A MEXICAN LAND OF CANAAN 



Marvelous Riches of the Wonderful West Coast of 

 Our Neighbor Republic 



By Frederick Simpich 



Formerly American Consul at Nogales, Author of "Where Adam and Eve Lived,' 



the Shia Mecca," etc. 



"Mystic Nedjef, 



V 



TAMON-O-O-S I" yelled the con- 

 ductor, and the long mixed train 

 for Guaymas started with a jerk. 

 From the tail of its caboose I looked back 

 at Nogales, sun-bathed and lazy, sprawl- 

 ing indolently astride that historic line 

 called the Mexican border. From beside 

 us, as we gathered speed, tin-roofed 

 adobe shacks and groups of loitering 

 peons slid back into the wood-smoke haze 

 that hinted at native breakfasts of beans 

 and burnt coffee. 



From a wayside corral rose a burst of 

 oaths and clouds of dust, as into its "dip- 

 tank" yelling cowboys urged a herd of 

 sullen steers; a mad tangle of hoofs, 

 horns, and tails they were, but Uncle 

 Sam says incoming cattle must take this 

 creosote bath, lest they carry fever ticks 

 that might injure our own source of T- 

 bones and prime ribs au jus. 



Past stunted live oaks we glided and 

 into a shadowy canyon, its sloping sides 

 marked with cow-paths like terraces. Up 

 a stony trail a mule train plodded, packed 

 with cases of dynamite, bags of flour, 

 and provisions, bound for a mine hidden 

 somewhere in the distant blue hills of 

 Sonora — hills of incredible riches. And 

 far to the south of us, for a thousand 

 curving, twisting miles, the pioneer rail- 

 road pushed its way, down into that 

 Promised Land of Mexico, the far-flung 

 famous West Coast. 



WHERE THE COLOREUL LIFE BEGINS 



The change in plant and animal life 

 and industries as you pass from Arizona 

 into Mexico is very slight for the first 

 200 miles or more. Had they not 

 searched your trunk at the custom-house, 

 and maybe charged you duty on that new 

 camera, you might not have realized that 



you had crossed a frontier. It is only 

 after you quit the high, rolling grassy 

 ranges of northern Sonora and strike the 

 Yaqui valley below Guaymas that a new 

 world reveals itself. Here the bright, 

 colorful life of the vast coastal plains 

 begins. 



Flocks of screeching green parrots flap 

 noisily overhead. Skulking coyotes twist 

 swiftly away into the palo verde bushes. 

 At dusk spotted bob-cats lurk in the 

 brushy trails, stalking rabbits. In smoky 

 Indian camps along the railway Yaqui 

 troops are on duty, patrolling the line 

 against their wild brothers of the hills. 

 One sees them making sandals from 

 green cowhide or cutting a beef or a 

 burro into strips and hanging the meat 

 up to dry. From their outposts come the 

 dull signal-beats of their tom-toms. "The 

 sound of that drum always gives the en- 

 emy an earache," a Mexican officer told 

 me. 



A LAND 0E WONDROUS LURE 



Beyond this Yaqui zone lie the vast 

 level plantations of cane, corn, beans and 

 tomatoes, and that important Mexican 

 crop, the "garbanzo," or chick-pea. 



It is a land of wondrous lure, rich in 

 romance and adventure, is this magic 

 West Coast. From Acapulco to Arizona 

 the impious bones of buccaneers are 

 strewn ; and along this same age-old 

 Aztec trail intrepid padres fought their 

 way, building fort-like missions and 

 carrying the cross to arrogant Apaches 

 and pagan Papagos. From Cortez and 

 Sir Francis Drake to the American min- 

 ers and planters of today it has drawn 

 restless men from the world's far places 

 and ensnared them with its subtle charm. 



Millions in gold and copper have been 



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