Tramping Through Mexico, Guatemala and Honduras | Page 2

"Descent from the Cross"
ascribed to Titian.
Indians waiting outside the door of the priest's house in Tzintzuntzan.
A corner of Morelia, capital of Michoacán, and its ancient aqueduct.
The spot and hour in which Maximilian was shot, with the chapel since
erected by Austria.
The market of Tlaxcala, the ancient inhabitants of which aided Cortez
in the conquest of Mexico.
A rural of the state of Tlaxcala on guard before a barracks.
A part of Puebla, looking toward the peak of Orizaba.
Popocatepetl and the artificial hill of Cholula on which the Aztecs had
a famous temple, overthrown by Cortez.
A typical Mexican of the lowlands of Tehuantepec.
A typical Mexican boy of the highlands.
Looking down on Maltrata as the train begins its descent.
A residence of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec.
On the banks of the Coatzacoalcos, Isthmus of Tehuantepec.
Women of Tehuantepec in the market-place.
On the hillside above Tehuantepec are dwellings partly dug out of the

cliffs.
A rear-view of the remarkable head-dress of the women of
Tehuantepec, and one of their decorated bowls.
A woman of northern Guatemala.
A station of the "Pan-American" south of Tehuantepec.
An Indian boy of Guatemala on his way home from market.
Three "gringoes" on the tramp from the Mexican boundary to the
railway of Guatemala.
Inside the race-track at Guatemala City is a relief map of the entire
country.
One of the jungle-hidden ruins of Quiraguá.
The last house in Guatemala, near the boundary of Honduras.
A woman shelling corn for my first meal in Honduras.
A vista of Honduras from a hillside, to which I climbed after losing the
trail.
A resident of Santa Rosa, victim of the hook-worm.
The chief monument of the ruins of Copán.
I topped a ridge and caught sight at last of Santa Rosa, first town of any
size in Honduras.
Soldiers of Santa Rosa eating in the market-place.
Christmas dinner on the road in Honduras.
Several times I met the families of soldiers tramping northward with all
their possessions.
A fellow-roadster behind one of my cigars.
An arriero carrying a bundle of Santa Rosa cigars on his own back as
he drives his similarly laden animals.
The great military force of Esperanza compelled to draw up and face
my camera.
The prisoners in their chains form an interested audience across the
street.
Honduras, the Land of Great Depths.
A corner of Tegucigalpa.
The "West Pointers" of Honduras in their barracks, a part of the
national palace.
View of Tegucigalpa from the top of Picacho.
Repairing the highway from Tegucigalpa to the Coast.
A family of Honduras.

Approaching Sabana Grande, the first night's stop on the tramp to the
coast.
A beef just butchered and hung out in the sun.
A dwelling on the hot lands of the Coast, and its scantily clad
inhabitants.
Along the Pasoreal River.
The mozo pauses for a drink on the trail.
One way of transporting merchandise from the coast to Tegucigalpa.
The other way of bringing goods up to the capital.
The garrison of Amapala.
Marooned "gringoes" waiting with what patience possible at the "Hotel
Morazán," Amapala.
Unloading cattle in the harbor of Amapala.
The steamer arrives at last that is to carry us south to Panama.
We lose no time in being rowed out to her.
MAP
The Author's Itinerary

CHAPTER I
INTO THE COOLER SOUTH
You are really in Mexico before you get there. Laredo is a
purely--though not pure--Mexican town with a slight American tinge.
Scores of dull-skinned men wander listlessly about trying to sell sticks
of candy and the like from boards carried on their heads. There are not
a dozen shops where the clerks speak even good pidgin English, most
signs are in Spanish, the lists of voters on the walls are chiefly of
Iberian origin, the very county officers from sheriff down--or up--are
names the average American could not pronounce, and the saunterer in
the streets may pass hours without hearing a word of English. Even the
post-office employees speak Spanish by preference and I could not do
the simplest business without resorting to that tongue. I am fond of
Spanish, but I do not relish being forced to use it in my own country.
On Laredo's rare breeze rides enough dust to build a new world. Every
street is inches deep in it, everything in town, including the minds of

the inhabitants, is covered with it. As to heat--"Cincinnati Slim" put it
in a nutshell even as we wandered in from the cattleyards where the
freight train had dropped us in the small hours: "If ever hell gets full
this'll do fine for an annex."
Luckily my window in the ruin that masqueraded as a hotel faced such
wind as existed. The only person I saw in that institution during
twenty-four hours