Fir\cac Life in Guatemodev. 
By CHARLES S. PEARSON 
A T Acapulco, Mexico, the Pacific Mail 
steamer on which my companion and 
myself were southward-bound from 
San Francisco anchored side by side with an¬ 
other bound north from Panama. 
“Revolution going on in Guatemala when we 
left, was the report of the officers of the other 
steamer. 
“You will have an early opportunity to ex¬ 
perience the greatest bane of finca existence,” re¬ 
marked my companion, a San Franciscan, trans¬ 
planted to Central America. 
It is not the purpose here to deal with life on 
a coffee finca (plantation) under conditions of 
revolution. The story would fill several chapters 
and would be too harrowing. I shall touch only 
upon everyday finca existence. Revolutions in 
Guatemala are not diurnal, though certainly 
perennial. 
This particular finca was named Carolina by 
the owner, who hewed and chopped it out of 
the primeval tropical forest. It is on the Pacific 
slope of Guatemala, not more than twenty or 
twenty-five miles as the parrots fly, from the sea 
itself. It is on the coast sierra, at an elevation 
of some 3,000 feet. The Mexican frontier is 
not distant more than four or five leagues. 
The finca, whose proprietor is a typical Eng¬ 
lishman of the kind that build empires, is part 
of that mysterious departmente—a county it 
would be in this country—designated as El 
lumbador (The Thunderer.) At times a rumble 
as of thunder is heard, but it comes from the 
bowels of the earth instead of the sky. It is 
due to the workings of a buried volcano, and the 
whole region is located in what is the volcanic 
belt of Central America. 
This district was devastated by the eruption of 
the volcano Santa Maria, practically coincident 
with the destruction of St. Pierre, Martinique. 
During the eruption for three days darkness set¬ 
tled on Carolina, so thick did the ashes fall. 
One standing on the front corridor of the 
finca house, can see ships passing along the 
coast. The arrival of vessels at the port of 
Ocos, thirty miles away, is plainly discernible. 
Pacific Mail steamers are supposed to touch at 
the port every ten days, but that is no guarantee 
that mail landed at the port itself will reach the 
person for whom intended. Three or four weeks 
after I had reached the finca the owner came 
one day with an opened letter in his hand and 
a smile on his face. 
“I am very glad you have concluded to come 
from San Francisco to stay with me,” he said. 
“I was afraid you might decline the invitation.” 
He showed the letter which had been postmarked 
San Francisco several weeks before, but which, 
for some inexplicable reason, had been detained 
between the port and the local post-office, Tum- 
bador, a league or so away, some ten days after 
it had been first mailed. 
It was never warm on the finca except in the 
direct rays of the sun, as the temperature ranges 
between 65 and 80 degrees F. the year around. 
In spite of this, no one takes exercise which can 
be avoided. 
This reminds me of an incident which occurred 
just after my arrival. The prospect of a walk 
through the coffee berry-emblazoned trees looked 
so enticing that it was suggested to Don Ale¬ 
jandro, the English owner and my relative, that 
he and Don Carlos, the guest, should walk to the 
oficina v almacen (office and warehouse), not 
more than a quarter of a mile away, and down 
grade. 
“Very well, my boy, we will go afoot,” was 
the smiling answer, though both of us were 
booted and spurred, and the horses were hitched 
below. Turning to Raimundo, his native body- 
servant and major-domo in one, Don Alejandro 
addressed to him a few words in Spanish. Then 
we started down the path shaded by the red- 
berried trees. But the walk was not what it had 
been imagined. A leaden weight appeared 1o 
press on the legs, an indefinite something re¬ 
tarded progress. The place was in the mount- 
tains, but the air had no exhilarating effect. 
Finally the destination was reached and we sank 
into chairs, as if the stroll had been a five-mile 
jaunt at the double-quick. 
On my relative’s face was the flicker of a 
smile, though he was silent. “Don’t you think 
we would better send a rnozo for the horses to 
take us back?” I asked. The smile on Don 
Alejandro’s face changed into a broad grin. 
"No need for that,” he laughed. “I told Rai¬ 
mundo to bring them before we started. This 
is not England or the States; it’s the tropics. 
You’ll find out what that means when you have 
been here a while longer. Paste that in your 
sombrero.” Life on a coffee finca, where there 
are dozens of servants to wait upon one 
if wanted, where there are many horses, is more 
conducive to general slothfulness than anywhere 
else. At any rate we never hurried or worried. 
Carolina is of seven or eight hundred acres, 
mostly covered with coffee, though a portion 
then was tropical forest. The coffee trees are 
not more than ten or tw r elve feet high, with beau¬ 
tiful glossy leaves. Occasionally the tall forest 
trees are left standing, and tower like giants 
above the dwarf coffee. 
This plantation was in reality a village in itself, 
consisting of a casa grande, the home of the 
planter; casa abajo (lower house), or collection 
of houses; home of the administrator (over¬ 
seer) ; quarters of his assistants, clerks, etc., sep¬ 
arate from the other; office, warehouse and 
houses for cleaning the coffee. The laborers, 
known as mozos, occupy ranchos as far away 
from the white habitations as possible, generally. 
These huts are thatched with plantain leaves and 
are often hidden in clumps of plantain trees. 
The finquero (finca owner) is in supreme con¬ 
trol of the plantation and the people, after him 
being the admin istrador. A native alcalde 
(mayor) is the connecting link between owner 
and laborers. 
The day’s labor began at sunrise and ended at 
sunset, with the noon siesta sandwiched between, 
but one laborer in the United States could do 
as much in one ordinary day as four or five 
of the mozos in their longer hours. In the pick¬ 
ing season professional coffee pickers, known as 
tapiscadores, were requisitioned from the pueblos 
up in the mountains, where they eke out bare 
existence from one picking season to another. 
They use round, shallow baskets, receiving a 
brass check for each basket of berries, the checks 
being redeemable in the silver of the country, less 
the cost of keep and debts already contracted. 
The pay is but a few pennies a day. 
On Carolina we had the best of food and 
drink, but the monotony of the life to one ac¬ 
customed to the pleasures and amusements ot 
city existence was little short of maddening. It 
was a life of ease and plenty, but not content¬ 
ment for anyone who wishes to be a living entity 
in the foremost ranks of men. The programme 
day in and day out, was as follows : Each morn¬ 
ing Raimundo would appear in the room of 
every sleeper, and with infinite care and caution 
go through the articles of wearing apparel to 
disturb tarantula, centipede, arana (a terrible 
spider), or other poisonous creature which might 
be lurking therein. If the occupant of the apart¬ 
ment was awake, but still in bed, the servant 
would not speak. It was only when a person had 
left the bed that he would venture “Bueno dias, 
senor.” It was not according to Guatemala eti¬ 
quette otherwise. 
First the refreshing shower bath, after which 
breakfast. This breakfast was nothing but a slice 
of bread and a cup of tea or coffee. The real 
breakfast was not eaten until noon or 1 o’clock. 
It was the subject of jest on this finca, which 
produced the finest coffee, that the planter him¬ 
self invariably drank tea. 
Always a ride about the plantation or a visit 
to neighboring fincas followed the morning bite. 
No matter whether it was the dry or rainy sea- 
