to
them the average run of American gangsters would have looked like
choir singers.

The foreman was named Fernando. He was surly and insolent,
and his right eye drooped in frightening fashion. I called him Dill-
inger. The other men were uniformly evil-looking, except for one
rather effeminate creature of the type of Pretty Boy Floyd. But,
gangsters or not, they were able-bodied men and we were at last pre-
pared to start work.

Chuitinamit is the Indian name for the steep and rocky hill
projecting from the flank of the volcano San Pedro, across the
harbor and about a mile from the town of Atitlan. On this hilltop
fortress, surrounded on three sides by the waters of Lake Atitlan,
are the remains of the ancient capital of the Zutugil and the residence
of their kings. The royal family had picked themselves a wonderful
site both from the point of view of scenery and of defense and
here, according to tradition, they had lived for fifteen generations
before the Spanish conquest.

Life for the Zutugil had been a constant struggle. By pure chance
they had settled on lands that contained quantities of cocoa, and
when, later, the cocoa bean became general currency throughout
Mexico and Central America, those lands turned out to be im-
mensely valuable. Trees literally oozed money. It was as if you had
an orchard that produced dollar bills instead of apples and, as might
be expected, everyone around you kept trying to take away your

THROW ME A BONE IOQ

money-making plants. The Zutugil, however, had managed to ward
off all onslaughts up to the arrival of the Spaniards, and until then
their rulers prospered, secure in their impregnable fortress.

Chiiitinamit now is a jombled mass of lava blocks whose shape
defies description. Called the "child of the volcano," it is an ex-
crescence in miniature of its father San Pedro, except that it has no
crater. And in the center of this hunky blob stand the remains of
the ancient citadel all that is left of the former grandeur of kings.
Here are bits of pyramids, falling temples, demolished plazas, and
walls of what once were palaces and other buildings. Here, too, are
stones and boulders, some carved, some with holes cut into their
upper surface to collect the blood of human sacrifice.

Outside the ruins, wherever rocks permit, the ground is under
cultivation. This ground belongs to the Indians of Atitlan, who
depend on farming for their subsistence. Atitlan itself is too rocky
to produce anything, and its inhabitants have therefore turned to
the fertile slopes of surrounding volcanoes. On these, every bit of
earth has been used. Corn, peas, peppers and beans crop up be-
tween rocky boulders, sometimes in plots so small that one out-size
growing pepper w r ould probably smother its neighboring vegetables
right out of existence. The Indians certainly made the most of very
little. If they had ever been let loose in the rolling fields of a state
like Kansas they would undoubtedly have gone crazy.

Chuitinamit, like the adjacent volcanoes, was planted within an
inch of its life. And it was in this ground that Sam wanted to dig,
for, where the rocks weren't, the buried Indians presumably were.
Unfortunately that was also where the corn grew. And the peas and
the peppers and the beans. This made for complications.

Few of the landowners were enthusiastic about having their vege-
tables dug up, even when paid three times their value. As a rule each
little plot belonged to a different person sometimes four or five
stalks of corn constituted an entire holding although occasionally
some capitalist had several bits of land scattered about the slope.
Thus if we found a skeleton In the plot of willing landowner Jones,

HO THROW ME A BONE

the skeleton's feet might be under the sod of unwilling landowner
Smith. And Sam refused to subscribe to the theory that half a
skeleton is better than none.

Legally, of course, we had a right to dig anywhere. That didn't
help much. Legally you have a right to walk along any public road
in the United States. But if a vicious dog goes after you, you're not
going to stand on your legal rights. You're not going to stand at all.
You'll run. And if an Indian comes toward you brandishing a
machete, you're not going to say, "Look here, old man, my contract
permits me to dig up your property." What you'll do is get the hell
off his property. Which is just what we did. In fact we hopped so
many times from one plot of ground to another, we might have been
a couple of eas.

Our irst job was to study the ruins. These had been pretty well
pulled to pieces by treasure seekers, but there was still a majestic
pattern to what had once been a flourishing city. "I'll make a map,"
said Sam, "of the principal buildings. That, plus photographs,
should give a good idea of the layout."

So while I held one end of a long tape measure and Dillinger un-
willingly held the other end, Sam ran around with a surveying
instrument and jotted down angles and measurements. Dillinger
had a nasty habit of jerking his end of the tape whenever I took my
eye off him, which was apt to throw me off my feet and make the
measurements inaccurate. Each time this happened we would have
to start over again.

"Keep your eye on that bastard," shouted Sam, "or we'll be here
forever." But he exaggerated. We hadn't been there two days before
a couple of little brown men appeared out of nowhere and murmured
something which I took to be Zutugil for "Good day/*

"Good day to you," I said pleasantly.

"They say get off their land," stated Nicolas, barely suppressing
a grin.

"But why?" asked Sam. "We're doing no damage and, if necessary,
I'll pay them."

More grunts and mutters.

THROW ME A BONE III

"They say/ 7 Nicolas repeated, this time grinning widely, "Get
off their land and quick." We got.

"Ill have to make some sort of map from the photographs/' said
Sam sadly.

Digging had its problems too. All digs (where archaeologists are
involved) are scientific in purpose, but this was a superscientific one.
"What Frn interested in/ 7 said Sam, "is finding, first of all, objects
which can be identified as belonging to the centuries just before the
Spanish conquest. Then, under these. . . ."

"Sain/' I interrupted excitedly, "GOLD?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe. Or clay or obsidian or
bone. It doesn't really matter. As long as it is older material from
which I can reconstruct an earlier and entirely different culture.
It's depth Fm looking for," he continued enthusiastically. "Depth
will tell the story."

But "depth" wasn't easy to find. As a start, Sam decided to cut
a series of test trenches from the water to the summit of the hill and
then concentrate on the areas that promised the most important
results. It was slow work and at first the results were negligible. Not
that they were unexciting. After all, your reaction to what comes out
of the earth is comparative. If you've been finding gold and emeralds,
a turquoise bracelet seems like an anticlimax, but if for hours nothing
but roots or worms have turned up, even a coccyx can give you a
thrill.

The workmen didn't subscribe to this theory. "Blah blah blah/'
said Pretty Boy Floyd.

"What did he say, Nicolas?"

"That he thinks you're both crazy to waste your time and his."

"Blah blah blah/' said Two-gun Mahoney, kicking at the earth
with his bare toes.

"Nicolas?"

"He says he's sure those bones he's just found will bring you bad
luck."

"Tell him to leave THOSE BONES alone," shouted Sam.

Just then the landowner appeared, irately pointing to one sickly,

112 THROW ME A BONE

uprooted stalk of com ("my vegetable garden!" he protested), and
ordered us to move on. "Blah blah blah" and "ha ha ha" from all
the workmen this time. We didn't bother to ask Nicolas to translate.

We advanced one ridge. Here the ground was lying fallow (no
stalk of corn, no pod of pea) and it seemed safe to excavate. But
we had failed to take into consideration a nearby cave, formed by
a mass of volcanic boulders. It was no ordinary cave. When we
crawled into it we found, heaped in neat rows, some twenty odd
armadillo shells and a dozen or more skulls of sheep and goats.

"It's a sacrificial cave, a shrine," said Sam, "where the Indians
of today make offerings to their gods. We'd better get back to work
and leave it alone."

There was an ominous feeling in the air; the workmen seemed
more restless and even more insolent than usual. We returned to
our digging, but the damage was done.

"Don't look now," said Sam, "but there's AH Baba."

I couldn't resist looking. Ali Baba was a small and, at first glance,
unassuming Indian, sitting just beyond the cave, as if guarding it.
On his knees rested a machete which he was quietly sharpening.
Every few minutes he would look over at us, then continue his
sharpening. He never said a word. He didn't have to. We left.

Ridge by ridge we worked our way up the hill. Sometimes we
found nothing, sometimes bits of skeletons, pottery or stone. Fre-
quently we were ordered to move on. When this happened, the
workmen looked cheerful and joked together; otherwise they were
surly and bored. All in all, we managed to extract from the unwilling
earth one obsidian lance point, some squared stones, one stone ax-
blade, one stone chair, a piece of an incense burner, one globular
jar, the bones of three humans. Surely a discouraging lot of junk
(thought I) and hardly worth daily exposure to Dillinger & Co.

Dillinger himself was becoming constantly more menacing. He
had apparently singled me out as his particular victim, doubtless
because he realized I was frightened of him. Unfortunately he gave
me no outright cause for complaint. After all, you can't chastise
a man for leering at you when it may be his regular expression; or

THROW ME A BONE 11J

for spitting in your direction so expertly that he manages to miss
your big toe by one eighth of an inch. Nor, as we climbed toward
the top of Chuitinamit and stones and rabble came rolling down
my way, could I do more than continue to dodge them, for how
could it be proved that they were not dislodged accidentally?

If I could have spoken to Dillinger direct, without an interpreter,
I would have thrown myself on his mercy. "Dear Dillinger/' I would
have said, "my husband has the mistaken idea he wants to work here.
You and I, dear Dillinger, realize how silly this is. But if youll only
humor him and do us no bodily harm, 111 try to get him to leave as
soon as possible. 77

However when we reached the summit things looked brighter.
Here the ground was flat and less rocky, and the landowners, who as
usual seemed to spring up out of the earth like mushrooms, were
apparently willing (for a consideration) to let us dig. Endless pos-
sibilities stretched ahead.

Graves turned up right from the start so many and so varied
that Sam plunged enthusiastically into a study of the burial habits
of the Zutugil. There were adults buried in a sitting position with
their knees bent up against their chests. There were adults lying
stretched out in conventional fashion. There were children buried
under an inverted bowl. "Bones, bones, nothing but bones," I com-
plained ungratefully. Until we discovered a grave full of decapitated
skeletons. More bones, it is true, but these were intriguing and
puzzling. Like a detective story. 'The Case of the Headless Bodies/'
I called it

The grave was five feet by seven. At a depth of about two feet were
a mass of skeletons around which had been placed twenty-one pieces
of pottery, various stone objects and nearly a ton of rock to tamp
them down. In spite of the fact that the rock had played havoc with
the bones, Sam surveyed them carefully and pronounced them to
be the headless bodies of eight individuals and the bodiless head of
one, minus its jaw. "Curious/' was his only comment.

After frenzied digging, the missing parts turned up in a corner
of the grave, several feet lower down. Here, piled up like so many

THROW ME A BONE

eggs, were seven skulls and the missing jawbone. Sam fingered this
grisly ind with professional skill, like a doctor examining what was
left of the victims of a holocaust. "WeVe got an aged male and
female/' he announced, "two adult males, two adult females (one
of them with her jaw disarticulated), one young female, and one
young adolescent, sex uncertain. And all buried at the same time.
Probably related/*

"Just "one big happy family/ 7 I contributed. "Do you suppose
they murdered each other?"

Sam became wildly scientific, but his deductions unfortunately
were negative. "It might be human sacrifice/' he stated, "which was
quite common in those days. The usual method was to cut through
the abdominal cavity and tear out the heart which, with its blood,
would then be offered to the gods. When this was done the bodies
were sometimes decapitated first. But/' he admitted sadly, "if it
was sacrifice, the bodies would have been found close to an ancient
temple, and this site is almost half a mile away from the nearest
ceremonial center/' So that idea was disposed of.

"Maybe they had been punished as a group for some crime/' he
went on. "But no." Again he shook his head. "If it had been punish-
ment, they would have been shot with arrows or cracked over the
head with a stone, not decapitated. And they would have been
thrown into an unhonored grave. Instead of which all their posses-
sions were carefully buried with them/'

"Sam, you're telling me what didn't happen. I'm dying of curiosity
about what did, particularly how the lady lost her jaw/'

*T11 examine the grave again/' said Sam agreeably, "and see if
I can come across more evidence. Maybe when we take up the pots
and stone objects we'll find something significant underneath." But
we never had much chance to see what was underneath.

I wouldn't have believed that anything more in the way of obstruc-
tions could have come our way. We had had to fight the official
powers of Atitlan before we could start digging. We had undoubtedly
acquired the worst-mannered and most inept bunch of workmen
who had ever carried pick or shovel. We had been chased off more

THROW ME A BONE 115

land by more landowners than the population of Atitlan seemed
to warrant. Even the vegetables were leagued against us. An ear
of corn that was a fiedgling seed one day would spring into full iower
the next if it happened to be in groond we wished to explore. (This,
in fact, had happened so often that I suspected Dillinger & Co. of
earning around vegetable props to drop on promising archaeological
earth.) But there was one more disaster awaiting us. A snake!

We had gone to Chuitinamit as usual As we reached the summit
and prepared to walk the half mile further to our excavations, we
stopped a moment to admire the rains. Pretty Boy Floyd, who was
idly whacking at the ground with his machete, suddenly gave a cry.
Strange sounds emerged from his mouth, like a death rattle. Grab-
bing Nicolas, who was about to ran the other way, Sam and I rushed
to see what was wrong. And there, peering out from under a rock
while Pretty Boy cowered nearby, was a small but deadly fer-de-lance.

"Did it bite him?" Sam asked Nicolas, who shook his head. "Well,
kill it/ 7 said Sam, but no one volunteered, and he was finally forced
to kill it himself, while I stood on the sidelines and cheered him on.
When he was sure there were no further signs of life, he sighed with
relief and we looked around for the workmen. They had gone.

"The sissies," I exclaimed, "to be scared of a snake/ 7

"Fm afraid that's not all of it," said Sam. "To them the snake is
holy. It is the principal religions symbol throughout Central Amer-
ica and represents a god. And ? unfortunately, this particular snake
appeared at the foot of the main temple to defend it, they probably
argue. It is very unusual to find a snake this high up, and the Indians
are undoubtedly convinced that it is a sign we have no right to be
here. We'd better go home and hope they will be over it by tomor-
row/ 7

The next day not one workman not even Nicolas turned up.
They were sick, we were told, when we inquired at the town hall.
"All of them?" asked Sam. "All of them/' said Mayor No. i firmly.

"My headless bodies/ 7 I mourned. "My jawless head. Now Fll
never know/'

"Never mind/ 7 comforted Sam. "We'll finish them up alone.

Il6 THROW ME A BOXE

After all, there Is BO more heavy work to be done on that grave/*

But we had hardly taken the possessions of the family Headless
out of the ground before the landowner appeared, flanked by an
army of cohorts. His eyes glistened. He yelled. We didn't need
Nicolas to tell us that what he was yelling was the equivalent of
"scat/" "The word must have got round/' said Sam. "We might
as well give up and take our trophies home."

"Poor Sam/" I said sympathetically as we climbed down the Mil
"All this for nothing/'

"Nothing!" exclaimed Sam. He loolced ready to explode. "NOTH-
ING! Why, this has been an immensely important dig. I found just
what I wanted/'

"You mean those few old pots and stones?"

He gave me a pitying look. "It isn*t what I found. It's what it
means/'

"Of course/' I said quickly, realizing guiltily that Fd already for-
gotten the lesson taught me in Chile on what Really Matters. "And
what does it mean?"

"It means that I now have a good idea of the types of civilization
which existed here and how far back they go/ 7

"How did you dope that out? 7 ' I was genuinely impressed.

Sam warmed to my admiration. "I don't know if I can explain it
to you/* he said, explaining it to me. "What we found in the very
top graves was material from just before the Spanish conquest, for,
through historical records, we know that these cities were occupied
at the time the Spanish came. And what we found in the graves
underneath are obviously earlier cultures. As a matter of fact, you
can date the very bottom ones back nearly fifteen hundred years
before the Conquest/'

"How?"

"Remember the sherds we sorted? Remember the Usulutan
ware?"

I nodded. A sherd is the name given by the archaeologically ini-
tiated to bits or fragments of pottery. We had dug up thousands
at Chuitinamit, all colors and shapes, few of them fitting together.

THROW ME A BONE

Thus when Sam had ordered them stuffed into bags and transported
to our back yard, turning it into an ancient garbage dump, I was
surprised as well as unenthusiastic. "But why?" I'd asked. "I don't
believe any of these fit. I'll bet you don't get as much as one com-
plete pot out of them."

''That's not the point/ 7 Sam had said. "We are going to sort them
and count them.**

It had sounded like the dullest kind of game, but Fd played it
anyhow. We had made eight piles, according to color brown,
orange, red, black, cream ? chalk, black on red and a peculiar-looking
ware which Sam, for some reason unknown to me at the time, had
named Usulutan. Now, however, he was letting me in on the secret.

"Remember those Usulutan sherds?" he again asked. "I gave them
that name because they correspond exactly to pottery that comes
from the Department of Usulutan in Salvador. In fact it ? s the same
ware, and the pieces here, if not trade pieces, are at least of the same
age. What's more, it is the earliest painted pottery now known from
Central America."

"How do you know that?*" I asked, to slow him up.

"Because various archaeologists, including myself, have found
Usulutan ware in Salvador buried beneath early Maya remains.
And as the Maya remains were dated, we were able to give an ap-
proximate date to the graves under them/*

"And the graves here?"

"The earliest graves here, as I've explained, must be the same
period as the early graves in Salvador. And since the Salvador graves
can be dated back about fifteen hundred years before the Conquest,
so can these/* Having reached his climax, Sam relaxed triumphantly.

"That's terrific," I pronounced.

"Have I made it clear?" asked Sam, obviously pleased.

"Sam," I said weakly but proudly, "I've learned so much that
I've got archaeological indigestion. I feel just as if Fd swallowed a
Mava."

Cfiapter 12

DO WE GO?" I asked Sam.
"Go where?"

"Home. Or Afghanistan. Or the Fiji Islands. Even the South
Pole. Anywhere at all where there are no Indians/'

"When Holy Week Is over/" said Sam. "After all, It starts in a few
days, and we might as well stay and see what goes on."

"I've seen enough/' I stated. "The Indians have snarled at us, spit
at us, done everything but murder us. I might as well admit I'm
scared to death. The lock on our bedroom door gets weaker every
night"

"Nonsense/* said Sam. "This is one time you'll be perfectly safe.
The Indians will be much too busy to bother about us." Somehow
this didn't comfort me as much as it was supposed to. But we stayed.

Now that it's over and we managed to get out of Atitlan unharmed,
I'm glad we did stay. For whatever I may have felt about the Indians,
I couldn't help but be fascinated by their attitude toward religion.
It was so practical. I'm one of those people who doesn't believe in
much of anythiqgjintil I'm in a jam, when I go through a deplorable
performance of "Oh, God, please get me out of this mess. Just this
once, dear God, and I promise to be good in the future." But the
Guatemalan Indians go me at least seventeen better. They pray to
God and Jesus Christ and the Twelve Apostles and their ancient

119

120 THROW ME A BONE

gods and the feathered serpent and anything else they believe might
bring in results. What they're looking for is good luck and protec-
tion against the powers of evil, and any divinity who fills this need
is good enough for them. I suppose they argue that if one fails,
another may crash through.

During Holy Week in Atitlan there were no holds barred. Any
and every god, religious figure or symbol was cause for celebration.
For the Indians it was an occasion for genuine fun coated with holi-
ness; everything went on from religious ecstasy to drunken rough-
house. According to Pedro, the principal objects of worship were
Christ and the Maximon, although it seemed to me that the god
Bacchus had an edge on both of them.

We had heard a great deal about the Maximon, although no two
versions were the same. This fabulous being exists for only four days
a year, and no outsider knows just what he stands for, except that he
is presumably a special god or the essence of several gods. When we
asked Pedro about him he shrugged his shoulders. "I am a Chris-
tian," he rebuked us. "I do not go in for these pagan customs. How-
ever if you wish to see the Maximon, I will take you to the house of
Diego Ramirez, the witch doctor, on the Tuesday night before
Easter. There he will be made up/'

"Made up?"

"Put together. Dressed/' said Pedro.

"But what is it that is dressed?" asked Sam. "You can't just dress
the air."

"Nobody but the witch doctor and his special assistants know
what is the core of the Maximon. Some say it is a silver image. Some
say it is an image of wood. I myself have no idea. After all, he is not
exhibited until he is fully clothed." Pedro's tone was thick with
virtue. He sounded as shocked at the notion of the Maximon ap-
pearing on the scene sartorially deficient as I might have been at
encountering a friend emerging from the Metropolitan Opera House
in his underwear.

"Clothes or no clothes/' I told Sam, *Tm going to find out what
makes the Maximon tick."

THROW ME A BONE 121

So on Tuesday night before Easter, a foursome consisting of
Maria, Pedro, Sam and myself set out for Diego Ramirez's house,
Maria with a frying pan concealed under her sweater "in case
those drunks should molest you, Senora." But the drunks and even
the occasional sober individuals we encountered were much too en-
grossed in the creation of this year's Maximon to pay any attention
to us. The streets were seething with people. Everyone seemed to
be celebrating, including children and babes in arms. "Does this go
on all week?" I asked Pedro.

"More or less/* he answered. "There are processions almost every
day. Tomorrow, Wednesday, is devoted to the Maximon. Thursday
is a general celebration, on Friday will be the big ceremony when
Christ is taken down from the Cross, and on Saturday and on Easter
Sunday there are more religious ceremonies and more processions.
What you will want to see/' he continued, "is the Good Friday
procession which is a very special one."

"What we want to see/' I said, "is everything" 9 and, disregarding
Pedro's shocked expression, "especially if it has to do with the
Maximon."

Crowds filled the street in front of Ramirez's small house, and
though with the help of Pedro and Maria we managed to push our
way to the door, we were allowed no further. Pedro kept a firm hand
under my elbow. "Don't think of trying to go in, Senora," he ad-
monished. "That might mean real danger."

"But I want to see his innards/' I said bravely, feeling like the
heroine of an adventure story.

"Youll be satisfied to see his outards/' retorted Sam, "and don't
try any tricks/"

We had waited over an hour when finally the door was thrown
open and the Maximon exposed to the public gaze. Lines formed,
as in a wedding reception, and we were allowed slowly to file by IT.
I don't know just what I had expected to see. A male angel, possibly,
with wings folded back. Or a martyr with benign if suffering expres-
sion. Maybe a prophet, the wisdom of ages upon his face. At the
very least some mysterious godlike being, robed in velvet, crowned

122 THROW ME A BONE

with jewels. But what faced us, propped up against a comer of the
house, was a scarecrow, a misshapen bundle, clothed in the customary
short pants, shirt and coat of the Atitlan Indian. Two thin sticks
represented his legs, to which a pair of shiny new shoes had been
attached. His face was a leering wooden mask painted in bright
colors and crowned by three felt hats, from which hung a number
of varicolored handkerchiefs. And stuck jauntily between the
painted lips was an enormous cigar!

Maria quickly crossed herself. Sam and I were much too startled
to move, until the pressure back of us forced us on. "Does he
always look like this?" I asked Pedro when we finally found our-
selves in the fresh air.

"Why, yes/' said Pedro. "His mask and costume are invariably
of this type, although they are entirely new each year. After Holy
Week his clothes are stored away in chests and never used again/*

"But how can he afford such extravagance?"

"Gifts/' said Pedro simply. "All gifts. Different individuals present
him with suits and shoes and hats, and the best of these are picked
out for his yearly appearance?'

The Maximon was spending the night in the same house where
he had been created, so we unwillingly left him to the awed admira-
tion of the multitude and went home. Early the next morning we
returned, just in time to see two Indians, distinctly unsteady in spite
of the hour, bearing our friend high upon their shoulders, while a
parade of frenzied worshippers brought up the rear. Then into the
town hall, while Sam, Pedro and I followed close behind. Inside,
though, it appeared that something had gone wrong. The man who
seemed to be in charge of Maximon activities began to yell at a
little brown replica of Caspar Milquetoast, while everyone else stood
around helplessly and muttered. "What has happened?" we asked
Pedro.

"The mat has been forgotten. The mat on which the Maximon
is to be laid."

This oversight turned out to be the fault of Caspar Milquetoast
who was supposed to be Mat Man, and he promptly burst into

THROW ME A BONE 123

tears, then ran into the street as If the devil himself were pursuing
him. Meanwhile the two bearers kept balancing their burden as
well as possible, but the alcohol they had consumed made the task
difficult, and each time they staggered the Maximon's three hats
would drop off onto the dusty loor and the cigar would fall out of
his mouth.

Head Man was yelling at everybody now that Mat Man was no
longer there to take the blame, and I was beginning to be afraid that
the entire performance was going to end in a riot, when suddenly
Caspar returned, a large straw mat clasped to his bosom. There was
an awed hush. The mat was deposited on the loor, and with ex-
quisite care the Maximon laid on top of it.

Several hours later, after the Maximon had had his siesta, he was
carried to the church in the plaza, in front of which a pole, adorned
with massive branches of green leaves, had been sunk into the
ground. The Maximon was lashed by a cord to this artificial tree and
there he remained, leering genially at his humble subjects and at -
anyone else who paid him heed.

"And that's all that happens?" I asked Pedro, disappointed.

"Just about. Until Friday afternoon, when he is taken back to
Ramirez's house and dismantled/' The relief in Pedro's voice was
overwhelming.

Pedro had actually been having a miserable time. He was more
than willing to act as our guide, but he obviously disapproved of the
pagan ceremonies and ignorant beliefs of his fellow townsmen and
he was embarrassed to have us witness them. Each time we asked
a question about the Maximon, he flinched visibly. "But Good
Friday," he beamed, "is a wonderful sight. There will be a ceremony
in the church and a procession to commemorate the crucifixion of
Christ and the descent from the Cross. You will be very interested."

"It sounds thoroughly conventional," I complained to Sam. "We
didn't have to come all the way to Atitlan to attend Good Friday
services. We could have seen the same thing right at home." But
I was never more wrong.

On Good Friday the population of Atitlan seemed to have

124 THROW ME A BONE

doubled. The crowds In the plaza were so dense that we were unable
to get through to the newly erected platform from which Mayor
No. i was to read the death sentence upon the Image of Christ.
But In the af ternoon, long before the ceremony of the descent from
the Cross was to take place, we managed to squeeze into the nave
of the church where the image of Christ, now nailed to the Cross,
had been set up.

In spite of the early hour, every Inch of space was filled. The
Indians were like no churchgoers I had ever seen. Everything but
smoking seemed to be permitted. Many of the men carried bottles
of ram which they passed around freely, both men and women spat
at will, dogs ran in and out, and two little boys sat on the floor
playing a game with dice that had a strange resemblance to "craps/*
At a few minutes before three, however, there was a sudden hush
and four men with blond curly wigs and beards, dressed In white
ceremonial robes, approached the Cross. They looked like sun-
burned unshaven Harpo Marxes.

Pedro leaned toward us. "The Judases," he whispered.

"Four of them?" I whispered back. 'That's too much of a bad
thing/ 7

"In Atitlan they worship Judas. Judas Is supposed to be holy, so
they honor him by representing him four times/' Pedro looked
thoroughly unhappy as he tried to explain.

"Never mind," I started to console him, when my attention
was distracted by Judas No. 3, who seemed faintly familiar. "Sam!"
I clutched his arm. "Could it be possible? Number three! Look!
If g Pretty Bay Floyd!"

We craned our necks. There was no doubt about it. Pretty Boy
Floyd it was, though if he recognized us he gave no sign.

The ceremony was about to begin. A spirit of reverence filled
the church. Even Pretty Boy looked exalted. Under the Cross, tall
silver candelabra and a silver crucifix were held high while countless
men and women knelt, some of them with candles, some with in-
cense burners. Judases i and 2 slowly ascended the Cross by means
of ladders and removed the nails and crown of thorns. They untied

THROW ME A BONE 12CJ

Christ's bonds and carefully, reverently, lowered him into the out-
stretched hands of Jodases 3 and 4. With equal care the four Judases
placed Christ in a catafalque which was wailing nearby, covering
him first with a ceremonial shawl, then with a piece of modem cloth.
And the procession was ready to take off.

Now that the tension was over, the bottles reappeared. Pedro,
Sam and I pushed our way through the throng of thirsty celebrants
and found a place outside the church, past which, said Pedro, the
procession would file. "If you wish, we can join it later/' he sug-
gested, "but first you will be able to see what goes on."

The procession was headed by two men playing fife and dram.
Back of them, at intervals of about five feet, came the silver candela-
bra and crucifix and a crucifix of wood. Twelve small children,
dressed in their Sunday best, followed, crowns of gaily colored
paper on their heads. Back and forth they scampered, shrieking with
delight. "A costume party?" I queried.

"They represent the Twelve Apostles/' Pedro stated in utter
seriousness.

"Hush/' said Sam. "Here comes the catafalque/'

The catafalque was a truly impressive sight Borne on six silver
standards beneath a canopy of silk, the sacred bier passed by, sur-
rounded by women bearing candles and incense. So numerous were
the women and so thick the incense that the rest of the procession
was obscured. "What comes next?" I asked Pedro.

His expression was enough. He didn't have to answer. Thus it
was with no surprise that we saw, directly back of the image of
Christ, high above the heads of the crowd and wobbling perilously
with each unsteady step of his bearers the Maximon!

Now came the rest of the townspeople, yelling and pushing, al-
most dancing along. Every few minutes a man would drop out of
line, tilt up a bottle and take a drink, then rejoin the procession.
"Let's go with them," I cried, and the three of us, holding hands,
shoved our way in. "Where are we headed for?" I yelled at Pedro
above the noise.

126 THROW ME A BONE

"Through town and to the church again/' he yelled back. "The
Maximon drops off when we pass Ramirez's house, but the rest of
us go on."

By this time the mob was so large and so unruly that it was
difficult to stick together, "If we lose each other/* shouted Sam,
"IT1 meet you back at the house as soon as the procession is over."

"Right/" I said and let myself be pushed about at will. So that
when we approached the spot where the Maxiinon and about thirty
of his attendants dropped out, it was easy to drop out with them.
Neither Sam nor Pedro were anywhere to be seen.

Here at last was my chance to see the Maximon without his
clothes. The Indians, I decided, were much too drunk to notice
anything. Unfortunately I was wrong. As we neared Ramirez's
house I found myself close to the royal scarecrow, who was about
to be carried into his home. One of the bearers turned to back
through the door and looked straight at me. He opened his mouth.
I had just time to touch the bosom, the abdomen of the Maximon,
to try to feel what was concealed in his wrappings, before the out-
raged yells began. I don't believe I ever ran so fast in my life.

"Where have you been?" asked Sam as I staggered, breathless,
into our yard. He looked white.

"The Maximon!" I gasped. "I felt him. Of course I can't be sure,
but Fve a hunch I know what he's made of. Remember your boot
tree that was stolen last month?"

"I think," said Sam, "it's time we left Atitlan!"

Cfiapfer 13

71 S SOON AS It was agreed we were to go home, I was all for
2\ throwing my two pairs of pants, four blouses and one dress into
a bag and taking the next launch. But "not so fast/' said Sam. "We
still have to pack up some of the material from Chuitinamit. And
Pepita has not quite finished the blouse she is weaving for my col-
lection. And Antonio's hand still needs attention." I gave in with-
out a protest, for archaeologists are not inclined to be creatures of
impulse. After all, when you take up a profession that depends on
a tape measure, abandon is apt to fly out the window.

Through Antonio, Sam had been started on a new career. Antonio
was one of the Atitlan constabulary who hung around the town
hall. We had seen him frequently on our periodic visits of complaint
to the Mayor, but as he, too, had been infected with the anti-Lothrop
vims, he had never waxed more cordial than a mild glower. Until
one night in Holy Week. During a religious ceremony in the plaza,
at which Antonio had been officially delegated to set off some fire-
works in order, we were told, to call God's attention to what was
going on down below a rocket exploded in his hand, taking most
of his thumb with it. Sam immediately offered to disinfect the
hand and bandage it. "The witch doctor is good enough for me/*
Antonio had muttered ungraciously, and off he went, a filthy
handkerchief wrapped around the wound.

Late that night there was a knock at our door. The handle began

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THROW ME A BONE 12g

to rattle. "Here It comes again/' I began to shake. "And you were
sure we'd be left alone during Holy Week"

"Sssh," said Sam, In a conspiratorial whisper. "Maybe if we keep
quiet they'll go away/*

But though we ignored them, the knocks continued. Finally a
small voice quavered, "Senor, please. It is I, Antonio/"

It seems there were no witch doctors available. They were either
out celebrating or taking a vacation or too drunk to minister to the
sicL It w r as clearly the wrong night to have an accident. So Antonio
had gone home, his hand wrapped in the same dirty handkerchief,
until the pain had become so acute that he had been forced to
swallow his dislike for "those foreigners" and come to beg our help.
Sam quickly produced his first aid kit, and with me as squeamish
assistant, he cleaned and bandaged what was left of Antonio's
thumb. "Come back tomorrow and let me look at it again/' said
Lothrop, M.D.

"Tomorrow night?" inquired Antonio hopefully.

"Better let me see it in the morning/* said Sam. "It might be
infected/'

Antonio looked thoroughly unhappy. I thought for a moment
he was going to cry. "Senor," he pleaded, "please may I come after
dark?"

It was natural, I suppose, for Antonio to want to keep his visits
secret. He was a public official and he couldn't afford to be seen
trafficking with the enemy. Each night, then, until the hand healed,
he slunk furtively in and out of our yard. But somehow the news
leaked out. One morning, several days after Antonio's accident, an
Indian woman appeared, dragging along a little boy with a stomach
so swollen it looked like a blimp. Cristina translated her excited
outpourings, "She says you must do something about her little Jose
whose stomach gets bigger every day. She says he must have some-
thing bad growing in him. She says she has tried not giving him
anything to eat, but it gets bigger anyhow."

"Good heavens!" I was horrified. "What do you suppose Is
wrong?"

130 THROW ME A BONE

<r Worms," said Sam simply. "Lots of the children have them.
Fll give him some Eno's Fruit Salts. That can't hurt" So little Jose
got his dose of salts, and Cristina was instructed to tell Mama to
feed him or God would come down from above and punish her.

The Enos and the advice were undoubtedly a success, for a few
days later three more children with inflated stomachs were brought
in for treatment. And then it started. We got up one morning to
find a group of would-be patients filling the yard. Sam was asked
to minister to stomach-aches, hiccups, morning sickness. His prac-
tice was to include a boy with a hare lip, a blind man, a mentally
deficient girl and, finally, a husband who found himself impotent.

"Now you're in for it," I declared, laughing at Sam's expression
of utter dismay. "If you can cure impotency with salts, youll make
history. Whaf s more, we're almost out of Enos. What are you
going to do?"

"Go home," said Sam, with no hesitation at all.

After Cristina had announced that the "doctor" was temporarily
out of medicines and could do no curing until further notice, the
crowd of patients dispersed, albeit unwillingly. They were obviously
displeased. And that night was the worst night of all. We were
hardly in bed before the familiar noises, discontinued during Holy
Week, started once more. Now, though, there was nothing furtive
about our visitors; their footsteps were assured, their behavior un-
restrained. Angry mutters could be heard, the doorknob was twisted
back and forth until I was sure it would drop off. "Sam, they've
never been this bad." My voice was no longer a voice, it was a tremolo.

"It's because of your skirmish with the Maximon."

"It's because you didn't try to stop old Whoosis's hiccups."

"Whatever it is, I'll send a wire for the launch," said Sam, "and
well leave tomorrow afternoon."

There was a series of violent blows. The door looked as if it were
beginning to give. I grabbed Sam. "There must be dozens of them,"
I wailed. "Oh, please don't let them get me."

Sam got up and lit the gasoline lamp. One chair was already
wedged under the doorknob, and he carried over the other- : fwo

THROW ME A BONE 131

chairs and the table to bolster It. Next his cot, then mine. This
disposed of the furniture, but Sam grabbed the camera tripod and,
flourishing it like a baseball bat, took tip his position as near the door
as the barricade allowed. "Let them try to get you," he said.

"My hero!' ' I began to laugh, although the laughter was slightly
hysterical "If only I could take your photograph. In case we ever
get home alive to show it"

Outside there was a very loud crash and a sound of things breaking.
This was followed by additional noises and a shriek. Then running
feet "That will teach you, you Atitlan scum," shouted Maria.

Sam removed the obstructions and unlocked the door. Carefully
we crept into the yard. There stood Maria, candle in hand, sur-
veying the smashed bits of what had once been four large clay water
containers. The ground between kitchen and gate was littered with
cooking pots, frying pans, a broom. Maria picked up the nearest
frying pan and fondled it "I got one of them/' she said. "In the ear,
I think"

"We leave tomorrow;' Sam repeated. "DEFINITELY!"

It was a lovely sunny day. We finished our packing, paid off
Cristina and Jesus and bade a fond farewell to our only friends, the
Mendozas. At two o'clock Sam, Maria and I climbed into Francisco's
kunch. I took one kst look at Atitlan. It was as beautiful as ever
and I looked at it without regret A group of Indian men and women
stood around the dock and watched us, silently. They appeared sweet
and gentle and simple, and I looked at them without regret As the
boat backed into the lake we relaxed comfortably. Sam took my
hand. "No more Indians," he exulted. "For a long time, I hope."

"Oh Sam," I shouted, above the noise of the launch, "I wish I
knew the Zutugil for 'goody/ "

Part III

Chapter 14

MOST people's Ideas of archaeology. If they have any, are
romantic and farfetched. Like mine used to be. To the
uninitiated, archaeology means digging a hole and pulling out gold
and precious stones. This is about as unlikely an event as for a high
school girl to visit Hollywood and be invited to dance by Clark
Gable. Sam warned me from the start. ""You have got to get over
the notion/ 7 he insisted, "that all an archaeologist has to do is sink
a pit Into the ground and, presto, out pop gold and emeralds. It
just doesn't happen that way." But that was just the way It did
happen.

Panama was the kind of experience Fve always dreamed about.
It was the kind of experience Sam might have dreamed about too.
A good archaeologist is chiefly concerned in making a discovery of
scientific value, and if at the same time that discovery happens to
be something hitherto unknown, he will do handsprings. An amateur
like myself, on the other hand, goes for loot. In Panama we found
both rolled into one. We didn't even have to hunt for the place; it
was sitting there, just waiting to be plucked. And all as a result of
pure accident.

In the early part of the i goo's, the Rio Grande de Code in Panama
changed Its course, probably due to log jams during the flood season.
The new channel was some distance from the old one, and the

THROW ME A BONE

river, in digging it out, chanced to cut through the edge of an
ancient Indian graveyard. This act of God went unnoticed until
many years later, when a group of natives, poling their way upstream
in a canoe, spotted something shiny sticking out of the riverbank.
They went right for it, of course, and when they saw several objects
that looked like gold, they frenziedly dug them out with their hands,
throwing hunks of earth, pottery and bone into the water in their
rush. I -don't suppose they had the slightest notion of the value of
their find or why it was there, but those glittering pieces probably
looked good for at least a few drinks at the nearest bar. Actually,
the bartender, who must have recognized a good thing when he saw
one, was more generous than the men had hoped, and the local
firewater which he gave them in exchange kept them unconscious
and happy for weeks.

The gold ornaments eventually reached the antique stores in
Panama City. Here they were bought for Harvard University, which,
after checking on the story back of the treasure, decided to organize
an expedition to explore the site. Sam Lothrop was put in charge
of the work, and with wife as self-appointed assistant, got ready to
set out for Panama.

I had never before taken part in an archaeological expedition
where one lives in the wilds and where everything has to be planned
ahead. Chile had been full of archaeology, but the work there had
been more of a survey, the excavations on a small scale and close to
the towns in which we stayed. In Guatemala, too, the excavations
had been small ones, and we had been able to live within commuting
distance of our dig. Now, though, we were to have technical help
and all the workmen we could use, as well as a camp built to order.
Gone were the days of inferior hotels, hostile neighbors and general
filth. How we made out now was going to be pretty mfuch up to us.

As soon as Sam broke the news of our impending trip, I went to
Abercrombie & Fitch to buy the proper outfit. The salesman was both
Interested and sympathetic, and by the time I was through he had
turned me out the perfect Broadway explorer. He sold me two pairs
of jodhpurs, three pairs of gabardine shorts in case the jodhpurs

138 THROW ME A BONE

proved too hot to work in six polo shirts, one pair of heavy leather
shoes (snake-resistant, he told me), a pair of rubber boots plus a
mackintosh to keep me dry ("in case of rain, Miss"), and a topee
to protect iny head from the sun. We agreed I was now prepared for
almost anything.

Unfortunately the purchases arrived when I wasn't home, and
Sam opened them. "There's some mistake/ 7 he said when I came
in. He looked genuinely puzzled. "Well have to call Abercrombie
& Fitch and tell them to send for these things/'

"It's my camping outfit," I stated bravely, in spite of a sinking
feeling. "The man at Abercrombie's picked it out."

"Oh, the man at Abercrombie's. How nice of him to plan our
trip for us." Sam dumped the contents of the big box on the floor
and examined them carefully. First he picked up the jodhpurs. "You
might tell the man at Abercrombie's," said he, "that you're not going
on a riding trip. When you do occasionally get on a horse, it won't
be necessary to look smart and you can wear the same duck pants
you'll use when digging. Any old ones as long as they'll wash." He
hurled the jodhpurs back into the box.

Next the shorts. "These," he said, "you can wear if you want to
go in for Spectator Sports. But if you expect to help with the digging,
you'd better plan on something that will keep your legs from getting
covered with dirt." They, too, went back into the box.

The heavy leather shoes brought forth an angry mutter that
sounded like "d'ya want to smother in the heat?" Then the rubber
boots and mackintosh. "You might tell your friend at Aber-
crombie's" Sam was now going strong "that the rainy season
only lasts from May to December and we don't dig then. As for the
topee" he handled it with distaste "maybe the man at Aber-
crombie's likes to picture you as a female Dr. Livingstone, but in
Panama you don't wear such things."

I began to cry. "How should I know. . . /'

"It's all right, darling," said Sam contritely, "You can keep the
polo shirts."

THROW ME A BONE 139

My eventual wardrobe consisted of three pairs of men's dock pants
which could be rolled up above the knees when I wasn't working,
two pairs of old sneakers, some old tennis socks, an ancient straw
hat, a sweater, in case it got cold at night, and the polo shirts.

Our camp equipment was equally prosaic. As Panama is known
to have excellent stores, we could count on buying camp beds, cook-
ing utensils, lanterns, and other necessities down there. The only
New York touch, therefore, consisted of three canvas water bags,
specially made to hang from a tree or pole, which would keep drink-
ing water clean and ? when the outside of the bag was soaked, cool.

Of course we had a full set of excavating implements fine steel
knives and small trowels and paintbrushes and whisk brooms. Some
of these were new, but most of them had survived previous expedi-
tions. Sam, as every other archaeologist, has his own special taste
in what he uses to dig with, and I'm sure he'd be less upset at having
to carve a roast beef with a butter knife than to End himself working
on ancient remains without his own tried and true paraphernalia.
So the few knives and brushes that he now grudgingly bought were
set aside for me to break in.

We had just three weeks in which to get ready, and I was in a
constant state of excitement. Sam had brought photographs from
the Museum of some of the specimens which had been acquired
from Code the district in Panama which contained the site where
we were to work and we pored over them nightly. I tasted triumph
before we even started. After all, the small digs I'd known had been
pretty much of a gamble, but this was almost as good as putting
your money down on Number 26, let's say, after the ball had already
begun to roll into that groove. We knew more or less where the
Museum's collection had been found, so why wouldn't there be
more where that came from?

Sam was excited, too, although not exactly for the same reason.
It seems that the pieces acquired by the Museum were entirely dif-
ferent from anything. seen before. All that was needed to complete
the story was to get more of them and to find out how they were

140 THROW ME A BONE

buried and why. "Look/' Sam exclaimed, pointing to a little curlicue
on one of the photographed objects. "Isn't that interesting? Fve
never seen anything just like it."

"It is interesting/' I answered grudgingly, "but this gold ornament
is really wonderful."

"Look at the rim of that bowl/' he fairly rhapsodized, handing
me a picture of something that looked like an old cooking pot,
"What an unusual angle it has."

"Yes, indeed/' I said, putting the picture aside. I picked up a
photograph of a gold pendant "Now this . . . /' I began.

"Who cares about the gold?" cried Sam, "when you've got a
unique culture here. Unique!"

I cared about the gold, but I didn't think he expected an answer
to his question.

We sailed from New York just before Christmas, rather unex-
pectedly accompanied by a friend and volunteer assistant whom,
for want of a better name, I shall call Andy. Andy was a playboy.
He knew nothing about archaeology and cared less, but he wanted
to get away from the pitfalls of New York which to him meant
the Stork Club, El Morocco and a complicated love affair and he
thought that a hunt for Indian treasure was just his dish.

On board we used to congregate in Andy's cabin because there
was so much room. Having left in a hurry, he had brought with him
nothing but the clothes he wore, six pairs of pyjamas, a shotgun for
shooting duck, four bottles of Old Parr whisky, a traveling victrola
and a bunch of records, among them three different versions of
"Night and Day."

"Night and Day" used to be my favorite song. It isn't any more.
The first day at sea, however, I was perfectly willing to sit and
listen while Andy played it over and over. It seems that this was
their song. Andy was feeling virtuous but sorry for himself. I tried
to cheer him up by pointing out how wise he had been to come away
and how much better off he would be returning to New York with
a. fresh point of view. It was foolish for him to brood, for, as I re-

THROW ME A BONE

minded him, you can't have your cake eat it too. One more
round of "Night and Day" (and Old Parr) and he agreed.

Looking back on our conversation, I think Andy most have been
putting on a very good act. He has since protested that this isn't
so, but somehow his surprise did not seem very convincing when,
later that day, we came upon the "complicated love affair" on the
sun deck. It seems she had boarded the boat just before sailing time.

The "complicated love affair" was undeniably effective. She was
extremely well built, with perfectly straight blue-black hair, dark-
blue eyes, shaded by incredibly long lashes, and a transparently-
white skin. Her clothes were spectacular, and she must have changed
them at least five times a day. To see that they were taken care of,
she had brought along Mattie, a wonderful colored maid, whose
only fault was a predilection for straight gin.

Somehow I had never seen anyone less fitted for camp life. It
was sacrilege to think of her beautiful body reposing on an army cot
Her soft white hands would obviously be useless in excavating
Indian graves, and I was certain that the only skeletons she knew
anything about were the kind you keep in a closet. So, at Sam's
suggestion, I gave her a serious talk about what the tropical sun
would do to her complexion and I described in detail the kind of
life one leads in the jungle. As a result, swathed in silver foxes and
accompanied by a somewhat unsteady Mattie, she disembarked
in Havana. In fact my picture of jungle life was so graphic (though
pure invention) that we almost lost Andy too; and I wouldn't have
blamed him, for if Fd believed all I was saying, nothing would have
kept me from getting off at Cuba myself.

When we reached Panama Sam made plans to leave for our
future camp in order to arrange for the cutting down of the tropical
growth and the construction of the shacks in which we were to live.
And to round up workmen for the dig. "Ill come back for you and
Andy in about a week," he told me. "Meanwhile you might order
food supplies and engage a cook/'

"But I haven't the slightest idea what food to order for an

142 THROW ME A BONE

archaeological camp/* I protested. "Or what sort of cook to get I
haven't the slightest idea. . . /*

"You're a woman/' stated Sam somewhat obviously.

"And what if I am? Fve never had any training in how to be a
jungle housewife. Anyhow, I'd much rather go along with you."

"Good-by," said Sam.

"Please/' I begged hopefully. "Remember the mistakes I made
at Abercrombie's."

But Sam seemed to have supreme confidence in me or maybe he
was in a hurry to leave. "Do your best/' he said vaguely, patting
the Little Woman on the backside. "Just make sure the cook is good
and the food -what -we need!' And left it at that.

I wouldn't have had to worry about -which cook to engage. After
four days of intensive search only one turned up who would even
consider accompanying us. No servant, I was told, wants to leave the
city and work in the wilds unless he has a criminal record or is a little
crazy. I finally found a huge Negro, however, with the aristocratic
name of Van van Battenberg, who was not only willing but pleased
at the idea of cooking for us. He seemed perfectly sane; nor could
I find any record of criminal activities. In fact the only thing against
him was that he had never cooked before, and he made a point of
our not discovering this until he could no longer conceal it which
was the first meal he prepared at camp.

Collecting food supplies was easier than I'd expected. I've always
loved groceries and get the same pleasure browsing around among
cans and jars as I do among books. So I picked the largest store I
could find, and Andy went with me. We spent hours poking into
obscure corners and pulling out discoveries to add to The Pile. First,
though, I ordered all the tinned soups, vegetables and fruits I
could think of. Andy said, "How about some queen olives?"

"Of course/' I agreed. (After all, wasn't the Museum paying for
them?) Then I picked out such condiments as Worcestershire sauce,
catsup and Tabasco, so that in case I'd chosen the wrong canned
goods we could alter the taste.

THROW ME A BONE 143

Andy cried, "Eleanor, I've found some special cocktail crackers
and one little tin of de foie from Strasbourg.**

"Wonderful," I said.

Between us we managed to unearth some green turtle soup ? one
tin of hearts of palm, two tins of jumbo crab meat and, finally, a
perfectly beautiful tin of truffles, I had a sneaking suspicion Sam
might not entirely approve our choice, but I quickly pushed the
thought aside. After all, he might have been more explicit.

As we were leaving, Andy exclaimed, "Good heavens, we've for-
gotten soda water and pickled onions for the martinis/' and he
rushed back into the store. 1 didn't try to stop him. He was getting
such pleasure in outfitting a potential barroom that I didn't have the
heart to break the news there would be no ice. Or maybe I was afraid
he might still back out.

15

1HVERYTHING is set," announced Sam, when he got back
JLi from the country, "except the living quarters. And they'll be
finished in another week"

"Are yon sure?" I asked. "Because I don't think it would be proper
for Andy, you and me to share a grassy couch."
' "There's no grass left/ 7 said Sam, being literal "And the houses
are bound to be finished. What held us up was the lumber, and it was
all there when I left"

So a week later we left for the interior. Camp was some hundred
miles from the Canal Zone and took about six hours, nonstop, to
reach. It was called "Sitio Conte," after the family who owned the
property, but we referred to it (when the Contes weren't around)
as "Snakehaven/* The first ninety miles could be traveled by car,
after which the road went on in the wrong direction and horses were
necessary.

Sam, Andy and I started off early one morning in a hired vehicle
that had once been a Packard, vintage of 1918. "Gallant Fox/' I
said, for it had all the instincts of a race horse, if not the performance.
Whizzing along at twenty-five miles an hour, cutting corners, we
galloped from one side of the road to the other, while Herman, the
colored jockey, or driver, crouched forward with his arms around
the wheel, frenziadly urging on his steed,

145

lj.6 THROW ME A BONE

Loving care had evidently been expended on Gallant Fox's insides,
but the years had taken their toll of the body which housed them.
Springs, sides and top had disappeared, and we bounced up and
down and held on desperately so as not to be blown right out onto
the road. "Fine for seeing the country/' I said with false enthusiasm.
But there was nothing to see. Mile after mile of parched brown plains
unrolled on either side, dotted with low and flat-topped hills. I felt
cheated. "What kind of tropics are these?" I asked bitterly. "Not
one palm tree. Not one cactus bush. Not even anything green!"

"Cheer up," said Sam. "It gets greener beyond Penonome, where
the road turns toward the Pacific." But after we'd bounced into
Penonome, a town two hours from the Sitio Conte and our last
link with civilization, we decided to give our shaken insides a rest.
The palm trees could wait.

Penonome is the capital of Code and the largest town in this
district, boasting a population of over ten thousand. Because the
Pan-American Highway cuts through its center, the main street is
paved and wide, in sharp contrast to the dusty and stony side lanes
which flank it. But except for its central avenue, Penonome is just
like every other small town in the interior of Panama,

There is the plaza in front of the main church. There are rows
upon rows of one-storied wooden houses with tin roofs, backing on
straggly and haphazardly planted gardens. There is a wooden amphi-
theatre, enclosing a ring for the cockfights which take place every
Sunday. There are stores liquor, drug and general which, between
them, minister to every simple need. The drugstores sell nothing
but drugs the sale of Eno's Fruit Salts and aspirin alone would keep
them solvent the liquor stores sport bars where individual drinks
are dispensed, and the general stores manage to include almost every-
thing else. Except for fresh food, and the market takes care of that

In Penonome, we were informed, the market was a large one and
served not only the town but the surrounding countryside. Fve al-
ways loved Latin American markets (except for the fleas) . They are
a short cut to knowing a country what the natives wear, sell, how
they act and I insisted on visiting this one, although Sam and Andy

THROW ME A BONE 147

protested bitterly at being dragged away from their cold beer. I
mumbled something about seeing the picturesque and quaint natives
and how I hated to go alone because you always get stared at for
being so different. So we went,

The market was in a large square and consisted of a series of booths
in front of which lines of people were gathered to examine the w r ares
for sale. Sanitary inspectors were posted at intervals to see that the
food was kept clean and properly protected by screens. There were
no fleas.

The natives, except for their color which ranged from pale yellow
to dark brown, looked more or less as we did. The men wore white
duck pants, polo shirts and large straw hats. The women wore
cotton dresses made of material that had undoubtedly first seen light
of day in the States.

Except that the market was out-of-doors, we might have been in
Dubuque, Iowa. Or in Peoria, Illinois. Or, on a larger scale, in
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. "How picturesque" said Andy. "How
quaint" said Sam. "How different" they both said. I didn't stoop
to an answer, but as we returned to our beers I thought sourly that
the U.S. might have stayed on its own home grounds.

Next on the program was a courtesy caE on our landlords, the
Conte family, who not only lived In Penonorne but were virtual
rulers of the town. Their fame had even spread to Panama City,
and Fd been regaled with so many strange tales about them that in
my mind they had become a kind of case history, and when I finally
met them it was just like meeting up with the Kallikaks or the Jukes.

The Conte setup was something you rarely find outside Latin
countries. There was Miguel, the oldest. Next in line came brother
Hector, then brother Chalado, two maiden sisters, and a son, Miguel,
Jr. There was also a son named Jesus who flitted in and out of the
picture. Jesus was illegitimate and he was coal black in color, but
neither of these facts seemed to embarrass the Contes, and when he
was around he was an integral part of the family group that centered
on Miguel

THROW ME A BONE

For Miguel was the head, the patriarch the whole works, In
fact and his relatives only existed to give him service. He had made
a fortune in the cattle business and his property comprised thousands
of acres, as well as thousands of heads of cattle. In addition, he
owned a large general store which supplied Penonome and where
we, for reasons of diplomacy if not necessity, bought most of our
groceries.

When we first knew Miguel he was almost eighty and already a
legendary character. He had been the last Colombian governor of
the province of Code before the revolution that separated Panama
from Colombia, and when Panama became a republic he had gone
right on being governor. He'd been so smart politically that he'd
never missed backing a winner in the presidential elections, and his
prosperity had increased with each succeeding administration.

According to local gossip, Miguel had been the most virile man
in the district and had taken any girl he wished. His children were
reputed to number hundreds, although Miguel, Jr., known as
"Cholo," was the only legitimate one. No mention was ever made of
Cholo's mother, and we took for granted that she had given up the
unequal struggle many years before.

Miguel no longer went out. Shortly before we came to Panama
he had made up his mind to die, and after making his peace with
God and resigning himself to a life of celibacy, he simply retired to
bed. Here, waited on by his sisters, who even chewed his food for
him when his badly fitting teeth became too uncomfortable, he
received occasional visitors. He would announce periodically that he
was dying, but that did not prevent him from running his business
from his self-styled deathbed. And seven years later, when we re-
turned to Panama, he was slightly more shrunken but still going
strong.

Miguel lived in a large old-fashioned house that fronted the
main street, distinguished by its size rather than its beauty. Although
I later became quite familiar with the layout I never could make
out just what the architect had had in mind. Where most people
have one drawing room, Miguel had two. He also had two living

THROW ME A BOXE 149

rooms, two and, for all I know, two kitchens. The only thing

not In duplicate was the bathroom. This was at the extreme end of
the house and always seemed a good half-mile walk from the spot
you were in when yon asked for it Bathtub and washstand were in
one little room, and the toilet, which had REAL PLUMBING that
was brought into play by a chain haw enough to pull up a draw-
bridge, was contained in a separate cubicle near the kitchen. This
functional separation is common to most of Latin America, and
you soon learn to avoid the euphemism of "1 wonder if I might wash
my hands 7 ' or you find yourself ushered in to do just that and
nothing more.

When we arrived at the house a servant bo\ved us into Living
Room No. i. The room was dark and musty and so crammed with
furniture that I thought for a moment we had gotten into the store-
room by mistake. There were three large tables, each holding a lamp
smothered by a long-fringed shade, two couches, three rigidly stiff-
backed love seats and a crowd of equally uncomfortable chairs, most
of them covered in plush or brocade with rather dirty antimacassars
to protect their virgin backs. It was a wonderful setup for musical
chairs, but when I suggested a game Sam frowned, so the three of
us each picked our own monstrosity and sank down into its iron-
ribbed body.

In a few minutes two rabbity and obviously frightened females
twittered into the room. These were Miguel's sisters, who lived with
him and took care of him. It was pathetically clear they had never
done anything else. They looked somewhat like a pair of desiccated
string beans and had so submerged their personalities that it was
hard to tell them apart. Ike and Mike, as we called them, motioned
us back to our seats and they themselves perched gingerly on the
edges of two armchairs opposite us. We had come to see Miguel, of
course, and they knew it, but the social amenities had to be gone
through first.

Mike and Sam simultaneously started the conversational ball
rolling with "It's a nice day, isn't it." This was really a statement,
not a question, and was followed by silence. I felt the next move was

ICO THROW ME A BONE

up to me. 'It is a nice day/' I confirmed brightly. Both Ike and Mike
beamed, and Ike daringly added "not too hot/ 7

"What did they say?" whispered Andy, who understood no
Spanish whatsoever.

"They remarked on how good looking you are/' I answered.

"What nonsense," protested Andy, but he blushed.

Then Ike became positively garrulous. "Have you had dinner?"
she inquired. "Can't we offer you something to eat? Or to drink?"
Sam looked suddenly hopeful, but as it was two o'clock and we'd
just finished a large picnic lunch as well as three beers, I said "Oh,
no, thank you very much."

"What did she say this time?" asked Andy.

"Just that the Panamanian girls would probably fight over you/'

"I don't believe a word of it," said Andy, but he smoothed back
his hair and tried hard not to smirk.

The conversation now apparently exhausted, Ike and Mike diffi-
dently suggested that we might like to see Miguel "Why yes," Sam
allowed, as if the idea had never occurred to him, "we'd be de-
lighted/' With that the sisters, barely able to conceal their relief
at having concluded the polite preliminaries, arose and offered to
escort us to his bedroom.

Miguel's room was fairly small and dominated by an immense
four-poster bed, in which his wizened little figure seemed lost. His
eyes sparkled, however, and after he had quickly adjusted his teeth,
which apparently were only used when absolutely necessary, his
voice emerged surprisingly firm, if somewhat staccato. "Bring up
chairs for our guests," he yelled at Mike. "Pull up the window shade,"
he snapped at Ike. "Fix my pillows so that I can sit up," he hurled at
both of them.

When everything was arranged to his satisfaction he waved his
hand at his sisters to indicate "scram," and the two of them scurried
out of the room as if pursued by a banshee. "Bring your chair up
close," he cackled at me, cupping his right ear in his hand. "Closer.
Closer. You're not afraid of old Miguel, are you?" This was ac-

THROW ME A BONE 1J1

companied by another as he leaned over and pinched my

knee.

"Nipe work," commented Andy, and I started to protest, but
Miguel had already launched into a series of questions to which he
evidently expected no answer: It was a nice day, wasn't it? Did we
like Panama? Did Sam expect to ind a lot of gold? Wasn't the life
going to be too rough for a lovely young girl like me? (This last
with a definite leer in my direction.) What was Andy here for?
Didn't I think Andy was good looking, ha, ha? The Panamanian girls
had better be careful, ha, ha!

I quickly translated the last remarks to Andy, who called me a liar,
this time with conviction. At this point Miguel said "damn these
teeth" and removed them. Here's where we have our inning, I
thought, but I was wrong. "Waaf f o f ouf foinf fo Pafamaf ?" he went
right on. "Wenf fo feepinf finf Faffardf?" Then something that
sounded like "fee, fo, fum" but couldn't have been. "Fo damf,"
said Miguel and put back the teeth.

It wouldn't have mattered anyhow. Miguel's questions were
obviously rhetorical and his conversation another of those polite
formalities which any relationship in Latin America demands. So
it was a relief to all of us when brother Hector appeared.

Hector was about ten years younger than Miguel and less wizened,
but he lacked the old man's spark. His manner was as formal as his
dress, which consisted of striped pants, a slightly dirty shirt with
stiff collar, and a black frock coat a costume, incidentally, which
on the other occasions that we saw him never varied. His brother
apparently terrified him, and, except for a polite greeting to us, he
contributed nothing but "Yes, Miguel."

I could see the old man was getting tired and his hand kept
wandering towards those "damn teeth/' so I rose and said we had
to leave. Miguel shook hands all round and told Hector to see that
the Lothrops (it came out something like Lowtroppes) had every-
thing they needed. Hector said "Yes, Miguel/' and as we filed out
Miguel settled back comfortably, dental fixtures already in hand.

152 THROW ME A BONE

The moment we left the Presence, Hector became wildly con-
versational "It was again a nice day, wasn't it?" I decided the
weather had been pushed too far, particularly as ever) 7 day is a nice
day during the dry season, so I got back at him by saying we'd had
lunch, before he could produce conversational gambit number two.
It didn't seem to bother him, though, for he went right on to; How
did we like Panama?, and Would we do him the honor of paying
a visit to his house which was only a short distance away?

By this time I'd had enough of the Conte family to last me for
a good month and I was sure that Andy and Sam felt the same. So
it was with horrified surprise that I heard Sam say, "It would be a
pleasure."

"Pleasure?" I repeated, my mouth dropping.

"Got to be done," Sam murmured under his breath. "Panamanian
custom."

"Who cares?"

"What did you say, Senora?" asked Hector.

"Just that it would be a pleasure" I told him.

Hector's house was as ornate and uncomfortable as Miguel's, but
there was less of it. His pride of ownership, however, was pathetic.
It was as if the minute he entered home grounds he became a
personage in his own right and shook off his customary role of handy
man to his older brother. Hector acted as if each chair, each table,
each picture, was a personal friend; so much so that I would not
have been surprised if he'd introduced each one of us to each one of
them separately.

I was almost afraid to sit down for fear Fd bruise a pal, but Hector
insisted, and he brought us tumblers of sweet but rather pleasant
wine. By this time he had visibly swelled two sizes larger, and I
waited fascinatedly for him to burst right out of his clothes. Every-
thing held, though, and he settled back and began to talk about
archaeology, with a "we fellow scientists must stick together" at-
titude, which of course left me out. (Andy was already out on two
counts, for the conversation was again in Spanish. )

THROW ME A BONE 159

"Ah, science, science/' Hector. "It has always been my

greatest consolation, I have a diploma, you know."

"A diploma?" I was slightly puzzled.

"Would you like to see it?" he asked eagerly.

"Love to/* I lied. So we all got up and trooped into a small
library where, hanging in state on the wall facing us, was Hector's
most precious possession. I was so impressed with the immense gold
frame that I failed to examine what it embraced, but I oh'd and ah'd
as if here were the equivalent of a Nobel prize. Hector merely
nodded and accepted my admiration as nothing more than his just
due.

It was after we had left and were walking back to the car that
I asked Sam about the "diploma." "What was it for, Sam? Chemis-
try or physics or what?"

"Oh ? that,** said Sam. "That was a certificate of membership in
the National Geographic Society. You know a receipt they send
to everyone who has paid for a yearly subscription to the National
Geographic Magazine"

'"And to think I ever thought the Kallikaks peculiar/' I mused out
loud.

'Who are the Kallikaks?" asked Andy.

"Oh, just a family I got to know at college/' I told him.

Chapter 16

I THOUGHT we were through with the Conte family, at least for
the time being, bet Sam insisted there were still two more to go.
"We must stop a moment/' he said, "to see Chalado at the Conte
store and make arrangements to have supplies sent in to camp. And
then we motor to Palo Verde, Cholo's ranch, where he will have
horses to take us the rest of the way/*

"Let's compromise and skip Chalado/' I suggested, but this was
ignored,

The Conte store was spread over one tremendously long and
narrow room, layered with dirt and dust, and, like all Panamanian
general stores in the country, carried just about everything from
tractors to birdseed. There were hammers, screws, hinges, latches,
tin buckets, brooms, mops, barbed wire, rope, canvas, hammocks,
mosquito netting. There were bolts of calico and other cotton
goods both for dresses and house furnishings buttons, ribbons,
needles, thread. There was a large assortment of canned goods, as
well as kitchen necessities. There were special gastronomic del-
icacies as inducement for the local trade sweets made out of oranges
and other fruits, which sat exposed on the counter and delighted the
numerous little children who flocked around and poked at them with
dirty fingers fresh out of their dirty mouths. And dried codfish,
split flat and hung from wires pushed through the eyes, which gave
off a most peculiar odor in the heat of the tropics.

1 55

Ifj6 THROW ME A BONE

There were even a few rather dull-looking archaeological speci-
mens as a lure for the possible tourist. Conte's store was actually a
combination hardware, haberdashery, grocery, notions and gift shop,
the contents of which had piled up for years and at times must
have surprised the owners themselves.

Chalado Conte ran this emporium and he took us on a personally
conducted tour. He was a nondescript little man who had a discon-
certing habit of sucking in his upper lip with a kind of oscillatory
noise. "Look at this complete line of groceries/' he said, kiss kiss.
"Look at these wonderful archaeological specimens/' kiss kiss. And
then, leading me to the counter, where he waved his hands wildly
to dislodge the flies, "Do have a sweet, Senora," kiss kiss kiss.

We got away after twenty-five minutes and a terrific struggle, Sam
and Andy carrying the few token groceries we had bought for good-
will purposes, and I with a butterfly net which Chalado had insisted
on presenting me. "Well be back soon/' we shouted mendaciously
as the car drove off.

It took us about an hour to reach Palo Verde, which was as close
to camp as we could get by car. Here Cholo was waiting for us and,
as Contes go, he was a pleasant surprise.

Cholo probably would have been quite a guy if it hadn't been
for Papa. Although we had heard that he'd never dared marry, he
had inherited a good deal of the old man's lust for life, and his
progeny no doubt also dotted the neighborhood. He was a big hearty
man in his middle forties, and although pretty much of a glorified
errand boy, did the actual running of the cattle business. This
enabled him to spend a good deal of time at his ranch house, con-
veniently away from Miguel's gimlet eye. Here the Conte horses
were stabled, and from here, riding like a demon, he would gallop
almost daily over the countryside, rounding up cattle and seeing
that his cowboys were on the job.

We refused Cholo's hospitable invitation to sit down and have
a little wine and prepared to start on our way so as to reach camp
Before dark. The horses were saddled and waiting, and one of
had been delegated to acwmp^ny us us guide, Here

THROW ME A 157

Andy a Until lie tried to mount the wrong

end of the horse I hadn't realized he'd never ridden before. After
he was hoisted on, however, he smugly triumphant, although

I wouldn't have given a nickel for his chances of staying put. For-
tunately for him, though, Panamanian horses are very small, and
his long legs practically reached the ground, so that in spite of
looking excruciatingly funny it was impossible for him to fall off and
hurt himself.

Tomas, Chclo's man, led the way through a series of open ields
which seemed no different from pasture land in the States. After
a while the country became less cultivated and we reached a narrow
bridgeless river which, because of the recent rainy season^ appeared
frighteningly high. The technique was to remove your feet from the
stirrups, either hold them out at right angles or crisscross them
against the horse's neck, and try to balance yourself while he waded
through, the water usually just not touching the bottom of your
saddle. We crossed several streams in this way and I was consumed
with curiosity to see how Andy was making out, but he always slyly
kept behind me and I was afraid to turn around for fear my precarious
balance would be upset. For, the slightest list to port or starboard
and the water lapped your backside.

Meanwhile the country was getting greener, but it still was not
my Idea of what tropics should be. This, Sam explained, was because
the thousands of cattle which had been let loose to graze had pretty
well eaten up the scenery. It seems that the cutting down of the
jungle for purposes of cultivation went back to before the Conquest.
By the end of the sixteenth century the Spaniards had killed off
aU the natives in the district, and the land, which one of the Con-
querors had described as open and suitable for maneuvers of cavalry,
had reverted to jungle. But after 1900, with the influx of laborers
into Panama to work on the Canal, the demand for beef grew, and
ihe jungle was again cut down to provide pasturage.

Here and there were scattered signs that the country had once
teen lush. Gigantic trees had been left growing to provide shade for
the pampered cattle. Fences had been installed to separate various

158 THROW ME A BONE

properties, and in many rases the fence posts, because of the fertility
of the land, had sprouted Into bushes. In a few spots, where the
cattle had evidently believed the vegetation would disagree with
their digestion, thickets had sprung up in tangled masses. On the
whole, however, the cows had certainly gotten the better of nature.

By the time we reached our camp site, it was late afternoon. "Here
it is," announced Sam,

"Where?"

"Here."

"I don't see it/ 7

"You're on it"

I don't know just what it was I had expected the Sitio Conte to
look like. Whatever it was, it didn't. It didn't look like anything.
A three-acre field on the river had been cleared of all growth except
for a half dozen or so mango trees. Had it not been for these, the
site would have made a wonderful bowling alley or baseball field
or outdoor parking lot. Not even part of a building reared its head.

"Where . . . ?" I began, but Sam interrupted.

"There/' he said, pointing to a large pile of lumber in a remote
corner of the field. "I guess something happened."

"I guess it did."

There was nothing to be done, for it was long past the natives*
working hour (if they ever worked). Fortunately we had brought
cots, bedding, cooking utensils and a little food with us. So we set
up the cots in the middle of the field, ate some cheese and crackers,
and then, as there was no place to go and no light to see by, we went
to bed. The setup gave me the kind of phobia that is the opposite
of claustro, but Sam assured me that snakes are not apt to crawl up
the legs of a cot, so I drenched my blanket with a layer of Flit to keep
off lesser animal life and went to sleep. The last thing I remember
was Andy, graduate of New York's better and more crowded night
clubs, murmuring how he had always loved the great open spaces.

At dawn, before I was up, the carpenters arrived. The master
carpenter, whose name was Manuel, was mildly apologetic. <0 We
didn't put up the houses/' he said (in my opinion a rather unneces-

THROW ME A BONE 159

sary statement). '"We didn't know just where you wanted them/'

"But I told you exactly where," protested Sam.

"Did you?" remarked Manuel. **I don't remember. And I thought
it better to wait until you came back and have It right." He oozed
virtue. "*WeVe been here every day waiting for you." The virtue
became reproach.

"All right/' said Sam with admirable restraint, directing Manuel's
attention to the markers, still In plain view, which he had left in the
ground to outline our future residential quarters. "Let's have no
more discussion. Hurry and get started."

"But, of course, Sefior." Manuel sounded hurt. His tone implied
that God must just have dropped the markers from the sky and
why then was he, Manuel, to blame? "What would you like us to
work on first?"

"The main shack/" said Sam, pointing to the largest outline, "I
think that's the best idea, don't you?" he asked me. "It's going to
be the dining room, and until our own shack Is finished you and I
can sleep there."

"Oh, Sam/' I begged, "please, please let him do an outhouse
first"

"You can't sleep In an outhouse."

"I don't care. The other Is more Important."

"Whafs wrong with the field?" asked Sam, waving his hand
toward the adjacent cow pasture.

"If s full of ticks," I said, scratching. "And bulls."

"Cows," Sam automatically corrected.

"All cows are bulls to me. I don't stop to look at their sex. I run.
Oh, please let's have an outhouse quickly."

Sam looked amused and slightly superior, as if the Pioneer Woman
he thought he had married had turned out to be nothing more than
Weaker Sex, but he said "all right," and directed the men to dig a
nice deep hole in an appropriate spot. I stretched out happily on my
cot (the only article of furniture as yet available in our outdoor
Paradise) and buried myself in a Penguin mystery. My contentment
was short-lived. After two hours of steady digging, a yell from Manuel

l6o THROW ME A BONE

pierced the air. We rushed over to the pit under construction to
be greeted by an excited group of men proudly pointing to a nasty-
looking skull and a piece of a red pot. The projected outhouse had
turned into an Indian grave.

Sam's pleasure was considerably greater than mine. An archaeol-
ogist viewing a bone is comparable in a way to a hound on the scent
of the fox, and each moment I expected to hear a cry of "Yoicks."
Sam, however, merely gave me an apologetic and rather pitying
look which couldn't possibly conceal his triumph. "Pm sorry/* he
beamed, and to the men, "Leave everything exactly as it is for us to
work on later. Well start another hole over there." Any prospect
of a tickless and cowless haven quickly faded.

It's bad enough to want something and not get it, but if you
want not to have something and get it anyhow, it's worse. Many has
been the time that I have hung breathlessly over the edge of a trench,
straining for the welcome sight of a bone or a hank of ancient hair
and unable to see anything but just plain dirt. Here, though, I sat
holding my thumbs and praying that the good earth would produce
nothing in the way of foreign matter, and just as the pit was almost
deep enough for me to relax, some little piece of pottery would turn
up. "Pm sorry/' Sam kept saying without conviction, and on we'd
move. After the third grave had materialized, I stopped looking I
suppose with the idea, in reverse, that a watched pot never boils. At
any rate, the idea was a good one. Hole No. 4 was virginal. The days
of dodging bulls were over.

Chapter 17

1T\ O TELL how you live when you are on an archaeological expedi-
j J tion? 77 I am always being asked. The people who pose this
question usually fall into one of two categories. There is the it-must-
be-wonderful-to-be-close-to-nature group and the how-I-admire-you-
for-roughing-it-so-far-from-civilization group. Of the two I prefer the
latter. Neither is correct. You are close to nature, all right, but it isn't
always wonderful: in fact sometimes you are a little too close. After
all 7 who wants to take a snake or a scorpion to his bosom? And when
it conies to roughing it so far from civilization maybe you have not
got all the comforts of home (no Frigidaire, no washing machine) ,
but there are compensations. Who cares, for example, about a wash-
ing machine when you can get a laundress for fifteen cents a day?

Having your own camp is the most satisfactory way to live when
you are on an archaeological expedition, but an archaeologist avoids
building one whenever possible? for it is an expensive proposition
and a complicated one. However, if he can find no hotel or house near
his work, he is forced to construct his own and it is usually as com-
fortable as can be made.

Our camp at the Sitio Conte was more or less a typical one for
the tropics. It was clean and it was cheerful. There was no re-
semblance, it is true, to those elaborate affairs one reads about in
Egypt or Yucatan, where little black boys are always running around

161

THROW ME A BONE 163

with iced drinks and the of the

expedition and their wives for night, but on the

whole we lived well.

There were three houses, about the size of a one-car garage,
which dotted the big ield at respectable intervals. There were two
outhouses* a shanty for the cook, and a kitchen the latter con-
sisting of an adobe hearth and an empty gasoline tin to serve as an
oven, walled in on two sides to keep the wind from blowing out the
ire. Andy had his own house and his own outhouse, Sam and I had
ours, and between them and slightly larger was the third house a
combination dining room, living room, workroom, as well as bed-
room for a technical assistant who was to arrive later.

The houses, so-called (for they were really one-room shacks ),
consisted of a raised loor of wooden boards, walls the lower part
also of boards and the rest of wire netting to keep out insect and
animal life and a thatched roof. Cheesecloth had been placed
under the eaves to catch any scorpions that might otherwise have
dropped down on us. There was no need to worry about bad weather
as the rainy season was over, but tarpaulins had been attached to
the sides as protection from the wind and to provide some measure
of privacy. They were so difficult to roll up and down, however, that
I usually dressed or undressed lying on the loor beneath my cot.

Under a tree outside each establishment a rough table had been
placed to hold a tin basin and a pitcher. A hand mirror hung from
a nail driven into the tree and served as a guide for the men to shave
by. As the wind rarely permitted the mirrors to remain stationary,
the medicine chest boasted an extra supply of court plaster.

Underfoot, the earth was hard-packed mud. To accomplish this,
the grass had first been cut down and then burned, and the fiery
sun could be counted on to prevent it from bursting forth again until
the rains arrived in the spring. With a temperature that at times hit
140 degrees, this smooth hot floor had the advantage of discouraging
snakes from slithering across its surface; and occasional sweepings
could easily keep it clean so that dead leaves and other debris would
not be blown in our faces.

164 THROW ME A BONE

Two rough wooden piers jutted into the river. One w^s for the
laundress to kneel on as she did her weekly wash and was also used
as a landing place for occasional canoes. From the other we took
our daily baths.

The entire field was fenced in, right down to the water. This was
done in the vain hope of keeping out the Conte family's numerous
cattle, which, in spite of the lush grass on their own grazing grounds,
liked to come in to eat the mangoes which had dropped off in our
back yard. As the season wore on they became increasingly bold
and the fence, after a continuous onslaught of horns, increasingly
weak. As a result, we had a series of nightly visitors peering through
the wire netting of our houses and stumbling over water buckets and
tin basins. Things finally got so bad that I collected a large pile of
stones each afternoon and spent most of each night developing my
marksmanship. A cow is the only target Fve ever been able to hit.

On the morning after our arrival the workmen appeared. There
were six of them, although later, when graves were turning up all
over the place, we got extras on a day-to-day basis. The foreman, who
had picked out the other men and was responsible for them, had
been recommended by Cholo Conte. His name was Eulogio Ramos
and he was a rat. Anyone who thinks United States congressmen
indulge in nepotism should have met Eulogio. The men he had
selected to work for us included brother Teofilo Ramos, brother
Jos6 Casada Ramos and nephew Victor Ramos. The girl who came
each day to make the beds and clean the camp was daughter
Concepcion Ramos. The laundress was aunt Maria Ramos.

Somehow two outsiders had slipped into this group, probably
because the number of available Ramoses had been exhausted. Their
names were Bernabel and Justo, and they were expert at their job.
As a matter of fact, with the exception of Eulogio, who considered
himself above work and sat around all day smoking cigarettes (ours)
and casting a very occasional eye on the digging, the men were both
hard working and nice.

The Panamanian native is as curious a race mixture as you can

THROW ME A BONE 165

find. Panama is the of the New World, and since the

opening of the Canal there is scarcely a nationality which is not
represented there. The French, as everyone knows, copped the con-
tract to build the Canal For this they imported extra labor Chi-
nese, East Indians, and any other available. When the
Americans took over the Canal they too imported workmen, chicly
Negroes from the various Caribbean islands. These were only ad-
mitted on condition that they go home when their work was finished,
but many of them seemed to like it better where they were and when
the time came to scram, hid in the country. I suppose it was a bit far
for the Chinese and East Indians to go all the way back to Asia, so
they stayed too. And then they began to mix. They mixed with each
other, they mixed with the American Indians who were native to
Panama, they mixed -with the whites. They got so mixed, in fact,
that you can hardly tell who's who you're apt to see coal-black
Chinese or yellow Indians or white men with kinky hair, broad
noses and thick lips.

Most of our workmen had black skins but none of them looked
like Negroes. Justo, in fact, looked as if he had stepped right out
of the Bible. Although he was very dark he had finely chiseled
features, and a sad air and expressive hands added to his dignity.
He worked quietly and well and rarely spoke.

Bemabel was copper-colored, with big mustachios, and he was
so good at his job that Sam at times allowed him to work on the
delicate material. His only fault was that he was a continuous spitter.
This annoyed me particularly, as I used to run around the excavations
poking my face into everything that was going on, and I never dared
get too near BemabeL

Teofilo was the oldest Ramos brother and the father of Victor.
How he'd allowed Eulogio to nose him out and ran everything I
never discovered, but I suspect he was too good-natured to assert
himself. Teofilo was ugly as a monkey and had a huge fieshy wart
on his left cheek. This made him shy. He would bring me a present,
though, two or three times a week oranges, or a few fresh eggs, or
some strange wild iowers. The other men teased him unmercifully,

l66 THROW ME A BONE

but although Fm sure he suffered acute embarrassment he kept right
on bringing me things.

Jose Casada Ramos was everyone's favorite. He was young and
gay, and although not very bright, had a wonderful sense of humor.
He was always called Jose Casada, as if it were hyphenated, and the
Casada part caused great merriment among his friends. Casada is
Spanish for "married" and they used to tease him about his wives,
although as far as I knew he only had one and I don't believe he was
technically married to her.

Jose Casada would have been very good looking except that every
time he grinned (which was almost continuously), a large gap
showed where Eve front teeth should have been. He would never tell
how he had lost them, but I suspect it was in a fight, as he used to slip
away at times on terrific benders and not turn up again for several
days. He and Andy became fast friends, in spite of the fact that they
could not talk to each other, and after work he would often sit
outside Andy's house and listen to the victrola, sometimes accom-
panying the music on a native drum.

All the men were simple and unspoiled. Few of them had ever
been out of the district in which they were bora and their education
was slight, but they were always laughing and in good humor. With
the exception of Justo, they talked constantly while they worked
and it was mostly talk about food and getting drunk and having girls,
and they teased each other about all these things. Our customs must
have seemed very strange, and sometimes they teased us too, but
it was all good-natured and because they felt we were friends. Even
Andy, who succeeded in not learning a single word of Spanish in
the six weeks he spent in Panama and ended up with the same three
swear words he had picked up in New York before he came, got
along fine with the men.

Except for Sundays, our days were pretty much the same. At 6: 30
each morning the cook wakened us by striking a gong. The gong was
an old and bent tire frame, probably salvaged from a Model T Ford,
which was attached by a rope to a tree near the kitchen and struck

THROW ME A BONE l6y

with a tin soup ladle. The was sounded again at seven to an-
nounce breakfast. The workmen arrived at seven, too, and somebody
had always to supervise them, in case they struck something impor-
tant with their spades or picks without realizing it. It was usuallyfSam
who started them off, and the first one of us who finished breakfast
would go relieve him so that he could eat. The digging was within
a hundred yards of the dining room, which made things easv.

After breakfast I conferred with the cook, deciding on the day's
mentis (which varied very little) and going over accounts. I'd then
pop a head in on Concepcion, wherever she happened to be working.
She was a pensive girl and unless she was watched was apt to sit
with the broom on her lap, stroking it as if it were too good to be
used on the floor. As she was very pregnant I thought this might be
one of those obsessions women sometimes get at that time, but when
I suggested to her father, Eulogio, that she stop work until she had
her baby, he was outraged. I gathered there was no other Ramos
who could temporarily replace her.

Sam remained glued to the dig all day, and after I'd finished my
housework I usually joined him. This was partly to encourage the
workmen (who became as depressed as I when the good earth failed
to yield anything ancient) and partly for fear we might miss some-
thing.

Actually there were very few barren spells in the digging. This
was fortunate, for nothing is so irritating as to sit uncomfortably
for hours on the edge of a trench, dust blowing in your face, and
look for something that isn't there. What's more, you've got to be
careful where you place yourself. I learned that by experience.

I had become automatically conditioned to watching for snakes
and scorpions, but anything smaller I failed to take seriously. So
that one day, coming upon a lovely log on the riverbank, of nice
convenient size, I carried it to where the men were working and sat
myself upon it. This was an unhappy idea, for the log turned out
to be covered with tiny ticks which transplanted themselves from
their home grounds to mine. The next two days were agony.

Ticks are bloodsucking insects which bury their heads in your

l68 THROW ME A BONE

anatomy and, if left unmolested, hang on until they are fat and
replete and only then drop off. This laissez-faire theory is obviously
an unsatisfactory one, and there are two schools of thought on the
subject of removing them. Thus you either get a friend to pull them
out, tick by tick, with a pair of tweezers in which case half of the
tick is apt to break off and the head remains in status quo or you
have the same friend apply a lighted match to the tick's rear end,
which irritates him sufficiently to cause him to withdraw entire from
his grazing grounds.

I have had occasion to try both systems and can state in no un-
certain terms that the lighted match may hurt the tick but it hurts
you more. Therefore, though I dislike halfway measures, I made
Sam go to work on me with the tweezers, and with part of each un-
welcome guest removed, I spent the next few days either standing
up or on my knees. It was some time before I could sit down with
any degree of comfort.

Work stopped at noon each day for everybody to lunch. The
workmen retired to the end of the field, where their women were
waiting for them with containers of hot food. I occasionally peeked
to see what they were eating. It was always a stew of some sort, with
rice or potatoes and hunks of meat that might have been pig or
rabbit.

After lunch we took a short rest until the one o'clock gong re-
called us to work. At four we quit for the day. The workmen put
away their digging implements and went home, while we, hot and
dirty, tramped into the main house, w&ere a pitcher of fresh orange
juice was waiting.

Bathing was next on the program. Ladies' hour (that meant me)
came first, after which the coast was left clear for the men. Fd hurry
into our house, remove my dirty clothes (under the cot), put on
a wrapper and slippers, grab a cake of soap and a towel, and wander
down to the pier. The river was usually dark brown in color but
seemed white compared to the dirt we had picked up working. The
current was so swift that only the strongest swimmer could make

THROW ME A BONE 169

headway it y but fortunately the water only about three

feet deep. As It was, you to dig your into the muddy ooze
and hold on to the soap like mad, for if it once slipped out of your
grasp it would be floating downstream before you could even try to
grab it.

None of us wasted much time in the water as there were hundreds
of tiny minnowlike fish which nipped in vulnerable spots unless
we kept wiggling about or splashing. There was also a crocodile a
bit further down the bank, which watched our ablutions with great
interest, bet although he scared me to death every time I saw him
(and more when I didn't), he did keep to his own side of the fence.
You could never be sure, though, that he ? d continue being discreet

We ate supper promptly at six. As it got dark soon after, this just
gave the cook time to wash the dishes before he had to light his
kerosene lamp. We ourselves boasted gasoline lamps (for each
establishment) which gave a ine light when they worked. Unfortu-
nately their innards were very delicate and the gasoline we fed
them not always pure, so they were constantly getting indigestion
and much of their time was spent being purged. However, what
light we had was brought to the main house after supper, where Sam,
and later the technician, usually worked on the notes they had taken
that day, and where Fd read or write letters. By nine o'clock we were
almost always ready for bed.

On Sundays there were no workmen, but if something particularly
interesting had turned up in the excavations the day before, we
usually worked anyhow. Or the men would catch up on their paper
work, while I put on a bathing suit and took a sun bath and a swim.
Sunday was also my day to shampoo my hair. This was a cinch, as
aH you had to do was soap your scalp and dip it into the water and
the current rinsed it better than any spray.

On special occasions we sent a message to the nearest village up-
river ordering a dozen bottles of cold beer. These would arrive dur-
ing the afternoon by dugout canoe, the beer nestling in a box filled
with ice and sprinkled over with sawdust. We would first drink the
beer and later, if any ice remained, use it in highballs. Andy's olives

170 THROW ME A BONE

and soda water would be trotted out, and even if the highballs always
tasted of sawdust, we felt gay and almost civilized.

Although life at the Sitio Conte was different from anything I
had known before, there were only a few aspects of it which I
didn't learn to enjoy. Among these were the snakes.

A solitary snake is bad enough, but we were deluged with them.
Word had gone around that we were making a collection, and as
a result there was hardly a snake within a radius of five miles that
was not captured and carried into camp. We -were making a collec-
tion, in spite of my protests. In Panama City we had met Dr. Her-
bert Clark, head of the Gorgas Laboratory, who at that time was
making a census of snakes throughout the country. "You say you are
going to live in the province of Code?" he asked Sam enthusias-
tically when he heard about the dig we planned.

"Why, yes," answered Sam. "Are you interested?"

"Tremendously interested." I was waiting for him to pull the
one about how he had always wanted to be an archaeologist, but
he fooled me. "Code," he explained, "is the only province from
which I lack material for my census. How about collecting snakes
for me there?"

"Oh, no," I said shuddering. "We're awfully sorry but. . * "

"We'll be glad to do it," said Sam at the same time.

"Sam," I cried. "Snakes!"

"If they're there/' remarked Sam, "we might as well collect
them."

I didn't agree with him at all My idea was to let the snakes go
their own sweet way, hoping they would feel we were friends and
not get mad at us, but before I could express this sentiment
Dr. Clark beamingly presented us with a large tank containing
formaldehyde, a first aid packet, antivenin serum and a treatise on
venomous snakes.

Our program, as I understood it, was to collect all snakes possible.,
throw their heads into the tank of formaldehyde, stimulate business
by paying out twenty-five cents for each poisonous and ten cents

THROW ME A BONE 171

for each non-poisonous specimen brought In (the money to 1 be
refunded us), and pray we have no use for the irst aid packet

or the antivenin. The apparently been thrown in for

good measure.

The only advantage attached to this new sport was that snakes
became a valuable commodity and few- reptiles had a chance to
crawl Into our homestead unattached. In fact, almost every morn-
ing before breakfast a Hue formed, usually of little boys, each hold-
ing a long stick with a sort of vine looped at Its farthest end, the
effect being that of a fishing rod. Through the loop dangled a snake,
wriggling In lively fashion, In spite of the fact that Its back had
been broken.

Because I was not essential to the general dig, I was put In charge
of the snake department. This meant determining whether or not
a snake was poisonous, cutting off Its head and throwing It Into the
tank, and paying off the collectors. Naturally they always claimed
that their contribution was poisonous as this raised the ante fifteen
cents. The only way you could tell was to pry open the mouth of
the still squirming snake with a couple of sticks and see if you could
spot a poison sac back of its fangs.

This wasn't so easy. The sac Is hard to find under the best of con-
ditions, and it takes a strong stomach and a steady hand to fool
around with a snake, even If Its back Is broken. I'm not one of those
fortunate but Irritating Individuals who jump out of bed In the
morning bright-eyed and full of health In fact, it takes a good
hour after my coffee is down before I can so much as smile so I was
not a very happy choice for this job. However I did manage to take
a quick look and to pay off, even If at times I let myself be persuaded
a bit too soon of the poison content of the offerings.

I even read the treatise on venomous snakes, although it merely
added to my confusion. According to Dr. Clark, there are eight
species of poison snakes in Panama the bushmaster, the coral
snake, the sea snake, the fer-de-lance and four different kinds of
vipers; the fer-de-lance and the vipers all belonging to a class called
Bothrops. If you happen to be bitten by any of these, the first thing

1J2 THROW ME A BONE

to do, says Dr. Clark, is to catch the snake and Identify it. This ? with
due apologies to Dr. G, is frankly ridiculous. No one who has just
been shot full of poison and scared to death is going to drop every-
thing and go crawling after his assailant, thus laying himself open
for another bite. And if he were so foolish as to try to catch him,
what makes Dr. Clark believe that anyone without a picture book
under his arm could tell which snake was what?

The second step (after being bitten) is to ascertain if the snake
has a lump, which Clark calls a '"food ball/' in its body. If it has,
you're in luck, for the snake will have injected most of its venom
into whatever that food ball once represented and presumably had
little poison left over for you. Here again, you come up against the
difficulty of catching the snake in order to look at its stomach. I
don't like to keep on disagreeing with Dr. Clark, who must have
given a lot of thought to the subject, but it strikes me that this is
going to an awful lot of trouble just to get the mental satisfaction
that the snake bit something else before he bit you. I should think it
would be much more practical to believe the worst and treat the
bite accordingly,

As soon, says Clark, as you find out what bit you and if it bit
anything else first, you should put on a tourniquet and apply suction
to the wound. Then you inject the antivenin. The only catch here
is that the antivenin has to be the same brand as the snake that bit
you. Even if you were able to catch the snake and recognize it, the
brand of antivenin that you happen to have with you may be just
the kind that the snake isn't. Very few people except professional
snake hunters are apt to carry more than one kind of serum, if that.
Fortunately, however, Dr. Clark explains that eighty to eighty-five
per cent of snake bites in Panama have been due to one of the species
Bothrops and antibothropic serum can be used for any of these.
What happens if you use it for a bushmaster or a coral snake, he
doesn't mention.

I am sure that fundamentally Dr. Clark is right in all he says, but
he makes life unnecessarily complicated. I would suggest that if
you are ever bitten by a Panamanian snake you quietly let the snake

THROW A BONE

go its way, yell for to the bite you can

get someone to cio it for you), is apt to

be for Bothrops, whatever It to be) , pray. There

is nothing you can do, anyhow,
are no snakes.

I dldn y t stay home, but all my made me snake-conscious.

I used to dream about the creatures* In order to which

snakes were poisonous Fd find myself going to murmuring,

"If you get bitten by a fer-de-Iance, you'll never be able to

dance. If you get bitten by a viper, youll certainly have to pay the
piper. If you get bitten by a biisfamaster, you'd better get to a hos-
pital faster. But if you get bitten by a coral snake* youll probably
pass out anil never awake."

For obvious reasons I kept these poetic effusions to myself, but
when we finally returned Dr. Clark his tank of formaldehyde, con-
taining eighty-four pickled snake heads, I couldn't resist attaching
a card with "A tank foil of Bothrops, with love from the Lothrops."

We got a pleasant answer, enclosing the results of the analysis
of the eighty-four snakes and the money owing us. According to the
analysis, oor catch Included four poisonous snakes one coral snake
and three hog-nosed vipers (Bothrops). The rest were pronounced
nonpoisonous and harmless. As I had been treasurer and had paid
out quarters for fifty-one poisonous snakes, the bank was out $7.05.
There was nothing for me to do but make up the difference out of
my own pocket and vow never to fool around with snakes again.

173

Cfiapfer 18

T\TOTHING I had ever experienced or read or been told about
1 \ archaeology prepared me for the dig at the Sitio Conte. It was
like a circus. There was almost too much going on. It used to make
me miserable not to be able to be in three places at the same time.
I'd be flipping earth off a skeleton or getting ready to remove the
contents of a grave, when Fd hear an exclamation from Sam or from
one of the workmen and Fd know that something exciting had
turned up somewhere else. The irst few times this happened I
dropped what I was doing and rushed over to join the fun. But when
it got to the point where I was spending all my time hopping out of
one grave and into another, I had to give that up.

Luckily you develop a very special feeling about what you your-
self are doing, no matter what it is. "Did you see my pot, or my
plate?" you are apt to ask about something you have merely cleaned
or lifted out of the ground. "If s not as good as mine," is the answer
you'll undoubtedly get. I don't know what makes the amateur digger
so proprietary about the pieces he works on. After all, they're not
his and he knows he may never see them again, but that doesn't
seem to matter. Fortunately.

Excavating started even before our camp was finished. Sam picked
out the spot for the men to start a large trench, and they attacked
the hard earth with pick and shovel, throwing the dirt to leeward.

175

176 THROW ME A BONE

When a great mound had accumulated, some of them would climb
on top and throw it further off so that the wind, which never let up y
would not blow it back into the pit.

The digging was always divided into trenches, and these were
large enough for all the men to work in at the same time and usually
contained numbers of graves. As soon as there was any evidence of
a burial an attempt was made to outline it, and the men removed
the top earth down to a little above grave level. Sometimes the out-
line was easy to find, as the earth in the grave shaft was often softer
and of a different color from that around it. Otherwise it was neces-
sary to dig along the outer edge of the exposed objects until the
contour showed up clearly. The procedure at all times was to make
a sort of ditch in the surrounding earth so that the entire grave would
be brought up like a table or platform. That way you didn't have
to stand on your head when you worked.

When this point was reached the men were switched to another
spot and started all over again with picks and shovels, searching for
further remains. They were perfectly amiable about what must have
been frustrating work and they were completely without supersti-
tion. In fact they joked about the burials, and though their humor
was anything but sophisticated and rarely varied, it seemed to amuse
them.

"Aha," Jos6 Casada would say to Bernabel as a skeleton came to
light "Here is Tio Fernando, that uncle of your father, the one you
told us ran off and was never heard from again."

"Nonsense/* Bernabel would retort "This must be one of your
relatives. He's round-shouldered like all the Ramos family."

Or Jos6 Casada, going into rapturous contortions at the sight of
a bunch of bones, "Now that is a girl I could really go for."

"She looks like an expensive girl, probably a two dollar one."
This from Victor.

"F1I bet she wouldn't have anything to do with you, she's too
high-class," Teofilo would contribute.

This game went on daily, whenever a pot, a bone, a piece of
jewelry turned up. After which the men would cheerfully move

THROW ME A BONE 177

on to attack fresh ground, leaving the trophies for us. Sometimes
we had as many as four or five paves going at the same time.

In the meantime, either Sam or Andy or 1 started on the grave
Itself. If It happened to be a very large one, two of us worked on it
from different sides. The idea was to get the skeleton or skeletons
and all the accompanying objects to stand out clearly so that they
could be photographed and drawn before they were taken op. A
little trowel was used to remove any heavy dirt that might remain,
then a knife, to give the objects a sharp outline, and a brush, to clean
off any loose earth. When everything was spick and span photo-
graphs were taken and a survey was made. Then the specimens were
taken out; each one numbered and put in Its own paper bag, while
notes were taken on their position, condition and anything else
you could think up.

I've never seen anything so complicated or elaborate or exciting
or confusing as the graves we found. Later on, from historical ac-
counts and from Sain as interpreter of what these meant, I learned
a lot about the people whose earthly resting place we'd so ruddy
disturbed. Only then did pieces of the puzzle fall into place and the
picture begin to make sense.

The ancient Panamanians believed that the soul did not die with
the body. The dead man was expected to enjoy his women, his or-
naments and his utensils In the other world, while his servants
were all set to work for him there as formerly. As a result, when he
passed away he was decked out In his best clothes and decorations,
and his favorite food was deposited in jars or pots beside him.
Most of the women with whom he'd ever had any traffic were put
in with him, all dressed up in their fanciest costumes and laden with
jewels.

Strangely enough, only the chiefs and the nobility rated a burial
with whichever surviving wives and retainers were apt to give
them the most fun and service in the hereafter. The bodies of the
common people were carried to some deserted spot and left for
the beasts and buzzards to enjoy.

THROW ME A BON ? E

The corpses of the chiefs were usually desiccated or dried out
so that they'd keep without it being too hard on the olfactory senses
of those left behind. This was done by setting them on a stone and
lighting a fire around them until all the human juices ran out and
they were smoked like a ham. That way they'd be preserved indefi-
nitely and could be put in a niche aboveground for the consolation
of their nearest and dearest.

Certain families even maintained special houses or rooms where
their ancestors were ranged In order along the walls, with spaces
left for those who had been lost in battle. As a rule, though, they
were put in the ground, but even so they had to be kept around for
a while as the rainy season in Panama goes on for over half the
year and it is impossible to dig a grave during that time. Of course
if they happened to pop off in the dry season, they could be buried
then and there.

There were two different systems for burying the girl friends and
the retainers who accompanied the head man. One was to kill them
off by giving them poison and then lay them out neatly in the grave.
A more intriguing way, though, was to bury the attendants alive.
This sounds gruesome but apparently was not painful at all. First
the pit was dug and a bench laid down in the center for the chief
or nobleman to be placed upon. He was fixed up in his Sunday
clothes, and flowers, food and water were put In with him. Then
his favorite women climbed down into the grave and sat themselves
on the bench surrounding him.

Meanwhile the mourners aboveground made preparations for the
funeral feast which lasted for one or two days. They all got very
merry and danced around the grave and sang the praises of the
deceased and of his girl friends who were about to be. At intervals
(and these must have been frequent) chicha, the local corn liquor,
was consumed both by those upstairs and those below. After every-
one in the grave had passed out, those above who were still on their
feet continued to drink and dance until there was no more liquor
and then they filled in the pit with earth and called it a day.

The chiefs women and servants not only volunteered but fought

THROW ME A BONE

for the privilege of him to his Sam

said this was because that you were with

magical incantations you couldn't get to heaven, and the were

the only ones whose funerals rated such pocus. But I've always

had a sneaking feeling that it was because they it wasn't

such a bad way of being out of life.

The Sitio Conte was obviously the burial ground of a very high-
class group of people. There must have been a lot of them, too, for
it teemed with graves. Not only did you strike one wherever you dug,
but there were so many that they were often on top of each other
and came out in layers. It took a good deal of digging to get at them,
for although the top graves were only three or four feet below the
surface, the deepest ones were as far as twelve feet below. How the
Indians had managed with primitive tools to push their ancestors
down so far is a mystery.

The largest graves were usually the deepest, and they were the
richest, too. As they got nearer to the surface they got poorer. Eco-
nomic times must have changed, and the men in the upper layer,
who rarely had even a woman buried with them and very little
jewelry, must have gone through something equivalent to the 1930
depression.

Those in the intermediate-sized graves usually did have a woman
with them, but only one. This didn't mean that it was all they had
had when they were alive, for monogamy in pre-Spanish days was
still a thing of the future. However, these men had probably only
been sub-chiefs and when buried didn't rate anything more than
one bride, about forty pieces of pottery and a mere snitch of jewelry.

We found six really large graves and they were fantastic. Some
contained three bodies and some more than twenty, with the chief
occupant always placed in the center usually on a stone slab
and surrounded by his wives and followers. In addition to the skele-
tons, these graves had an average of two hundred pieces of pottery,
as well as a raft of took, weapons, food, jewelry, fabrics and orna-
mental objects. Here, obviously, were buried supreme chiefs of their
day.

l8o THROW ME A BONE

It Is fun to try to reconstruct from some old bones and what's
buried with them the character and mode of life of people who
lived hundreds of years ago. At least it is fun for an amateur for an
archaeologist it is a serious matter and the basic reason for his having
taken up this science in the first place.

Like any good archaeologist, Sam is disinclined to commit himself
on the significance of any discovery until he has had a chance to
study the appropriate historical accounts, comparative work of
fellow scientists, chemical analyses of metals or clay, and a lot of
other things which to me seem dry as dust. By that time Fd have
lost interest. It would happen time and again, two, three years after
a dig was completed, that Sam would come home, passion in his eye,
and say something like "Remember the skeleton in Grave No. 18
that was lying with his arms crossed under him and a broken tibia
the one who had the incense burners buried with him?" "Of
course/' Fd answer. "And what did you find out about Him or Her?"
Naturally I didn't have the slightest idea what he was referring to,
but I was brought up to believe that a wife should encourage her
husband.

At the time, though, it is different. At the time you dig him up,
you can't help having a proprietary interest in your skeleton. You're
inclined to indulge in flights of fancy (in case you're not a scientist) ,
and I find that if you give your ancient remains a name, he assumes
a definite personality and you digest your archaeological education
more easily.

The skeleton I called Oscar Wilde, for instance, gave me the first
inkling that queer things had gone on in prehistoric times, too. Oscar
was one of the big chiefs we found him placed in the center of the
grave, laden with gold and there were three bodies buried with
him, all male. Nor could this be explained away by just calling him
a misogynist, for, heaped on and around the bodies, were women's
ornaments and women's utensils such as stone metates for grind-
ing corn. And grinding corn is definitely not a man's job.

Then there was the girl I named Pavlova. Pavlova turned up lying
on her face with her shins doubled over her thighs so that her feet

THROW ME A BONE l8l

rested on top of her a not a

ballet dancer could have while alive. Poison had obviously

been her lot. As a matter of fact, we'd already out the

custom at the SItio Conte had to kill the chiefs and

his women before they were buried. Their were always so

neatly arranged (except for Pavlova who was probably an after-
thought) that they must have been before being deposited In
the ground. Pavlova only confirmed what we already knew. But she
made it easy for me to remember.

Just once did we find evidence of a different system of burial. That
was when we dug up Romeo and Juliet two skeletons lying side
by side, one with Its arm around the other's neck. There could be no
doubt but that they had been buried alive and had shared death
throes In the grave itself, clutched in each other's arms. Unfortu-
nately the bones and teeth of the lovers were In such bad condition
that no one was able to determine their sex, but they did add a ro-
mantic touch to our excavations.

Sam ? as might be expected, ignored the names I gave my ancient
friends. He always took full descriptive notes on the skeletons and
just a glance at these was enough to refresh his memory. Yd look at
his little book and find listed: "Skel. No. jo: age adult, sex female,
body extended, chest down, face south, arms straight, legs flexed."
Or "SkeL No. 24: age adolescent, sex male, body exed, chest up,
face north, arms bent, legs straight"

This might have meant something to Sam, but to me it sounded
like nothing more than setting-up exercises on the radio, and no
matter how hard I tried I wouldn't be able to conjure up any kind
of picture of skeletons 10 or 24. If they'd just had names attached
like "Old Mrs. Tuttle" or "Baby Carlos/' it would have been a cinch.

Lots of the time, of course, it was impossible to draw any conclu-
sions from what we found. The graves were unbelievably compli-
cated to start with. Then the dampness of the earth had played such
havoc with the skeletons that often the bones had completely dis-
integrated. And many of the funeral objects had been deliberately
broken.

182 THROW ME A BONE

This Is what in archaeology Is termed 'Tailing" an object. The
belief was general among prehistoric peoples that the spirits of
inanimate things accompanied the spirits of the dead with whom
they were buried. Just to be sure there would be no mistake, however,
certain skeptics "killed" the objects before they put them In the
ground, so that their souls would surely be released. The "'killing/'
as a rule, took the form of making a hole in the bottom or sides of
a piece of pottery, but those of the ancient inhabitants of the Sitio
Conte who believed In this custom had apparently not been satisfied
with such minor destruction. They'd gone ahead and trampled the
pottery and sometimes even twisted the metal. It was as if you were
to spread out your best dinner set and then jump up and down on
It. At least that's what it looked like.

And as if things weren't difficult enough, the people we were
dealing with had had a nasty habit of destroying many of the older
burials to make room for later ones. They'd often dug Into and
thrown aside the old bones and grabbed anything worth while that
went with them for the more recent corpse.

According to Sam, this disrespect for the dead is most unusual.
The filching here, however, had almost invariably been confined to
graves either next to or under the new burial and to ones similar
in style, so it looked as if the whole thing was a family affair. Those
ancient ghouls probably argued that it was perfectly reasonable
when burying your father, let's say, with his Lares and Penates, to
add some of the things that your grandfather hadn't bothered to
take with him or didn't think he'd need where he was headed for.
"If Grandpa had wanted them," they no doubt reasoned, "why
would they still be in the earth?" Their logic was doubtless good (for
them), but it made it very confusing for an archaeologist who was
supposed to work out such problems as why, when, where, and which
was whose.

Chapter 19

M FTER you've been living in camp for a while, food becomes
./I. just about the most important thing in the world. You are
working hard and out-of-doors all day long (we, as a matter of fact,
were always out-of-doors, for at the Sitio Conte even indoors was
outdoors) and you get terribly hungry. Nor, when the day's work
is over, have you much else to occupy your mind. There is no ques-
tion of grabbing a quick bite so that you can get to the movies or
the theatre on time, and, good friends as you and your camp mates
may be, there are too few of them to contribute much variety. If
the Browns or the Smiths could just run over for an occasional drink
or game of bridge you might be able to divert into other channels
that constant obsession with your stomach. As it is, you spend hours
discussing the food at home that you might be having and carping
about the food you ore having.

If your food is important, your cook is just as much so, for you
don't want to eat aU your- meals out of a can. Which is why, by
unanimous agreement, we fired Van. Van had tried hard, but every-
thing he prepared tasted the same. Or, rather, tasted of nothing at
all. We had attempted to help matters by adding every kind of
condiment possible to his dishes, but it was no use indigestion was
the only result. So one day, tears streaming down his black face,
and carrying two large packages containing his clothes and, as we
later discovered, some of ours, Van departed.

183

THROW ME A BOXE 185

Through the Conte family we to cook.

Patricio, or Pat for short, was a West Indian Negro, tall and very-
thin unbelievably so, considering the amount of food he managed
to pet away. We had a suspicion he put it away to sell to the

natives, but this we were never able to prove. Pat spoke English
and Spanish both in a kind of Calypso singsong and he always
addressed me as "Mistress," which made me feel pleasantly wicked.
It was "yes, Mistress" this and "yes, Mistress" that, although the
"yes" didn't mean a thing, for, except when I lost my temper and
made a scene, he said "yes" and went right ahead doing the equiva-
lent of "no."

Pat owned a flourishing junk shop in Panama City, which he had
left in charge of his wife when he came to camp, bringing his small
son to ran errands for him. It was hard to understand why he ? d been
willing to leave the city unless it was because the wife nagged him
and he wanted to get away from her. This seemed more than likely,
for the third day after his arrival he suddenly yelled "Mistfess" as
I was in the trench carefully brushing up a couple of old tibias, and
I rushed out thinking the kitchen wall must have fallen in.

Pat said, "Mistress, that Conception she don't work good. I just
happen to know a better one who it just happens might come live
here."

I said, "No, Pat"

He said, "Yes, Mistress/"

"And don't call me Mistress."

"Yes, Mistress," said Pat

A week later he tried again. "That Conception . . . ," he began.

"It's no use, Pat," I declared firmly. "Conception is here to stay.
And don't call me Mistress."

*Tes, Mistress," said Pat.

This *^Mistress-that-Conception-she-don't-work-good'I-know-a-
better-one" was offered me regularly every week and just as regu-
larly I turned it down, in spite of the fit of sulks which followed.
It wasn't that Conception was even slightly efficient, but I was tak-
ing no chance on antagonizing the Ramos family and, besides, I

l86 THROW ME A BONE

was afraid that love might interfere with Pat's cooking. For, in spite
of a bad disposition and a somewhat elastic idea of honesty, he was
a really good cook. And that isn't easy in the kind of camp we ran.

Three times a week one of the younger Ramoses rode to Rio
Grande to get us fresh meat. Rio Grande was a village on the main
highway, about an hour's ride from camp, and consisted of a bar
and general store (the same) and about twenty thatched-roof hoeses
scattered over an area of perhaps half a mile. Trucks made daily
deliveries to this store, and as the cattle were slaughtered each day
at sunrise and by Panamanian law had to be sold by 9 A.M. or thrown
away, the meat was horribly fresh. Fresh! It was so fresh that I
always expected it to get up from the plate and moo at me, and if
you were ever foolish enough to dream about sinking a tooth into
what looked like a juicy tidbit, you were apt to have a quick awaken-
ing in order to save that tooth from the destructive inroads of what
turned out to have the consistency of salt water taffy.

Young Ramos always bought enough beef for two days and Pat
did his best with it. The first day he would either cook steaks,
pounded thin to make them a little less tough, or grind the beef into
hamburgers. The second day's menus were less tasty, for as we had
no ice the meat could only be kept by stewing it or by soaking it
overnight in a bucket of salt water. In the latter case, the outside
part would turn white and had to be cut off before the rest of it was
cooked. Either way you lost. If the meat was chewable it had no
taste, and if you could detect a slight flavor it meant such hard work
ahead that your jaw and stomach were hardly on speaking terms.

Chicken was an occasional welcome change. The chickens we
bought from the workmen, but they were so scrawny that they had
to be fattened up for several weeks before they were fit to eat. We
kept them tied by a string to a treetop, so that wild animals or snakes
could not get at them and so that they couldn't escape. Here they
stayed, making singularly unpleasant noises and dropping messes
on anyone so forgetful as to look for shade under their particular
nesting ground.

Every so often we had exotic and unusual dishes. The best of these

THROW ME A BONE 187

was tepi$cuintli y the Indian for wild pig. These were

about the size of an ordinary baby pig and when made into stew
tasted like a slightly but very superior chicken. They only

came out at night, and the workmen would hunt them with a
flashlight and then shoot them. They were hard to get and we paid
five dollars apiece for them, but in spite of this big bonus only three
were brought in the entire season. Iguana, or lizard, was more com-
mon, bet Pat had some superstitious reason for not wanting to
cook these and nothing could make him give in. I tried my hand
one day at iguana stew, but after one taste we unanimously agreed
to do without this delicacy.

Pat had no prejudice, however, about armadillos. An armadillo
is a small creature with its body and head protected by an armor
of bony plates, and it curls up into a ball when afraid. One specimen
wandered into camp after we had been there some months and we
adopted it as a pet. We called it Andy after our star boarder, although
no one was able to determine the animal's sex. I tied a string around
his neck and took him for daily walks, and little Andy became quite
friendly and easy to manage. You might think it hard to get attached
to an animal that rolls up into a ball every time you look at him,
but little Andy got so he accepted me and stayed out when I was
around. It was only with the others that he retired into himself and
wouldn't play.

We kept little Andy in an empty trench to prevent him from
escaping, but in spite of these precautions he disappeared and I was
heartbroken. The day after the tragedy, as I was eating an unusually
good stew for lunch, a sudden suspicion struck me. I called Pat over.
"What's this stew made of, Pat?" I asked.

"Ain't it good, Mistress?" he countered, looking about as innocent
as a man who's just murdered his mother,

"Pat, is this armadillo stew?"

"Mistress!" exclaimed Pat in a shocked voice.

"Is this armadillo stew?" I repeated.

"Armadillo," he said. "Well it might just so happen that it might
be, and then again it might happen that it ain't."

l88 THROW ME A BONE

"Pat/' I asked firmly, "have we been eating little Andy?"

"Yes, Mistress," he answered reluctantly.

There was nothing I could do. I left the rest of little Andy on the
plate, and Pat and I didn't resume friendly relations for a week.

Staples such as rice, potatoes, lard, butter (bought in cans) were
ordered from Conte's general store in Penonom6 and delivered to
Cholo's ranch at Palo Verde, whence they were brought to camp
with the mail two or three times a week. Eggs, oranges and bananas
were obtained locally from the workmen and were both cheap and
good. The rest of our meals were made up of canned soups, canned
vegetables and canned fruit

The water we drank came from the river and it naturally had
to be boiled. Pat thought this was absolutely absurd (as has every
native cook Fve ever had), and I had to sneak up on him daily to
make sure he didn't cheat. Boiling the water eliminated any danger
of disease, but it still tasted and looked awful. The color varied
from pale to deep brown, depending on the mountain rains that
flowed down and muddied the river, but if you let it sit overnight
in a covered pail the sediment would sink to the bottom. Then if
you closed your eyes and were thirsty enough, it didn't seem quite
so bad.

The trick was to try to make everything you ate or drank taste
like something it wasn't. Except in the case of our two big gastro-
nomic events the wild duck dinner which didn't come off and the
caviar dinner which did.

The idea of a succulent dish of roast wild duck had been in our

minds ever since our arrival, but in spite .of the beautiful shotgun

which Andy had carried with him for nearly two thousand miles,

he lazily refused to move from camp. After a great deal of nagging

and prodding, however, he reluctantly consented to take Jose

Casada as guide and spend a day trying to bag us a really good meal.

The two-man expedition set out at dawn. Jose Casada on one

horse, carrying a package of food and the gun, led the way, and we

had a hard time not to laugh at Andy, who brought up the rear hold-

THROW ME A BONE 189

ing on to his steed with everything he had As he told me later, he was
none too happy. The horse bothered him, he had no idea where he
was going, and, in spite of his close friendship with Jos6 Casada, there
existed the slight handicap that neither could understand a word
of what the other said.

After an hour's ride Jose Casada dismounted and tethered his
horse, making signs to Andy to do the same. Waist-high grass was
all that he could see, but there was nothing for him to do but follow
his guide. As a matter of fact, Andy had had a lot of experience in
duck-shooting and was an extremely good shot.

It was the first time, though, that he had gone on an expedition
without fancy duck blinds, decoys, retrievers and, doubtless, various
bottles of brandy in case he got cold or damp. Here, in order to reach
the water and spot any possible duck, he had to crawl through high
grass and rushes, expecting each moment to look a snake in the eye.
His slithering progress was uneventful, though, and in spite of being
thoroughly scared he managed to knock down five duck

Jose Casada, it seems, was all for continuing indefinitely, but
Andy, emotionally shattered by his tour de force, made the well-
known sign of thumb toward mouth which is the same in any
language, and as a result the ducks were attached to the saddles and
the two sportsmen rode off in search of the nearest bar.

They reached the general store at Rio Grande some time in
the early afternoon, where they downed various whiskys in rapid
succession. Andy was right in his element, but Jose Casada, who
was unused to anything stronger than the local chicha or cider and
who had never tasted whisky, succumbed after his fifth and was
carried into the back room and neatly kid out on the dirt fioor.

There was nothing for Andy to do until his companion recovered
except keep on drinking, with the result that after an indefinite
additional number of whiskys he too had to be carried out and kid
down next to his unconscious pal When Jose Casada came to, he
saw Andy passed out and he therefore repaired to the bar to pull
himself together. When Andy came to, Jos6 Casada was bade in

190 THROW ME A BONE

his former comatose state and the procedure took place in reverse.
It was unfortunate that at no point did the two show signs of life
at the same time.

During one of his waking spells Andy noted that it had grown
dark, and vaguely realizing that we might be worried about him, left
the recumbent Jos6 Casada and stumbled out and onto his horse.
Just how he got home he is not clear about, but Dobbin must have
known the way. We greeted him sleepily and after one look refrained
from asking questions. His shooting prowess was evident to all of
us the next morning, however, for when we arose, the smell of
putrefying birds was wafted on the breeze from the spot where Andy's
horse, still saddled and duck-encumbered, had spent the night.

Andy refused for some time to give us details of his trip. Jos6
Casada was equally reticent when he turned up three days later,
merely stating that he had been delayed at the hospital in Penonom^
where he had been treated for what he told us was a kidney con-
dition. We spent the rest of the season without eating duck.

The caviar dinner was more successful. This came about as a
result of my going to Panama City to meet my mother and father
who were coming through on a cruise and were to have about
twenty-four hours in port. They arrived in style, bearing as gifts
most of the gastronomic delicacies of the United States. In a moment
of depression I must have written home about the monotony and
inferior quality of camp food and I had obviously given the im-
pression that we were living in darkest Africa. At any rate, my
graphic literary style had brought forth the kind of picnic hamper
you might picture Doris Duke taking on a week's camping trip
and, topping it off, a pound of fresh caviar.

Now the caviar posed a really serious problem. It had been nicely
preserved in the ship's icebox whence it had been rushed to the
refrigerators of the Hotel Tivoli, where I was staying, but I was
afraid that a six-hour trip through tropical heat would turn it into
a soggy mess, its long journey all for naught. Of course I could have
sat in the Tivoli and ordered toast, lemon and hardboiled egg and
eaten it by myself, but somehow I thought it would taste better away

THROW ME A BONE

from civilization to say nothing of Sam's Hieing caviar, too. I
finally worked out a solution.

Among the people we had met in Panama City was a young
secretary attached to the American Embassy whose name was
Johnny. Johnny had expressed a deep interest in archaeology and had
hinted that he would look kindly upon an invitation to visit us and
see the work at first hand. Johnny had a car. So I called him up and
suggested that he drive me out to camp. Johnny accepted with
pleasure.

We set forth the next day, On the ninety-odd mile drive to
Penonoin6 you pass through six small villages and one vacation
resort The caviar, fresh from the Tivoli icebox and wrapped in
newspaper, was mshed to the car. When we reached the first village
on our route we stopped at the nearest bar and ordered two beers,
at the same time requesting the bartender to put our package on
the ice. After staying long enough to give the caviar a chill we went
on to the next village, where the procedure was repeated. And the
next and the next. The vacation resort was a cinch, for we took two
hours off for lunch and a swim and got the caviar thoroughly iced.
The last part of the trip was made on horseback, and we urged on
our steeds at top speed. It was rather like carrying the good news
from Ghent to Aix.

Our supper that night was wonderful. We ate caviar. We ate
goose Ever. We ate galantine of chicken. It was our first and only
excursion into higher gastronomic fields and we had indigestion all
night It was worth it

There seems to be a general impression that menus in an archae-
ological camp must be queer ones. The supposed range is wide; you
may be pictured smacking your lips over such delicacies as roast
peacock and hummingbirds 7 tongues or even warding off starvation
with a desperate diet of cactus soup and stewed rats. The minute you
leave civilization, it is argued, your meals are bound to be different,
and the fact that Mr. Campbell's cans are as well-known in tiny
South American or African villages as in his home country is over-
looked.

19 2 THROW ME A BONE

Our food was neither better nor worse than that of the average
archaeological camp; on the whole it was both adequate and health-
ful. The only disadvantage was its monotony. "God, not again!"
Sam and Andy would chorus at mealtimes until I got really mad.
(After all, you can't make scalopini of veal out of an old and tired
Panamanian cow.) So they changed their tune. "What's this
wonderful new dish called?" Sam would ask, holding up a limp piece
of beef while.he reached for the Tabasco. "Ah, creme de la cremer
Andy would exclaim enthusiastically as he poured half a bottle
of Worcestershire into his canned vegetable soup.

We used to sprinkle curry powder over the canned corn, ladle
Chile sauce on the meat and drown everything else in Worcester-
shire, until we got as tired of the condiments as of the food they
disguised. When Sam's mother wrote that she was coming through
Panama and asked what she could bring us drugs, clothes, books?
a cable was despatched posthaste reading: "Bernaise Sauce Bernaise
Sauce Sauce Escoffier Sauce Escoffier Any Sauce." She undoubtedly
thought the tropics had affected our sanity, but she arrived with
eight welcome bottles, and while they lasted, the cuisine of the
Sitio Conte seemed as good to us as Voisin or "21."

Chapter 20

HPOWARD the middle of February, with half the field season
J[ over, Sam decided to take two weeks off to visit the adjoining
province of Veraguas. Andy, having had enoogh of the simple life,
had departed for home and the "complicated love affair/' Our
technician, whom I shall call Teck, had been with us for about a
month and could be left in charge of the work at the Sitio Conte,
It was a good time for us to go.

Teck had arrived from the States equipped to do about every-
thing which could be done on a dig. He had a large and complicated
series of instruments with which to survey the site. He had a camera
and a special drawing board on which to make pictures. He had
plaster to construct molds of anything that could not be removed
from the ground and gum arabic and synthetic resin to help him
take out the very delicate material. With his magnifying glass, his
instruments and his little pots of paste, he looked like nothing so
much as a Sherlock Holmes hot on the trail of prehistoric murder.
Teck was terrifically efficient.but, unf ortunately, had the irritating
characteristics which usually accompany this quality. He was slow
and careful and deliberate, and nothing could hurry him. He was
thorough. He was so thorough that he was exasperating. So much
so that we would all wait hopefully for him to make a mistake, and
on the day when lunch was held up some twenty minutes while he

THROW ME A BONE 195

removed an piece of one of the

and the bone was off the he'd pot

It too near the edge) to powder, was

elation. Secret, of course.

Teek loved to talk and, once started, he jest could not be stopped.
He had been married for some years and "the wife" was at last
about to make him a father. Although "the wife" and I still remain
strangers, I have never known anyone so intimately. Her appearance,
her cote sayings, what she ate, what she wore, what she liked, were
thrust at me until I got a mental stomach-ache. S|ie wrote him
almost every day and each symptom of her approaching mother-
hood was mine not for the asking. It got so I spent my time avoiding
TecL

So when Sam suggested a side trip to Veraguas I was delighted.
Veraguas y though close to Code, has its own particular culture. For
some years the Museum at Harvard had been buying archaeological
specimens from this district, but as no data had accompanied the
material ? they were anxious for Sam to authenticate their collection
by enlarging it and by putting in a few days 7 dig to get the information
straight from the horse's (or Indian's) mouth.

Our first step was to get in touch with a Spaniard named Don
Juan, through whom the Museum had obtained most of its spec-
imens. Don Juan was as unlike his namesake as could possibly be
imagined. About five feet tail, he was thin and mangy, with a
straggling mustache that hung down unevenly on one side. His
suit was a faded blue, stained and spotted, and although the spots
increased daily I never saw him wear anything else. No one knew
how he had happened to come to Panama, but in the 'jo's, when
the Pan-American Highway was cut through Veraguas, he chanced
to be on the spot, and as the road diggers hit upon ancient remains
Don Juan was right there to pay out good money for objects hot
out of the ground, which he in turn disposed of at an immense
profit. After a while he had virtually cornered the archaeological
market, and the natives throughout the province brought him all
their finds. He was obviously delighted at taking us, a couple of

196 THROW ME A BONE

gringo prospects, in tow. "Easy pickings/" he probably said to
himself.

The first week the three of us spent touring the countryside in
a hired car, searching for already opened ancient graves in order
to note the types of burial and looking at private collections of
pottery in the hope of doing some buying for the Museum. Although
Don Juan had originally claimed to know the site of several cem-
eteries, when the time came he suddenly developed amnesia. This
no doubt was because there was no profit in showing moldy bones,
whereas, in lading us to collections, he could enjoy his -accustomed
role of middleman.

Thus we visited house after house and Don Juan's system rarely
varied. We would enter and look at the pottery. Don Juan would
look at our host "Oh, Don Carlos," or "Don Jose/' or "Don
Alfonso," he would say, as the case might be, "would you mind show-
ing me where I can wash my hands." (A painfully obvious subterfuge
as soap and water were completely alien to his anatomy! ) When the
two returned, Don Juan, his hands as dirty as before, would ask Sam
if there was anything he was interested in buying. "This," Sam might
say, indicating a piece of pottery, and Don Carlos or Don Jose or
Don Alfonso would then bemoan the fact that Sam had selected his
best piece (whatever it happened to be) and either ask an outrageous
price for it or flatly refuse to sell at all.

In the first case, Don Juan would use his persuasive powers to
reduce the tariff, barely bothering to conceal a conspiratorial wink
at his buddy, or, in case of a downright refusal, he would shake
his head sadly and escort us to the car. "Fll have one more try," he'd
suddenly announce, rushing back to the house. "Maybe I can make
the owner see reason." Needless to say he always returned with the
desired article or articles, and either way his own pockets bulged
more each day.

As Sam's great interest on the trip was to put in a few days of
actual digging, Don Juan made arrangements for us to stay with
a native Panamanian family on whose property were known to be
countless untapped graves. The head of the family was named

THROW ME A BONE 197

Jesiis, and his was on a hill In the interior,

from any automobile road. and

Don Joan started as on our way, to follow a little

later with an extra who would transport our folding
other luggage.

I was grateful no one but Sam was around to see my horse-
manship. The trail nothing more than a narrow gash through
tropical jungle growth and traversed a series of perpendicular Pikes
Peaks that would have pot a roller to shame. Bushes crowded

in on each side, slapping our faces, but as the path was muddy and
slippery with roots cropping up at unpredictable intervals, both
hands were needed just to hang on ? making it impossible to remain
nnscratched and still keep yoor seat. I alternately slid (going down-
hill) onto the horse's neck y where I locked my arms around his
head and hooked my legs back of the saddle, or sat (going uphill)
on his tail and tried to grab his mane and ears with my hands. This
last technique didn't appeal to him and he gently but irmly
deposited me in a bush, out of which I climbed with only minor
wounds and walked the rest of the way. Sam, who was apparently
having no trouble, finally looked around and saw me painfully
limping along. "Why be so considerate of your horse?" he asked.
"He's used to this sort of going." **You, you equestrian," I retorted
bitterly.

We arrived at our destination around six, Just as the sun was
. setting. Jesiis greeted us with enthusiasm and proudly ushered us
into his mansion a small hut, constructed of thatch and adobe,
which consisted of living room, bedroom and kitchen, and a nar-
row, roofless porch in front. As the bedroom was already occupied
by Jesiis's wife, who had given birth to a baby the night before, his
mother, who had functioned as midwife, and five or six additional
children, it was indicated that our cots should be installed in the
living room.

This was a dark and windowless chamber, containing exactly two
articles of furniture a log bed in one corner and a hammock in the
center, strung from one end of the room to the other. The floor was

198 THROW ME A BONE

of earth and convenient for the family, who used it for spitting
purposes. Jesus spat constantly, either out of nervousness or just for
pleasure, his various children considered it smart to follow his
example and Mama, who continuously chewed at a large, dead
cigar, apparently found it necessary to keep on expectorating stray
pieces of tobacco.

From under the eaves came a steady cooing which proved to be
pigeons. I have always loathed pigeons and see no use for them
(except roasted on toast, or possibly carriers in an emergency). And
these, which apparently never slept but cooed right through the
night, certainly didn't make me change my mind.

The entire family were obviously animal lovers for, in addition
to the collection of pigeons, they owned two horses, a cow, a pig,
three turkeys, four hens and a rooster, six ducks, three parrots, and
four dogs of questionable origin. Any or all of these (except the
horses and the cow) were inclined to wander in and out of the
house at will, affectionately encouraged by the children.

It did not take a detailed examination of our prospective bed-
chamber to make us announce that we were fresh-air fiends and
loved nothing so much as sleeping out-of-doors. Jesus was shocked
and disappointed, but he finally agreed to install our cots under
a nearby tree. By this time Don Juan and the equipment had ar-
rived, and Jesus wandered off, machete in hand, to cut some poles
so that a tarpaulin could be set up over our beds in case it rained.

He had hardly gone before I heard a yell of pain and, rushing
to the top of a hill from where the sound had come, I found Jesus
stretched on the ground holding on to his ankle, his face contorted
with fear. "Snake bit/' he gasped.

I first screamed the news to Sam and then, remembering rules
A and B of Dr. Clark's manual, looked for the snake. I looked
and looked but it was nowhere to be found, and I finally elicited
from a hysterical Jesiis that he had killed it with his machete and
thrown the carcass down a nearby ravine. This was discouraging,
but from the description I gathered it to have been a fer-de-lance

THROW ME A BONE 199

(Bothrops) and I we as well go on

as antibothroplc was the we ha4 us. Whether

or not the snake had had a In its was

matter. Obviously the only way to was to climb

the ravine after it, and somehow the didn't to me.

In exactly two minutes Sam Dr. Clark's kit

was a small tin box and contained a tourniquet., a knife, a
small bottle of iodine, a narrow pump and two different-sized
rubber nozzles, or suction cups, to be attached to the pomp. Ac-
cording to Burroughs Wellcome, who fathered the kit, which
nozzle you use depends on what part of the anatomy the patient
has been bitten. If there is a large area around the bite, like what
happens when yon sit on a snake, you can use the big nozzle. This
is a cinch, as on a lat surface the suction causes the rubber to stay
put and you can apply all your energies to pumping out the venom.
Jesus, unfortunately, had not sat on his snake. His wound was on
the inside of his left heel, against the ankle bone, so that it was
necessary to use the small nozzle, and one person had to hold it
down while the other pumped. First, however, we applied a tour-
niquet, and the men carried poor Jesus to the house and deposited
him in the living-room hammock.

By this time all the neighbors had collected, as well as the chil-
dren and some of the animals. Jesus*s mother had been in the kitchen
preparing our supper, but when the excitement started she gave
that up and got some candles, which various spectators held high
so that we could see what we were doing. We wouldn't have had
much time for food in any case as Sam and I worked continuously,
one of us holding down the nozzle and the other pumping out the
venom. Occasionally we allowed Don Juan to participate but we
didn't really trust anyone but ourselves. I was Florence Nightingale
and Sam took on some of the better qualities of Dr. Pasteur. He
had suggested that I keep a detailed record of our treatment for
the benefit of posterity and the scientific world. This I did on the
margins of a Penguin detective story, as no other paper could be

2OO THROW ME A BONE

found. However, I managed to write everything down clearly and
succinctly, as I had visions of our record landing in some famous
medical library.

We kept up the treatment for about six hours. This consisted of
applying a tourniquet and loosening it at regular intervals, taking
Jesiis's pulse and pumping like mad. We didn't use the serum, as
Sam decided it wasn't necessary. This was lucky, for we had brought
only one dose, and I was sure that if a snake had got Jesus that
quickly one would be sure to get Sam or me before we left.

Although it seemed fairly certain that Jesus would survive, he was
in a good deal of pain as well as horribly frightened. In a fit of
generosity and pity, therefore, I opened our suitcase and unpacked
our only bottle of whisky, which I thought might improve his state
of mind.

'What are you doing?" asked Sam as I was about to put the bot-
tle into Jesiis's eagerly outstretched hand.

"Giving him a drink, of course," I answered. "He needs it"

"STOP!" yelled Dr. Pasteur Lothrop, withering me with a glance.
"Don't you know that spirits increase the circulation and thus
spread the poison more quickly?"

"No, I didn't," I said meekly. So I took a swallow of it instead.
In fact, each time Jesus groaned we both felt so sorry for him that
we had to take a drink to keep from getting discouraged. By mid-
night Fd lost interest in playing Florence Nightingale, but Sam
stuck to his post for several hours more, until he was sure he had
pulled his patient through.

There was no longer any question of our sleeping in the great
snaky outdoors, but as Jesus and his entourage occupied the living
room, we put up our cots along the narrow porch, the jutting eaves
giving at least a slight protection. There wasn't much time to sleep,
anyhow. At dawn, as I was dreaming happily that I was being
decorated for outstanding services as a nurse, an agonized grunt
woke me. I thought, of course, it was Jesiis in his death throes and
I quickly sat up to find the pig nuzzling my blanket and making
unintelligible and horrid noises. Chasing him off did no good as

THROW ME A BONE 2O1

he affectionately kept coming backy so ! got up to see how our
patient was doing. Outside of a badly foot, seemed to

be in pretty good condition and obviously feeling a great deal better
than I did.

I was cheerful, though, for I was already looking forward to the
distinctly inferior but snakeless hotel in which we would sleep that
night. It never occurred to me that Sam would go on with the
expedition after the harrowing experience of the night before. I
was wrong. "Why, of course we're staying," said he. "After all, Jestis
is alive and doing well. (Doctor and nurse beamed smugly at each
other.) All arrangements have been made. Don't you -want to see
the dig?"

"Naturally," I answered. *Tm just scared to death, thaf s all."

"Nothing will happen/" declared Sam with false heartiness. And
added rather unnecessarily, "Just be careful not to step on a snake
and don't go wandering about after dusk."

Don Juan had hired ive men to do the digging but by 10:30 not
one had appeared. It turned out later that three of them had been
beaten tip with sticks at a dance the previous night, one had been
bitten by a snake (sic!) and the fifth had decided he didn't feel like
working. None of this worried Don Juan, as he was being paid by the
day, but after Sam threatened to go home and turn off the meal
ticket a new quintet miraculously showed up.

The graves were some two hundred yards from the house and
entirely different in type from those at the Sitio Conte. These were
small and deep (about twelve feet down) and shaped something
like a bottle, becoming slightly more rounded as they grew deeper.
No more than one man could possibly fit into any one grave at a
time, and after he had reached the bottom he filled the hole so
completely that an onlooker could see nothing more than his rear
end as he bent over to do his work.

We had arranged to pay the workmen's wages and a lump sum
to Jesus for the privilege of using his property, in exchange for which
any articles dug up were to be ours. Nothing emerged, however,
except a lot of perfectly plain pottery. Of course, for all we were able

2O2 THROW ME A BONE

to see, the earth might have been teeming with gold and other
metals 7 and the diggers, who were expert at obstructing the view,
could easily have lined their pockets with loot. In which case we
probably bought it back from .Don Juan, among other specimens
he sold us later on.

I didn't hang around the dig for long as there was nothing to
look at but the backside of a workman. There wasn't much else to
do, so I got a book and sat on a convenient rock to read it (first
making sure that there was no snake between the rock and me)-.
This wasn't exactly a comfortable seat but it wouldn't have been
bad accept for the children, who evidently looked upon me as a
strange combination of comic artist and lunatic and fascinatedly
tagged along wherever I went in order to see what peculiar thing
Fd do next They never said a word, although they occasionally let
out funny little giggles, and when I spoke to them they looked
scared and retreated a few steps, creeping back, however, as soon
as I was silent. This was so disconcerting that I never got beyond
page two of my book. Anyone who has ever tried to read in a per-
fectly quiet atmosphere with six pairs of eyes steadily trained his
way will know what I mean.

For the four days of our stay the small fry never let me out of
their sight. At first I tried to charm them. "What's your name,
little girl?" I started with. 'Tee hee," giggled Little Girl and
retreated. "Would you like to see my book?" I continued idiotically,
in a feeble attempt to break down the conversational deadlock. "TEE
HEE," came back in unison from the group. "What's wrong with
me?" I asked desperately. This elicited an absolute barrage of giggles,
as well as nudges and fingers pointing my way. "Why don't you go
home and leave me alone," I finally begged. "Go. GO." But they
hung on even more closely. It got so that if I wanted to wash or
perform other private functions I had to wait until they were
stuffing down their food (thereby missing most of mine) or until
it was dark and the Snake Problem reared its ugly head.

The nights were no less nerve wracking than the days. Fve always
been under the impression that animals slept when it was dark.

THROW ME A BOXE 203

This rale evidently did not apply to Jesiis' brood. Or it was

the climate. At any rate, the cow, the goat, the three and

two of the dogs were on the night and wandered restlessly

about, making horrid peculiar to their kind. At dawn they

subsided and the day took over. The ringleaders here were the
pig, the ducks, hens and turkeys, the remaining two dogs; and
each morning they did some sort of native song and dance around
our beds. The pigeons were on twenty-four hour doty.

I must admit the horses behaved normally. I've always loved
horses. They know, all right, that I feel about as secure on their
backs as if I were trying to walk a tightrope, and that unless I hold
on to the pummel of the saddle we are apt to part company, but
they're usually patient and try hard not to give me an inferiority
complex. In this case, though, it wouldn't have mattered, as I was
too numb and miserable to care about the figure I would un-
doubtedly cut on the way out. By the time we were set to leave I
was suffering from indigestion, a bad headache, violent insomnia
(enforced) and was close to being a mental case.

Our hosts seemed oblivious of my condition, and the old lady
and Jesus (hobbling around with a cane) and the children all saw
us off, grinning genially. I gave them a hollow smile and fell semi-
conscious on to my steed's stalwart back. When I came to, we were
back in 'what I had once foolishly and ungratefully considered a
third-rate hotel.

It was some time before we were in Panama City again and able
to see Dr. Clark. I could hardly wait to tell him of our heroic role
in saving a man's life and to give him the information we had so
painstakingly culled in the process. Although Dr. Clark had spent
the better part of his life studying snakes, I knew he had never
happened to be on the spot at the very moment that a fer-de-lance
had done its deadly work, and our firsthand report was bound to
interest him.

I had carried my Penguin book with its precious notations wher-
ever I went, not trusting it for a moment to alien hands. I carried it
to Dr. Clark's laboratory, too, and thrust it at him without a word,

204 THROW ME A BONE

while Sam and I sat back and watched his face as he examined it. I
was reminded of the time I had given the manuscript of a supposedly
humorous article Fd written to a friend to read, while I'd settled
in a comfortable chair and pretended to be engrossed in a book.
Naturally I hadn't read a line but had slyly watched my friend's face
while I occasionally turned the pages I wasn't looking at. Each
time he chuckled or even smiled Fd glowed inside with secret
pleasure.

Dr. Clark's face, however, was expressionless until he had slowly
and carefully inished and kid down our contribution to science. He
then looked up and, genuine astonishment in his voice, said, "And
you mean to tell me this poor man survived after the treatment you
gave him?"

What we had done for Jesus, it seems, had been more or less cor-
rect. The trouble was that we had done it much too hard and much
too long. Using a tourniquet over such a lengthy period, Clark ex-
plained, might have given him gangrene by interfering with his cir-
culation, and our six-hour pumping job was five hours more than
necessary and could have crippled him for life.

Sam and I slunk back to our hotel without speaking a word and
I took the Penguin book and quietly deposited it in the wastepaper
basket. It was weeks before I recovered from this blow and I only
consoled myself by deciding that it was Dr. Clark's fault for putting
out a snake manual telling you what to do but not when to stop do-
ing it.

Chapter 21

, said Sam, "will be known as Grave Member 26!" I was
1 shocked It was as if you tried to give a true picture of the Colos-
sus of Rhodes by describing it as a statue 105 feet high. Or the
Pyramids of Egypt as a group of geometrical buildings. All correct
as far as it went. Grave No. 26 had followed the discovery of Grave
No. 25 and would precede that of Grave No. 27. But it might better
have been called "The Grave of Graves" or "Locus Lothrop" or
"Harvard's Happy Hunting Ground/"

Grave No. 26 was the first grave to come to light after our re-
turn to camp from Veraguas. One grave! One grave measuring
twelve feet by ten. And what came out of that one grave could
have stocked a good-sized store. It took more than two weeks, all
of us working like mad, before Grave No. 26 was fully excavated
and its contents removed. After which Sam, Teck and I collapsed
in a weary heap with just enough energy left to count up the score.

There were mirror backs of stone, stone axes and arrow points,
metal, agate and bone pendants, agate and bone beads, quartz
crystals, pierced sharks' teeth amd dog teeth for necklaces, a carved
whale's tooth, the carved rib of a sea cow, incense burners and
sting ray spines, these last for use as spear points. There were nearly
two hundred and fifty pieces of pottery some painted in lovely
colors and in perfect condition, some badly broken and incomplete.

205

THROW ME A BONE 2QJ

Almost all, however, had new when buried, showing

that they had teen specially for use in the next world.

The gold alone Included three of twenty-

nine disks or plaques, quantities of ear rods, round cuffs for
and legs, inger rings, boar tusks set in gold, jaguar teeth, carved
whale's teeth encrusted with gold, chisels, pendants one in the
shape of twin crocodiles, another a doubleheaded bat and 7 finally,
two large emeralds in gold settings.

The excitement around camp was terriSc. We hardly slept nights,
waiting to see what the next day would bring forth. Breakfast and
lunch were necessary evils which took us away from the other world
in which we were living. We each had our own section to work in,
and we each kept crying "took" as more things came to light, and
nobody paid any attention as they were much too busy with their
own discoveries. Except the workmen, who left what they were
doing (they'd been banished to another trench) and ran over every
few minutes to see what was new.

Sam kept murmuring **but this is different I've never seen any-
thing like this before." Teck indulged in a running conversation with
himself about the pieces of carved bone, each of which put him in
a state of rapture, As for me, for once I couldn't talk. I just gaped
with delight.

Almost right from the beginning it looked as if we were in for
a big haul. Although the grave itself was comparatively small, we
found, surrounded by their treasures, what had once been twenty-
two bodies, crammed so close together that it was often impossible
to tell whose bones belonged to whom. There was no question,
though, as to which skeleton represented the head man. What was
left of him for convenience 111 call him Caesar reposed on a
large stone slab set in the center of the grave. His body had been
placed sitting up, whereas his cohorts had been laid out in rows
about him. His belongings were not only the cream of this grave
but were much more elaborate than anything found in any other
grave.

Some of the riches had probably been looted from other burials,

208 THROW ME A BONE

for there was evidence that in originally digging the shaft of Grave
No, 26 an earlier burial had been cut through and almost entirely
destroyed, while, underneath, another one had been mangled and
robbed of some of its spoils. Even so, Grave No. 26 must have been
extraordinarily rich to start with and Caesar an extremely important
man.

On the earth which covered his body were strange little cabalistic
signs which looked just as if some rodent had been buried by mistake
and had scrabbled around trying to get out for a breath of fresh
air. When I said this, Sam and Teck looked at me in such a way
that I wished Fd kept quiet, and after bringing out a magnifying
glass and other technical instruments, they pronounced the imprints
to be designs of what had once been a textile which had disintegrated
due to dampness. And heaped on top of what Fin still not sure
weren't mouse tracks but which I suppose Fll have to accept as
what-had-once-been-a-textile, were Caesar's treasures.

Here we found all twenty-nine plaques, the three gold-bead neck-
laces, the gold leg and arm cuffs, six pairs of ear rods, four gold finger
rings and the larger of the two emeralds. And, interspersed with
them, smaller gold ornaments, ornaments of stone and bone, and
a great pile of weapons and pots and pans. Caesar had obviously
been equipped to face almost anything anywhere.

As Fve noted before, one of the first rules of archaeology is that,
in excavating, the entire grave is neatened up and everything in it
exposed before so much as a splinter is taken out of the ground.
However when we struck Caesar's gold all rules were off. The orna-
ments were so obviously valuable that it seemed like tempting fate
(and the Panamanians) to leave them exposed, and Sam, Teck and
I worked by lamplight until late hours, taking notes, drawing pic-
tures and, finally, pulling out our treasure.

And what treasure it was! The large plaques were slightly bigger
than the ordinary dessert plate and were of beaten gold with designs
in relief, always portraying a crocodile in some form or other. They
were so handsome that any self-respecting crocodile should have
been flattered at the way he'd been glorified.

THROW ME A BONE 209

The twenty-five smaller gold were of a variety of

and, although undecorated, were extremely effective. Like the big
plaques, they had tiny along their edges, through which, Sam

deduced, they had been sewn to their owner's shirt or shirts. Of the
shirts themselves, of coarse, there was BO longer any trace.

The ear rods, which were made to be Inserted through holes In
the ears, were of different types and varied in length from two to
seven inches. Some were of hollow and had been filled with
gum to strengthen them. Others were of stone tipped with gold,
and one pair had evidently been made of wood which had rotted
away, leaving nothing but the gold ends.

"What could old Caesar have wanted with five sets of ear rods?"
I asked Sam. "Don't tell me he wore them all at once. y? I had a
picture of him trying In vain to hold his head erect. The gold-tipped
stone pair alone, which was a good six inches long and seemed to
weigh a ton when I picked It up, must liarve stretched the lobes of
his ears right down to his heels.

"He may have liked to change them off/" said Sam. "And then
there was always the chance he might mislay some of them up
there/' he went on, pointing vaguely toward the sky. He wasn't
trying to be funny, either. It just goes to show what archaeology
sometimes does to people.

The gold ornaments, as well as the stone and bone and pottery,
had been spread over and around Caesar without any attempt at
order. And scattered all through the earth as if they'd been carelessly
spilled out of a hat, were hundreds of Immense gold beads which,
when matched, made up three necklaces. The most spectacular one
consisted of a hundred and twenty hollow ping-pong balls this
was literally the size and when strung was so long that it could
be looped double to the waist.

When Eulogio saw these he said, rather sourly, "When I was a
child we used to play marbles with those."

"You what?" asked Sam.

"We used to play marbles/' he repeated. "Tou know, marbles.
The otter-boys and I would fill them with clay to make them heavy

21O THROW ME A BONE

and then we'd roll them. This way/ 7 He threw back his arm as if
he were in a bowling alley and demonstrated.

"But where did yon find them?" asked Sam.

"There were hundreds and hundreds of them/' Eulogio said.
"When I was about eight, the river changed its course and cut
new banks, and these things turned up all around. We thought they
were some form of tin."

"Whatever happened to them?" I asked, always the practical
one.

"Oh, eventually we lost them all." He sighed reminiscently. "It
was a good game, though."

In my mind's eye I could see the gold beads rolling over the
ground, sliding down the bank into the river, burying themselves
in the muddy bottom. In fact I was so fascinated by the picture of
a group of little black boys shooting marbles with prehistoric ping-
pong balls that I paid but little attention to the work I was doing.
AND THAT WAS WHEN I FOUND CAESAR'S EMERALD!

I must admit I didn't have the slightest idea what it was; all I
saw was a dull and dirty green hunk. "What's this funny stone?" I
asked Sam. He took a look and said, "Probably a piece of jade,"
which seemed pretty thrilling at the time, and he picked it up and
dipped it into a bucket of water which was conveniently sitting
nearby. Just then the midday sun happened to hit it full force and
green lights shot out and nearly blinded us.

I yelled like any amateur, while Sam, giving me a warning look,
quickly slipped the stone out of sight and smiled vaguely at the
workmen who had rushed over to see what the excitement was
about. They may have thought I'd seen a snake. They may even have
suspected the truth. At any rate, no explanations were ever given.

That afternoon, after everyone had gone home, we took out our
prize and just looked at it. It was decided to dirty it up again, as
we were afraid what might happen if word got around that we
had found an emerald. With a little plastic, earth and water, Sam
performed such a workmanlike job that our jewel looked like noth-
ing so much as a piece of rubble, and then he began to worry that

THROW ME A BONE 211

someone might ind it and throw it as a of rock.

In fact it was obvious that whatever we did the was going to

be a headache until we got it out of the country. I was sorry I hadn't
just grabbed it in the first place and kept quiet.

My reasons for this were not entirely unselfish. The emerald was
truly spectacular. It not only looked gigantic to us, it was gigantic
actually weighing 189 carats and measuring ae inch by an inch
and a half. It was something you might conceivably imagine in
Tiffany's window but certainly not in the wilds of Panama.

The stone was magnificent in spite of being in anything but per-
fect condition. Interior light, which nowadays you get by cutting
facets on the outside surface, had been produced by drilling eight
small holes into it. Someone had tried, too, to cut a hole right
through the center, probably to enable it to be worn on a chain,
but this had apparently proved too difficult and the idea had been
abandoned halfway through. As a result, the stone was chipped and
slightly cracked, but it was still green and sparkling and beautiful.

The emerald must have had quite a history, too. According to
Sam, Panama produces no emeralds and this one was therefore a
trade piece. "From Ecuador," he finally pronounced, after squinting
at it carefully. "This is the type drilling they used down there. Yes,
it all fits in/' he went on, as if he were Hercule Poirot or some other
famous detective. "The ancient Panamanians used to send ships as
far south as the coast of the Inca Empire. They probably made the
trade down there/"

I decided to give his little gray cells a bit more exercise. * r What
did they trade it for, Hercule I mean Sam?"

"God knows/' he disappointed me by saying. "Of course a lot
of sea shells native to Panama and Central America have been
found both in Ecuador and in Peru. . . ."

"A fine detective you are/' I broke in. "You're not trying to tell
me the Ecuadoreans would let the Panamanians palm off some old
shells for a magnificent emerald?"

"You've got a false sense of values/' said Sam witheringly. 'There
are other things in the world as important as emeralds." But I knew

212 THROW ME A BONE

he didn't mean it. He was just as excited about our mammoth jewel
as I was.

Near the emerald was buried its setting. Or, rather, a rough cast-
ing for the setting. This was a massive hunk of gold weighing the
equivalent of five old-time twenty dollar gold pieces and designed
to portray a mythological monster. Although it hadn't been finished
and the socket was not worked smooth, it had obviously been created
for the emerald to fit into it and, together, to make a pendant.
Though the emerald had come from far away the setting, because
of its similarity in style to the rest of the gold in Grave No. 26, must
have been the result of home talent.

Sam refused to make any definite statement as to why the pendant
had been deposited in the earth unfinished. "However/' said he, "it
looks and don't quote me please as if the pendant had been
specially made for this burial and the work took so long that the
burial couldn't wait. So they put it in as was/'

This didn't satisfy me. "I should think it would have been an in-
sult to Caesar to bury something with him that wasn't even fin-
ished."

"Not at all," said Sam. "The Indians, naturally, would expect it
to be finished in the other world. They may even have buried the
artisan who did the preliminary work along with it so that he could
complete the job later on. An important leader, naturally, would
rate that kind of service."

I saw nothing natural in any of this, but people who work like
mad to create beautiful things and then put them in the ground
and jump on them are apt to do almost anything. Fortunately the
emerald was one trophy they hadn't been able to hurt

The dig at the Sitio Conte turned out to be one of the most
spectacular digs ever undertaken in the New World. From the point
of view of what might be described either as loot or as archaeological
artifacts, depending on who was doing the describing, it was enough
to make the most blase individual's eyes pop. But what was even
more important was that, in Code, an unknown civilization had

THROW ME A BONE

come to life. It wasn't Aztec or Maya or !nca ? as Invariably

assume those being the only Latin American to get any

publicity It was absolutely new.

Sam was as surprised at this discover}- as Sir Isaac Newton must
have been when the apple hit him. "But what Is so strange about
that?" I asked him. "It's exciting, yes, but exciting things do some-
times happen."

"I didn't expect anything like this In Panama/" said Sam. "Pan-
ama is the gateway to South America and, as such, should show
evidences of the great migrations to that continent which must have
taken place thousands of years ago/'

"And doesn't it?"

"Not a sign/' mourned Sam. "Archaeologists have been unable
to discover any remains or temporal} 7 camp sites dating back to
those days. Instead we find a settled and complex community show-
Ing permanent occupation for some centuries before the Conquest/ 7

"But aren't you pleased to have found something new and won-
derful? Columbus didn't discover what he expected to, either, but
nobody complained/'

Sam acknowledged my comparison with a deep bow. "Of course
I'm pleased/' he admitted. "It's just that this upsets all previous
theories. Panama Is a place you would expect people to have passed
through, not settled In."

"Why?" I asked, probably for the hundred thousandth time since
I married an archaeologist.

"The culture of South America Is as highly developed as any
known In the New World," Sam explained patiently, "and the peo-
ple must have arrived there from somewhere. And how else except
through Panama?"

"Why not by boat?" I cried triumphantly.

But Sam demolished that theory In no time at all "And how did
the prehistoric horses and animals of the camel family, such as
llamas and alpacas, get south? Do you by any chance think the In-
dians could have squeezed a horse into one of their tiny boats?"

"You win/' I admitted. "But where does that leave us?"

214 THROW ME A BONE

"With a permanent population that shouldn't have existed and
no sign of the transitory one that did exist/ 7

"What a science!" I said admiringly. "You find some ancient pots
and pans and make a liar out of history."

Chapter 22

THERE comes a time toward the end of every field season, no
matter how interesting it has been or how much you've enjoyed
it, when, more than anything in the world, you want to go home.
You become stale, your co-workers seem deliberately to be trying
to annoy you and the dusty flavor of ancient remains sticks in
your throat. You have looked upon artistic antiques and scientific
discoveries until your eye is jaundiced and you would be more than
willing to trade In any pre-Columbian jug, no matter how beautiful,
for a twentieth-century aluminum frying pan. And throw in a few
bones for good measure.

My low point came after we had finished with Grave No, 26. We
had reached the peak of our work anything else would be an anti-
climax and my relations with Teck had gone downhill until I
felt the two of us could not be contained much longer in the same
area.

In all fairness I must state that to my knowledge there has never
been an archaeological expedition which did not end up with the
participants wishing to slit each other's throats. Two friends of
ours, well-known archaeologists, headed a dig some years ago in
the wilds of Central America, aM^vhich time one of them wrote a
letter to Sam, announcing in all seriousness that his companion
was trying to murder him. If the attempt proved successful, he

215

THROW ME A BONE 21J

stated, he wished the letter to be on so the

not escape punishment. Our frieed the un-

scathed, bet to this day he his were and he sees

nothing humorous in the situation.

Now that an interval of years has I look on Teck

more kindly and even appreciate his many qualities. Now 1

realize that I was obviously a victim of "expedition nerves'* a dis-
ease which anyone who has been cooped up in a camp for
more than a month inevitably acquires. The disease breaks out for
any reason, big or small; or for no reason at all. If your campmate
is disagreeable, naturally you dislike him. If he is agreeable, you
dislike him even more. If he is inefficient in his work, you resent it
If he is efficient, yon resent it twice as much. The way he eats his
food, blows his nose, the things he says, the things he doesn ? t say
all, all combine to foment undying hatred (which fortunately is
not apt to last after you once get home).

As a seasoned trooper Sam recognized these symptoms and ap-
plied the only possible remedy. He kept both Teck and me so busy
and consequently so weary that we had no energy left to scrap.

"I'd like a detailed survey of that grave/' he'd say to Teck. 'And
after you're finished, do check the measurements of that last trench.
I want to be sure we have them right/'

And to me: "Please clear that smashed skeleton in Grave 27."
(A fiendish job!) "And Yd appreciate your bringing all the bags
with pottery in them" (there were hundreds! ) "over to the main
house so I can sort them for packing. And when you're finished
with that . . ."

There was no doubt that Sam knew what he was doing. By the
time he was through with Teck and me we had barely enough
strength left to speak. Any attempted slap, if either of us had been
so inclined, would have turned out to be more of a love pat.

Sam kept our minds occupied, too. We would give a party for
our workmen, he decided, before we left. It was to be a dance, and
as the Museum was footing the expenses we called it the Harvard
University Ball The workmen were to supply (for proper compen-

2l8 THROW ME A BONE

sation) both the orchestra and the liquor the former to consist
of Panamanian drums, which certain of the natives knew how to
play, and the latter of chicha, or homemade beer, with which they
were all familiar.

Panamanians love parties, and the natives frequently give dances
at which they sell food and drink and to which people come from
near and far. News of these is generally passed about by word of
mouth some days ahead so that those living in distant places can
make their preparations. The formal announcement is marked by
the rolling of the drums as festivities begin and gives any nearby
friends who might have missed the glad tidings a chance to join in.
There is no question of arriving too late, for a party is apt to go on
all night, and when the liquor holds out, continues for days.

Because we wished to restrict our ball pretty much to the work-
men and their families and friends, and to avoid having the rough-
necks who often came on from distant towns, we announced the
party for a certain date but actually planned to give it two days be-
fore that time. At noon of the day itself the workmen were informed
of the change, and they were allowed to go home early to wash up
and put on their best clothes. Some days before, we had ordered
eighty gallons of chicha to be made by various members of the
Ramos family, and as Eulogio had been let in on the secret of the
changed date, we could count on its being ready.

Chicha is the local maize beer. It is made by grinding corn and
then boiling it, after which the mixture is set aside to ferment. On
the second day it is fit to drink and on the fifth it reaches full ma-
turity. The women of the family do the actual work, but the young
girls help by chewing extra kernels of corn and spitting them into
the brew. This far from sanitary process hastens fermentation, but
it seems to be done even when there's no particular hurry, so the
natives must think it adds a special fillip to the taste.

Actually, chicha has a refreshing and pungent flavor and a not
inconsiderable effect. The workmen occasionally brought us a jar
as a present and would stay for a short time after work to drink it
with us. The liquid was milky white in color and was scooped out

THROW ME A BONE 2ig

with a gourd that had been brought along for the occasion, from
which each drank in turn. We were considerately allowed to drink
out of oor own glasses, and if you could only forget how the chicha
had been made y it tasted pretty good. It was impossible to refuse
to join in, and after I repeated to myself often enough that alcohol
kills all germs I got so I could it down without being conspicu-
ous.

The night of the ball we ate early, for activities had been called
for seven. Long before that, however, the chicha had been carried
in in big clay jars and deposited in a cool spot Before seven, too,
the drummers arrived six of them and began to tune op.

The Panamanian dram is a cylinder of hard wood about two
feet high, the head of which has been covered by deerskin pulled
tight and held down by rawhide cords. Through these,, wooden
wedges are jammed to tighten it even more. The instrument is
placed on the ground and held between the knees and the feet,
and the actual drumming is done with the fingers. The result is
a strange and somewhat monotonous rhythm, the note of which
can be altered by lifting the base of the drum off the ground with
the toes. If you wear shoes, you might as well give up before you
start.

Earlier in the winter Jose Casada had tried to give me a lesson.
He'd brought his drum over one night after supper, and he and I
sat in front of the main house and practiced while Andy, Sam and
Teck stayed inside and groaned. I took the dram and clutched it
between my knees and hit the top of it with my fingers as Fd been
told to do. The noise that emerged was a cross between a honk and
a caw.

Jose Casada took it back and touched it carelessly with the flat of
his hands, producing a rhythm which would have made a jitterbug
weep with envy. "Maybe you'd better take off your shoes/* he sug-
gested.

I had visions of chiggers (a cute little insect which burrows under
your toenails and lays eggs there), athlete's foot and various other
diseases, but I had to show Jose Casada I was a good sport so I

220 THROW ME A BONE

removed my sneakers, took over the drum and touched the top
exactly the way Fd seen him do it. What came out was a cross be-
tween a honk and a caw.

"Maybe Fd better get my shotgun/' yelled Andy, "and have a try
at that bird/'

"All right/' I said. "I give up/' This was greeted by sighs of relief
from within and we all sat around and celebrated my failure. I
tried again on several other occasions, but as I never seemed to
graduate beyond animal noises I finally had to admit defeat What
was so maddening was that it looked so easy.

I thought of this as I listened to the drummers we'd engaged
getting ready. Even their tuning up sounded like Beethoven's Fifth
compared to what I'd been able to achieve, and by the time they
really got going, they were wonderful. By 7:30 the party was in full
swing. The Conte family and our white neighbors from across the
river had not yet arrived, but most of the other guests, who varied
in color from yellow to dark brown, were there in force. One old
crone named Dona Ines rode in on horseback wearing nothing but
an old-fashioned corset laced up the back, and carrying her dress over
her arm. I thought surely she'd been the victim of an attack but it
seemed she just wanted to keep her best costume clean. She tethered
her horse, slipped on the dress and joined in the fun.

Our gasoline lamps had been suspended from the trees and lit
up a fairly level square of ground on which the dancers disported
themselves, the drummers lining one side and the spectators the
other three. The women who weren't dancing formed a chorus and
chanted to the accompaniment of the drums. When they once
got on to a tune they hung on to it for an hour or more, and the
spectators sat around and clapped their hands in rhythm. Whenever
any of them got dry, which was not infrequently, they dropped out
and repaired to the chicha jars.

The dancing itself was amusing to watch. Only one kind of dance
is performed. The man selects his partner and the two dance op-
posite and then around each other, the girl with a handkerchief
which she flips gaily in rhythm with the music. The two never touch.

THROW ME A BONE 221

When a couple Is are the ioor, so

to speak, and the rest and yell

After a man gets tired of his partner, he her, off by

himself, and picks another. else in and

takes his place.

We had rum and a little whisk} 7 for our special guests, and the
drummers, who really worked hard, were given some rum, too, with
which to lace their chicha. As the evening wore on the music be-
came somewhat frenzied and the dancing freer. Jose Casada the
first apparently with sufficient courage asked me to dance aed
I grabbed Sam's handkerchief and performed various pseudo-pdka
steps around him while the audience cheered. After that, others of
the Ramos family stepped in, and though I didn't have the slightest
idea what I was doing, I went right ahead and did it anyhow.

We had carefully ordered what we thought would be the right
amount of chicha to last more or less until midnight, and in order
not to be thought stingy, had arranged for an extra supply to be taken
to a house about a mile away. Our calculations had been fairly ac-
curate, for by 12:30 the eighty gallons had been consumed, and by
one o'clock the party was being continued elsewhere and we were
able to fall wearily into bed.

Unfortunately we y d failed to reckon on the affection in which
our friends held us, for at sunrise back they came, staggering under
the weight of a fresh supply of chicha. Where they had obtained it
was a mystery. By that time the alcohol had taken pretty general
effect and there was no way of heading off the unwelcome guests.
We huddled in bed, therefore, I with a pillow over my head to
drown out the sounds which, as time wore on, became more and
more bloodcurdling. Actually no one tried to break in. I discovered
later that our workmen had formed a special guard to see that we
were treated with respect and even in their cups had seen to it that
no rash person approached too close to the houses. I only wish I'd
known about this at the time.

The party was still going on when we got up that morning, but
at eleven o'clock the last feeble guy fell to the ground. Our camp

222 THROW ME A BONE

looked like a battlefield. Bodies were stretched out all over the site.
Some had been lucky enough to collapse under the trees, but others
were exposed to the full rays of the sun. From time to time one of
the women would wander in and try to stir up some life in her man,
but in general the casualties were dead to the world and were left
alone.

Needless to say there was no work done that day. We stayed in
our houses, only emerging to take a photographic record of the
results of the Harvard University Ball. If after-effects mean any-
thing, it had definitely been a successful party.

The time was drawing near for us to leave, as the rainy season
in Panama begins in April and once it takes hold, it is impossible
to work. The men, therefore, were told to fill in empty trenches
with the piled-up earth that had accumulated, and Sam, Teck and
I spent our days packing up archaeological specimens. To me the
packing was painful work. Not for a moment were delicate and
valuable articles such as gold or bone put in my inexperienced hands.
Nor was I allowed much truck with the unbroken or more important
pottery.

My job was almost entirely concerned with the thousands of
fragments or, in archaeological parlance, sherds, which made up the
collection. The pieces of each broken pot, as well as could be
determined, had been kept together and put in a paper bag at the
time of removal from the ground, with a catalogue number scrawled
across the bag to identify it. It was up to me, then, to take, bag by
bag, these smashed and uninteresting-looking bits of clay and wrap
them in newspaper in such a way that they would take up as little
room as possible and would not break further.

To do this you nest the pieces one inside the other, always re-
membering to stuff them with plenty of paper and starting with the
small ones and working up to the large. Of course what happens is
that after what was once a pot is neatly wrapped and carefully
deposited in the bottom of a packing case, you find one small piece
which has dropped out and you are in endless trouble. Or, when

THROW ME A BOXE 223

everything to be going well, one of the of a

the newspaper and you to all again. After

about an hour you're sure your Is broken. And that your eyes
will never focus properly. My wasn't in the work anyway,

and 1 was constantly the to

extra little piece or break off protruding edge.

The monotony of this was somewhat relieved by Cholo Conte,
who rode over almost every day; for when he arrived I was let off
work to take on hostess duties. Cholo's ostensible purpose in coming
was to see If he could be of any assistance, but we all knew (and he
knew we knew) that his father had sent him to make sure we were
not making off with something to which we weren't entitled.

According to the contract between Harvard University and the
Conte family, the latter were paid outright for the use of their
property and were promised duplicates of everything found
whether metal, bone, stone or pottery. Any piece that was unique
was to go to Harvard. In addition, the Conte family were to receive
the bullion value of all the gold objects that were being sent to the
States, and these were set aside to be weighed In Panama City.

The division of the spoils had taken place on one momentous
day before the packing started. Everything (except the broken pot-
tery) had been spread out on benches or set on the ground. The
pottery fragments, It was unanimously agreed, were to be repaired
in the States and duplicates later returned to Panama. The Contes
had to trust us here, for many of the pots were so badly broken that
it was impossible to tell what was what.

As a matter of fact, Cholo Conte was a thoroughly nice person
and inclined to be easygoing. It was old man Miguel who was the
sharp one, and as he was unable to travel, he had sent over brother
Hector on "Division Day" to make sure that Cholo wasn't getting
cheated. Hector ran around from bench to bench sniffing like a
bird dog, and I even caught him peering under our beds to see if
we might have tried to hold out anything. The conversation went
something like this:

HECTOR: "What a perfectly beautiful pair of gold plaques!"

224 THROW ME A BONE

SAM (politely) : "They are beautiful, Don Hector, but I am sure
if you will examine them carefully you will see that they are not a
pair. The design on each is entirely different"

HECTOR: "Ah, yes, you are right, Don Samuel But I am sure I
have seen the replica of this one. It must be on one of the other
benches."

ELEANOR (to herself) : "Try and find it, Hector. Just try and find
it"

Hector, obviously having been primed by his brother, disputed
everything. It was all done politely, but his minute examination and
discussion of each piece dragged on so long that the two Contes not
only stayed for lunch but for a time I thought we would have to give
them supper. Cholo was clearly embarrassed by Uncle Hector and
made up for it by presenting me with three pots that were duplicates
and therefore belonged to his side. This made me unpopular all
around, for Hector glared in annoyance and Sam later tried to
persuade me that the Museum was entitled to my booty. Fve still
got it, however.

We were about ready to go home. The Conte family had removed
their share of the spoils and the packing of the Museum's lot was
to be finished up by Teak, who was staying an extra two weeks for
that purpose. With the exception of Sam's digging implements and
a few personal possessions, we had disposed of everything else.

"The custom at the end of a dig," Sam had explained, "is to give
each workman his pick and shovel, and I think Pat should be allowed
to choose his favorite pot and pan. The rest of the camp equipment
we can auction off/'

"Why auction?" I'd asked.

"There isn't any point in taking all these things back with us/'
Sam had said, "and although I would like to give them away, I feel
the Museum should get back something on their investment."

The auction at first was a complete failure. All the workmen, as
well as their families, attended it with interest, but they merely

THROW ME A BONE 22J

and gaped, "Won't anyone give me a bid?''
Sam, pointing to the dining-room table.

"Nineteen cents," Eulogio finally ventured, nor did anyone com-
pete with him. Teofilo went as as seven cents for the
mirrors, and the remaining pots and brought In bids
ranging from three cents to a dime.

'What about the cots and mattresses?" Sam fairly pleaded,
skipping In desperation to the prize articles. "Practically new and
in wonderful condition."

There was no response. Eulogio finally slipped over and whispered
In his ear: "We wouldn't know what to do with them. We sleep In
hammocks/*

"Oh, Lord/' exclaimed Sam. *Td forgotten. I suppose we might
as well give everything away. At this rate the most we can possibly
make for the Museum Is a couple of dollars/'

The moment It was announced that the auction was free it be-
came madly popular. Ever} 7 bucket, every broom ? every fork was bid
for, and now the cots and mattresses went like hot cakes, although
just what they were to be used for was not explained. Our guests
were orderly and polite, discussing among themselves who was to
get what, but they looked determined, and It was obvious that when
they came to claim their bids after our departure there would be no
mistakes. The auction was the strangest Pve ever attended.

It was while Eulogio and Teoilo were In our house deciding who
was entitled to the water pitcher that Teofilo noticed a pink slip
hanging over a chair. "I think my wife would love to have that,"
he said shyly.

"All right" I couldn't help but laugh. 'Take it for her/*

With that there was a scramble. "Please" begged ConcepcI6n,
"may I have this?" as she picked up my tooth powder. "I'd like to
have these pants," said Victor. "I could use this belt/' said Jos6
Casada. "How about this, how about that/' came from the others.

Sam and I quickly put aside what we absolutely needed and
distributed the rest All was well until Sam held up a new shirt

226 THROW ME A BONE

which he had bought in New York and which had turned out to
be two sizes too small for him. This caused a near riot. It seemed that
every man at the Sitio Conte insisted on being dressed by Brooks
Brothers.

"We'll have a raffle/' suggested Sam. And breaking off all but
one of a number of matches, he gave them to me to hold out. Jose
Casada looked so stricken at the prospect of losing the prize that I
steered the unbroken match his way, and his ecstatic toothless grin
at the result was worth any possible pangs of conscience.

When everyone had gone I took inventory and found I was left
with the blouse, duck pants, socks and sneakers which I planned
to wear on the trip out, one extra set of underwear, a brash and
comb, a toothbrush, a bottle of Alka Seltzer, a little face powder and
one lipstick. Fortunately Sam and I had a few clothes stored in
Panama City, for we were both cleaned out.

The actual day of departure finally arrived. And curiously enough,
although I had been thinking of nothing else for weeks, suddenly
I was terribly loath to leave. Our one-room shack looked cosy and
comfortable, and I was sure I'd never again have such good friends
as Jose Casada, Teofilo and Bernabel. I even felt slightly sad at say-
ing good-by to Teck.

We were seen off in style. Concepcion was dressed up in my
sweater (although it was a sizzling day) , her nose covered with tooth
powder and her lips smeared scarlet with my lipstick. Jose Casada
was bursting out of his Brooks Brothers shirt, which barely reached
his middle. Teofilo sported a pair of Sam's pants, and his wife, not to
be outdone, was wearing my slip over her dress.

Our bags had left at dawn by oxcart and we were to pick them up
at Palo Verde. Cholo had ridden into camp to escort us out and he
had brought his best (and gentlest) horse for me. I climbed on while
our friends stood sadly around. The men took off their hats and
yelled "Good-by" and "Good morning" and "O.K." and "Bastard"
(Andy's contribution), which was all the English they knew; and
I cried. I didn't want to go back to civilization at all.

Conclusion

A GREAT deal Is expected of an archaeologist's wife. The mo-
ment a woman gets involved with an archaeologist legally, she
is supposed to take on the wisdom of the ages, a terriic interest in
humanity past and present and an omniscience that most frighten
the ordinary citizen. Jnst why this is so I have never understood. If
you marry a man it is presumably because you like the man and not,
necessarily, his profession. Marrying a mortician or a dentist, for
instance, does not presuppose a passionate interest in and a knowl-
edge of embalming or filling teeth. Yet an archaeologist's bride is
expected to emerge from the marriage ceremony with a fullblown
understanding of history, sociology, linguistics and philosophy, to
say nothing of the less frivolous aspects of anatomy.

Occasionally an archaeological wife responds to this pressure and
becomes so serious and so erudite that by contrast her scientific
husband seems a master of frivolity. She bones up on bones, she
grows a mental gray beard, her interests comprise nothing that is
less than eight hundred years old. She develops an intellectual
arrogance which makes her scorn to straighten the hem of her skirt,
powder her nose, curl her hair, or in any way interfere with what
God has seen fit to give her. With such a female, vanity flies out the
window the moment archaeology flies in.

Every so often you will find the other extreme the archaeological
wife who perversely encases herself in a shell of flightiness that is

227

228 THROW ME A BONE

proof against any form of education. She flutters through archaeo-
logical life. She approaches a dig as if it were a reception, wearing a
costume which should make even a skeleton sit up and take notice.
"What's this, honey?" she gurgles, breaking off a vertebra or pushing
a painted jar out of place with her toe. At this point, Honey, if he
is wise, will send Mrs. Honey home, for it is obvious she has made
up her mind to learn nothing. To her, B.C. is something to be
avoided as assiduously as B.O.

These, though, are the exceptions, for as a rule an archaeologist's
wife is a pleasant person and a better mate than most. She is a good
sport and apt to have a sense of humor. Those qualities are essential;
without them she won't survive long in her chosen role. For if she
cannot learn to laugh about the difficulties she encounters and stand
them without too many complaints, she had better go home and
marry a banker or a baker or a bond salesman and live in the style
to which archaeology has not accustomed her.

Some wives take to archaeological life naturally. Some have to
learn. I was in the latter class and it took me longer than most. Con-
sidering that I was brought up in an atmosphere of Dutch Cleanser
and taught that a bedbug was Public Enemy No. i and soap more
important than diamonds, I suppose this was to be expected. And
if my batting average is still far from perfect at least I have learned,
if not to lap up discomforts, to make them as painless as possible.

Necessity is a good teacher. Take the question of food, for in-
stance. I was weaned on a theory that if you ate something that had
been exposed to dirt or touched by hands less sterile than those of
a surgeon about to undertake an operation, it would make you sick.
And though I soon realized the absurdity of this principle I still
preferred to close my eyes to anything I suspected to be hygienically
impure. No peering into kitchens for me. Let the cook keep tasting
the broth with the same dirty spoon, let the chop fall on the floor
as long as I wasn't there to see it. But in many places to which
archaeology leads you, neither your fastidiousness nor your digestion
is spared. You see what you eat and you eat what you see or you
starve.

THROW ME A BONE 22g

At one of my first meals in the backwoods of Chile I a

fly In my stew. "Hey/' I said to the waiter in my Spanish. "Look!
Fly." The waiter, who must have been myopic, the

until it was almost in contact with his nose and clucked sympatheti-
cally, whether at the ly or at me 1 never knew. Then he dipped in
thumb and forefinger and removed the hapless intruder, returning
me the purged stew. I ate nothing that meal. Bet the next time I
found foreign matter in my food (and there was a next time and a
next) I didn't call the waiter. I removed my own fly. And ate my
lunch. If Fd been hungry enough I would have eaten the fly. Or
the waiter's finger.

It is more difficult to get used to the insects which are a part of
archaeological life, although if you follow certain rales you may be
able to reduce the number and species that are out to get you. Lice 7
I've found, can usually be avoided if you don't get in close contact
with the native population and learn to curb your enthusiasm about
hugging some cute little Indian tot Chiggers, which like to make
their home underneath your toenails, can rarely fulfill this ambition
if you don't amble about in bare feet, though on occasion they have
been known to burrow miraculously right through your shoes. If
your work takes you into the wilder parts of the country, you will
ran into ticks; if you live in small and primitive towns, you will
almost surely encounter bedbugs. Tick bites can be kept to a mini-
mum if you are careful about sitting down on strange logs and don't
walk or ride through long grass. The only way I know to avoid bed-
bugs is not to go to bed.

But even if by some lucky fluke you manage to duck the assaults
of these various pests, there are always fleas! You have about as much
chance of going through an archaeological season without acquiring
fleas as a man in a Turkish bath has of not perspiring. But you soon
learn there is no use in letting any particular species of bug worry
you, for something is going to get you no matter what you do, and
once an insect has bitten, the itch is the same. Fortunately you can
always scratch.

The bathroom problem is one that even philosophy cannot

THROW ME A BONE

simplify. When you are on a dig you usually have your own camp
with adequate sanitation, but when you travel in obscure regions,
sniffing for archaeological ground and hobnobbing with Indians,
you live in any hotel or boardinghouse which will give you a so-
called bed. And here you are apt to find life at its most miserable.
"Oh 7 United States/ 7 you mourn, 'land of running water and enamel
fixtures, where there are more bathrooms per square person than
anywhere in the world, why did I ever leave you?" You develop the
same obsession for hygiene that a fat woman on a calory diet does
for chocolate creams. And no amount of training or experience can
improve the situation or make you mind it less. All you can do is take
typhoid shots, put a clothespin on your nose and pray you'll soon
be able to move on to more sanitary fields.

Most people go all starry-eyed as soon as they hear you are married
to an archaeologist and murmur envious phrases about the wonder-
ful and romantic life you must lead and how, secretly, archaeology
is the one thing in the world they would most like to have gone in
for. "Why didn't you, then?" is a question I always feel like asking.
And "What's wonderful about snakes and lice? Have you ever gone
three weeks without a bath? How do you go about pursuing ro-
mance?" are others.

In Panama, if Sam so much as kissed me, a technician, six work-
men and a couple of cows were apt to be watching. In Guatemala,
unless we kept our door open all day, we got neither light nor air,
while at night the Indians frightened any romantic thoughts out
of our heads. In Chile, the bathing facilities where our work took us
were often so sketchy that after a few days we stayed as far away
from each other as possible.

But it is only because the individuals who make glib assumptions
about the glories of archaeology are themselves usually wedded to
a life of comfort and ease dreamers who yearn for adventure from
the depths of an armchair that I long to shock them. For funda-
mentally they are right. Archaeology is wonderful.

Anyone who has the time and the money can travel. The average
tourist, however, flits comfortably from the Cafe de la Paix in Paris

THROW ME A BONE 231

to a gondola in Venice or; If he is more about Ms education,

depends on Mr. Cook to organize matters and sees life with his nose
in a Baedeker. I to do a little better than that. Before I was
married I spent hours and hours imbibing foreign atmosphere
visiting Soho, motoring along the Mediterranean, bicycling in
Brittany, drinking beer in Munich, squirming at bull ights in Spain,
ogling Norway's fiords, dislocating my neck to see Michelangelo's
frescoes in the Sistine Chapel. I have gaped at the Mona Lisa, at
the spires of Oxford, at the Elgin Marbles, at the Tower of Pisa, at
Napoleon's tomb, at sixteen Venuses, and at ninety-five Madonnas
with children. I loved every minute of it (or at least every other
minute), and my trips were a good deal more comfortable than
any since, but I've gotten more satisfaction and a better under-
standing of the people of the country (both dead and alive) out
of one archaeological trip than out of all the rest of my travels
put together.

On a dig you get to know everyone from the wealthiest country
squire to the poorest workman swinging a pick; as well as gov-
ernment officials with whom you draw up a contract, bankers to
whom you go for credit, storekeepers who equip you, bakers,
butchers, mailmen, individuals who arrange your transportation
ranging from aeroplanes and steamships to oxcarts and mules. There
is no aspect of life not yours for the seeing.

What's more, archaeology has the appeal of an Easter egg hunt or
a paper chase, and it is a thousand times more exciting. For even if
there are no painted hard-boiled eggs concealed behind cushions nor
rhymed jingles to interpret, the suspense is greater. In archaeology
neither you nor anyone else knows what you are going to find; the
prize has been hidden for centuries.

No hunt has ever thrilled me as much as the first grave in Chile
I was given to work on by myself. Sam was busy in a nearby trench,
and when our workman's pick struck evidence of ancient remains, he
told me to explore them. The tiniest pottery edge was sticking out
above the surface of the ground. "Go at it slowly," said Sam. "Re-
move all the surrounding earth and then work in toward the object

222 THROW ME A BONE

itself, for there is no way of telling how big it may be." So I took my
little trowel and my knife and carefully flicked away at the earth
until I reached something solid. Bit by bit the pottery came to life;
first the delicately curved rim, next the sides covered with intricate
designs, then the base. And there, discovered by me (or so I felt
at the time), was a magnificent painted bowl, as beautiful as any
art object in a museum. What's more, it was mine for the time
being, anyway.

Archaeology also has the appeal of a crossword puzzle or a word
game, and it is a thousand times more exciting. When you work on a
game or puzzle, either you know the correct answer or you can look it
up in the back of the book In archaeology you create your own an-
swers and conclusions.

I remember a grave in Panama which when uncovered and cleared
was an apparently senseless mess. There were nine or ten skeletons
laid out in parallel rows, some on top of others. There were layers
upon layers of pottery, most of it smashed to bits. There were
metal tools, bent and worn. There was jewelry scattered haphaz-
ardly about. And underneath everything else there were four large
turtle shells.

It would be nice, if inaccurate, to be able to say that Sam took
one quick glance and announced: "This is the grave of a chieftain,
his two wives, his three girl friends, his three children and his favorite
skve. The chief died of smallpox, one wife also contracted the
disease, and the other wife as well as the rest of his entourage were
given arsenic and thrown in with him. The chief had a nasty dis-
position and was disgustingly greedy about food. He was mean to his
wives and beat up his girl friends. The only kindness he showed was
to his pets, the turtles. He died in 1 399 and good riddance too."

What Sam actually did say was: "The people who dug this grave
must have had a hell of a 'killing' complex to have deliberately
smashed up so many things. What a mess!" In spite of the mess,
though, he was able to deduce the sex and approximate age of each
skeleton, some of their religious beliefs (they were all buried with
their heads facing east) , the food they liked best (turtle meat, beans,

THROW ME A BONE 233

and core ) , many of their interests (the was

with all the of a warrior; one weaving instru-

ments and another the for pottery).

It Is this detective work which archaeology its significance

its greatest fascination to clues and use dues to

enlarge your knowledge, to dig up a few bits of bone, of stone, of
clay, and pot them together to reconstruct a lost world.

That world, unfortunately, does not come to life very quickly.
I have found myself dying of curiosity while on a dig ? but the satis-
faction I got was zero. "What does this mean?" I'd ask Sam. "How
old is this grave? Why does this skeleton seem to be chewing his toe?
Why did this woman own four necklaces and two bracelets and her
girl friend none? Why did this man have ten females boned with
him?"

And Sam would shake his head and say, "I don't know." Or 7 *Td
rather not commit myself until I have further information/' Or,
"I'm not quite sure yet." And always, "Wait until we get home/'
Not that the answers are sitting waiting for you at home. YouVe
got to work to get them. The specimens that yon have dog up must
first be delivered to the museum, to be reassembled, cleaned,
mended, drawn and photographed. Then follows a period of histori-
cal research and a study of comparative material. Months and
months usually go by before you learn the inside story of Skeleton
XYZ or the saga of Trench 6, Grave 14.

Toward the end of a eld season, though, you forget all that
looms ahead before your curiosity can be satisfied, and you feel like
a mystery fan who reads a detective story in serial form and who lacks
the last installment You want to get home and find out the solu-
tion. What you want too, of course, is just to get home, for any
reason at all.

Each time we wind up an archaeological trip I look forward to the
same things. No scratching. Lying in bed late, soaking in a hot bath.
Plumbing. Ice water and fresh milk. Raw celery and lettuce. Plumb-
ing. Movies and theatres. Plumbing!

And what happens? About a month of these delights and I get

234 THROW ME A BONE

restless. It never falls. home from work, sinks Into a com-

chair in his comfortable apartment and tries to

appear ecstatically happy. So do I. We look at each other. I usually
say it first "This is the life! It's wonderful; no doubt about it. But
when oh when are we going where?"

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