ADVENTURING DOWN THE WEST COAST OF MEXICO 



491 



In the mountains are mines, of which 

 some produced steadily since Spanish 

 times, until their owners were compelled 

 to shut down by reason of the war, and 

 of the experiments in taxation which fol- 

 lowed. 



ROAD OF AZTEC CONQUERORS RUNS PAST 

 CUIylACAN 



The old road down which the Aztecs 

 marched on their way to the conquest of 

 Mexico runs past Culiacan. On the rock 

 walls of the canyons their carvings may- 

 be found. 



Unless rumor does them wrong, the 

 Indians here still worship the old gods, 

 though they have confused them some- 

 what w T ith the gentler teachings of Chris- 

 tianity. It was but the other day that 

 workmen on the great irrigation project 

 the government is furthering near by 

 found a painted jar or unbaked clay, ten 

 feet high and eight feet across the mouth, 

 filled with little painted clay images. 



Gods, perhaps, or toys ; no one knows, 

 for the workmen destroyed jar and figur- 

 ines alike. Not far from Culiacan is 

 what is said to be the largest meteorite in 

 the world. 



Twenty miles from Culiacan, over a 

 road compact of dust and bumps, we 

 found an old panocha mill. It had a 

 steam-engine and a cane-crushing device, 

 but otherwise the panocha was made just 

 as the Aztecs made it, no one knows how 

 many centuries ago. 



The juice of the cane was boiled down 

 and sugared off in troughs hollowed out 

 of ebony, and scld in crude cakes that are 

 in every market-place in the Republic. 

 Panocha looks and tastes much like our 

 maple sugar, and the Indians attribute 

 the most extraordinary virtues to it. 



THE MYSTERY OF THE LOST CITY OF BACIS 



One has but to open one's ears to hear 

 the most entrancing stories. Little min- 

 ing villages in the near-by mountains are 

 provisioned by mule train from Culiacan. 

 Through Indian villages pass the trails 

 that are as they were in Montezuma's 

 time, and have been used so long that 

 the unshod hoofs have worn holes eight- 

 een inches deep in the enduring rock. 



In these hills — somewhere — is the Lost 

 City of Bacis. One wanders by mule for 



days and miles until he comes to the vil- 

 lage of Bacis ; then one goes no farther. 

 The mountains have become impassable. 

 The little river which brawls down the 

 canyon is boxed in precipitous walls. 



Prospectors have tried to fight their 

 way farther and have returned baffled; 

 and when a prospector quits no other 

 man born of woman need try the traverse. 

 Even the Indians declare they do not 

 know the higher reaches of the hills. 



Yet — so say those who repeat tradi- 

 tion — oranges sometimes float down the 

 little river, and bits of oddly woven cloth 

 that have caught on twigs, and carven 

 wood. A legend has grown that some- 

 where in the hills is the Lost City of 

 Bacis. There are men and women living 

 there, say those who believe, and their 

 houses are filled with gold, and there are 

 fragrant orchards on the open slopes. 



It is said that the Indians have guarded 

 the Lost City since time immemorial. 

 Not even the Spaniards reached it. It is 

 still as it was in Montezuma's days. 



One feels grateful to those who tell 

 such tales. They are pleasant to hear. 



A PICTURE OF THE DEPTHS OF MEXICAN 

 POVERTY 



At Culiacan a veil seemed taken from 

 my eyes. I had been blinded by the color 

 and movement, the strange and pictur- 

 esque life, the romantic accessories of 

 Mexico. 



I now began to realize the depths of 

 poverty in which most of the lower-class 

 Mexicans live. They do not often starve, 

 perhaps, for they have that charity that 

 distinguishes the very poor ; but they 

 rarely have enough to eat. They lack all 

 luxuries except tequila and pulque and 

 panocha and tobacco. They live on a 

 plane of discomfort and unhappiness and 

 ignorance. 



I had been looking on the Mexican 

 habit of taking a siesta with a certain 

 contempt. No sun had been warm enough 

 to keep Adams or me under shelter. We 

 had wandered through miles of empty 

 streets, between shuttered houses. The 

 occasional passer-by looked on us with 

 amusement, as two mad Gringoes who 

 knew no better. 



"They're lazy," I said. 



But they are not. Well fed and well 



