Morazán
A storm of cassocks explodes. Rafael Carrera is the lightning flash that instills fear, and all over Guatemala roll the thunderclaps: “Long live religion! Death to the foreigners! Death to Morazán!”
No candle stays unlit. Nuns pray so fast that in nine seconds they roll off nine novenas. Choirs intone salutations to Mary and curse Morazán with the same fervor.
Francisco Morazán, president of Central America, is the heretical foreigner who has unleashed these mystical furies. Morazán, born in Honduras, has not only unified the Central American provinces into one nation, he has also reduced counts and marquesses to the category of mere citizens, and has created public schools that teach things of this world and say nothing of Heaven. According to his laws, a cross is no longer necessary for a grave nor a priest for a wedding, and he makes no distinction between a child born in the conjugal bed and a child made, without previous contract, on the straw of a stable, the one having the same inheritance rights as the other. Gravest of all, Morazán has separated Church and State, decreed freedom to believe or not to believe, suppressed the tithes and first fruits of the Lord’s officers and put their lands up for sale.
The monks blame Morazán for the plague that is devastating Guatemala. Cholera is killing people off, and from the pulpits rain fulminating accusations: Morazán has poisoned the water; the Antichrist has pacted with the Devil to sell him the souls of the dead.
The people of the mountains rise against the poisoner. Rafael Carrera, the hog farmer who leads the insurrection, is just over twenty and already has three bullets in his body. He goes about covered with scapularies and medals and with a green bough stuck in his hat.
(220 and 253)
1838: Buenos Aires
Rosas
Great tamer of ponies and people, Juan Manuel de Rosas is the boss of the River Plata ranges. Guitarist and dancer, he tells the stories that provoke the most fear or laughter around the campfire, but he is made of marble and even his children call him “master.” He has the cook who ruins his chicken arrested; and he has himself whipped when he carelessly violates one of his own rules.
His estancias are the most prosperous; his meat-salting plants are the best organized. Rosas owns the best of the sea of grasslands that extend from the port of Buenos Aires to the Indian villages.
Rosas governs. He has decreed a customs law that protects Argentinian production of ponchos and mattresses, shoes, carriages, ships, wine and furniture, and he has closed the interior rivers to foreign merchants.
The Revue des Deux Mondes demands that France give a lesson in civilization and discipline to the degenerate sons of the Spanish conquest. The French squadron, under command of Admiral Leblanc, blockades Buenos Aires, the only Argentine port equipped for overseas commerce.
(166, 271, and 336)
1838: Buenos Aires
The Slaughterhouse
Esteban Echeverría writes the first story of River Plata literature. In The Slaughterhouse, the Rosas dictatorship is the harassment of a defenseless Buenos Aires doctor by a knife-wielding mob.
Born in the slums and hardened by street-fights, but polished in Paris, Echeverría despises “the rabble.” A slaughterhouse in the south of the city offers a fantastic setting for the writer to describe dogs fighting over entrails with the black women eviscerators, and to tell of the “fuck-you’s” bubbling up from vulgar throats as blood flows from the beasts’ necks. The throat-cutter of the story wears a gaucho’s poncho, has his face daubed with blood, buries his knife up to the handle in a steer’s throat, and later corners the elegant black-tied gentleman who has refused him common courtesy.
(104)
More on Cannibalism in America
In his last cavalry charge, Colonel Juan Ramón Estomba hurls his horsemen against nobody. The war against Spain has ended, but much more atrocious is the war of Argentines against Argentines. Colonel Estomba raises his sword and howls: Charge! and in a whirlwind of war-cries and sword-thrusts the horses attack the empty horizon.
This torn country is mad with fury. The heroes of independence devour one another. Estanislao López receives the head of Pancho Ramírez, wrapped in a sheep’s hide, puts it in an iron cage, and spends a whole night joyfully contemplating it. Gregorio Lamadrid loads the mother of Facundo Quiroga with chains and drags her through the streets, before Facundo falls in an ambush, a bullet in his eye. In a corral, on a carpet of cowshit, Juan Lavalle executes Manuel Dorrego; and ever since, the ghost of Dorrego has been following Lavalle, biting at his heels until one day he catches up to him and sews him with bullets to the nude body of his lover, so that Lavalle may have the pleasure of dying inside a woman.
(55, 103, 110)
1838: Tegucigalpa
Central America Breaks to Pieces
while Morazán fights in Guatemala against the multitude inflamed by the monks.
One after another, the feeble threads that had sewn this country together break. Costa Rica and Nicaragua nullify the federal pact and Honduras, too, declares itself independent. The city of Tegucigalpa celebrates with drums and cymbals and speeches the failure of its son who, ten years ago, launched from here his great unifying campaign. Provincial rancor, envy and greed, old poisons, prove more powerful than the passion of Morazán. The Federal Republic of Central America lies torn into four pieces, soon to be five, and then six. Poor pieces. For each other, they feel more hatred than pity.
(220)
1839: Copán
A Sacred City Is Sold for Fifty Dollars
and the buyer is John Lloyd Stephens, United States ambassador to Central America. It is the Maya city of Copán, in Honduras, invaded by jungle on the bank of a river.
In Copán the gods have turned to stone, and into stone also the men whom the gods chose or chastised. In Copán, more than a thousand years ago, lived the wise astronomers who discovered the secrets of the morning star and measured the solar year with a precision never equaled.
Time has mutilated, but not conquered, the temples of lovely friezes and carved stairs. The divinities still look out from the altars, playing hide-and-seek among the plumage of masks. Jaguar and snake still open their fangs on steles rising from the underbrush, and men and gods breathe from these stones, silent but never dumb.
(133)
1839: Havana
The Drum Talks Dangerously
The Captain General of Cuba decides to authorize drum dances on the plantations, provided that they are held on fiesta days and under the vigilance of foremen.
The foremen are to prevent the drums from transmitting voices of rebellion. Black drum, live drum, it does not sound alone. The drum converses with other drums, the macho drum calls, and talks dangerously to people and gods. When the drum calls, the gods appear and enter bodies and fly from them.
In very ancient times, the scorpion Akeké killed boredom by plunging his stinger into a human couple. Since then, the blacks come dancing out of the mother’s belly, dancing, they say, love or pain or fury; and dancing they pierce the ferociousness of life.
(22, 222, and 241)
1839: Havana
Classified Ads
(276)
ECONOMIC SECTION
Sales of Animals
For sale, a Creole negro woman, young, healthy and without blemishes, very humble and faithful, good cook, with some knowledge of washing and ironing, and excellent for managing children, for the sum of 500 pesos. Further information at 150 Daoiz Street. 3//11
For sale, a handsome horse of fine breeding, six spans and three inches …
DOMESTIC GOODS FOR HIRE.
Negro women for service in the home. Negroes as peons and for any work, and small negroes to play with children. Full information at 11 Daoiz Street. Mar. 21
LEECHES superior quality just arrived from the peninsula, for sale …
1839: Valparaíso
The Illuminator
Up a hill, in the Rinconada barrio of the Chilean port of Valparaíso, in front
of a plain house there is a sign:
AMERICAN LIGHTS AND VIRTUES
That is, tallow candles, patience,
soap, resignation, strong glue,
love of work
Inside, kitchen smoke and uproar of children. Here lives Simón Rodríguez. Bolívar’s teacher has in his house a school and a small factory. He teaches the children the joy of creating. Making candles and soaps, he pays the bills.
(298)
1839: Veracruz
“For God’s Sake, a Husband, Be He Old, One-Armed, or Crippled”
The Spanish ambassador treads Mexican soil for the first time. He finds in Veracruz no birds except vultures stalking corpses. Arm-in-arm with his wife, he goes out to stroll the sad streets, to learn the customs of the country.
In a church the ambassador finds a battered saint. Spinsters ask him for miracles by throwing stones at him. The young women throw stones hopefully, believing that the best marksmanship will give them the best husband; and for vengeance the dried-up ones, who no longer expect from Saint Anthony of Padua either husband or consolation, strike him, shrieking insults. They have poor Saint Anthony quite broken up, the face destroyed, stumps for arms, and his chest nothing but a big hole. At his feet, they leave him flowers.
(57)
1840: Mexico City
Masquerade
Mexico City’s dressmakers and hairdressers have to keep running from house to house, from lady to lady. Who will be the most elegant at the great benefit ball for the poor? Which beauty will triumph?
Madame Calderón de la Barca, wife of the Spanish ambassador, tries on the Mexican national dress, typical costume of the valley of Puebla. Joy of the mirror that receives the image; white blouse with lace trimmings, red skirt, a sparkle of sequins on the embroidered petticoats. Madame Calderón twirls the multicolored sash a thousand turns around her waist, and combs her hair with a part down the middle, linking the tresses with a ring.
The whole city hears of it. The Council of Ministers meets to avert the danger. Three ministers—Foreign Relations, State, and War—present themselves at the ambassador’s home and offer him an official warning. The most important ladies cannot believe it: swoonings, smelling salts, winds of fans. Such a worthy lady, so unworthily dressed! And in public! Friends advise, the diplomatic corps pressures. Careful now, avoid scandal, such clothes are for women of doubtful reputation.
Madame Calderón de la Barca abandons the national dress. She won’t go to the ball as a Mexican. She will wear the dress of an Italian peasant woman of the Lazio. One of the dance’s patronesses will appear decked out as the queen of Scotland. Other ladies will be French courtesans or Swiss, English, or Aragonese peasants, or will wrap themselves in the extravagant veils of Turkey.
The music will sail on a sea of pearls and diamonds. The dancing will be clumsy: not because of the feet but because of the shoes, so miniscule and torturing.
(57)
Mexican High Society: Introduction to a Visit
“How are you? Are you well?”
“At your service. And you?”
“Nothing new, at your service.”
“How did you pass the night?”
“At your service.”
“How happy I am! And how are you, señora?”
“At your disposition. And you?”
“Many thanks. And your husband?”
“At your service, nothing new.”
“Do please sit down.”
“After you, señorita.”
“No, señora, you first, please.”
“Oh well, to oblige you, without ceremony. I am an enemy of formalities and etiquette.”
(57)
A Day of Street Cries in Mexico City
“Coal, sir?”
“Lard! Lard for a penny and a half!”
“Salt beef! Good salt beef!”
“Any old grease?”
“BUTTO-O-ONS! SHIRT BUTTO-O-ONS!”
“Crab apples for hot peppers! Fresh crab apples!”
“Bananas, oranges, pomegranates!”
“LITTLE MIRRO-O-ORS!”
“Fat little buns hot from the oven!”
“Who wants Puebla mats, five-yard mats?”
“Honey cakes! Cheese and honey!”
“Candies! Coconut candies! Merr-i-i-ingues!”
“Last little lottery ticket, only one left for a halfpenny!”
“TORTIIIILLAS!”
“Who wants nuts?”
“CURD TORTILLAS!”
“Ducks, my love! Hot ducks!”
“Tamales, little tamales!”
Hot roasted chestnu-u-uts?”
(57)
Mexican High Society: The Doctor Says Goodbye
By the bedside:
“Señora, I am at your service!”
“Many thanks, señor.”
At the foot of the bed:
“Consider me, señora, your most humble servant!”
“Good morning, señor.”
Pausing by the table:
“Señora, I kiss your feet!”
“Señor, I kiss your hand!”
Nearing the door:
“Señora, my poor house, and what it contains, and I myself, although useless, and all that I have, are yours!”
“Many thanks, doctor!”
Turns his back to open the door, but turns again after opening it.
“Adieu, señora, your servant!”
“Adieu, señor.”
Finally leaves, but half opens the door and sticks his head in:
“Good morning, señora!”
(57)
1840: Mexico City
A Nun Begins Convent Life
Thou hast chosen the good road
now no one can remove thee
chosen one
At sixteen she says goodbye to the world. She has passed in a carriage through streets she will never see again. Relatives and friends who will never see her again attend the ceremony in the Santa Teresa convent.
no one no one nothing
can remove thee
She will eat with the other brides of Christ, from a clay bowl, with a skull for a table centerpiece. She will do penance for sins she did not commit, mysterious sins that others enjoy and that she will redeem by tormenting her flesh with a belt of barbs and a crown of thorns. She will sleep forever alone, on a bed of mortification. She will wear cloth that sands her skin.
far from the battles of great Babylon
corruptions temptations dangers
far
She is covered with flowers and pearls and diamonds. They strip her of every adornment, they undress her.
never
To the sound of the organ, the bishop exhorts and blesses. The pastoral ring, an enormous amethyst, makes the sign of the cross over the kneeling girl’s head. The nuns chant:
Ancilla Christi sum …
They dress her in black. The nuns, kneeling, press their faces against the floor, black wings unfurled around the circle of candles.
A curtain is drawn, like the lid on a coffin.
(57)
1842: San José, Costa Rica
Though Time Forget You, This Land Will Not
In Guatemala City, ladies and monks prepare Rafael Carrera, boss from the mountains, for a long dictatorship. They try on him the three-cornered hat, the dress coat and the ceremonial sword. They teach him to walk in patent leather boots, to write his name, and to tell time on a gold watch. Carrera, a hog breeder, will continue plying his trade by other means.
In San José, Costa Rica, Francisco Morazán prepares to die. He screws up his courage. For Morazán, lover of life, a man with so much life, it is hard to tear himself away. He spends the night with his eyes fixed on the ceiling of the cell, saying goodbye. The world has been great. The general puts off his farewell. He would have liked to govern more and fight less. He has spent many years making war, machete in hand, for the great Central American motherland, while she persisted in tearing herself to bits.
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Before the military trumpet, comes the song of the trumpet bird. The song comes from high in the heavens and from deep in his childhood, as before, as always, at the end of the darkness. This time it announces the final dawn.
Morazán faces the firing squad. He uncovers his head and himself gives the order to load and aim. He corrects the aim, gives the order to fire.
The volley returns him to the earth.
(220)
1844: Mexico City
The Warrior Cocks
The Church, landlord and moneylender, possesses half of Mexico. The other half belongs to a handful of gentlemen and to Indians penned up in their communities. The proprietor of the presidency is General López de Santa Anna, who watches over public peace and the good health of his fighting cocks.
Santa Anna governs with a cock in his arms. Thus, he receives bishops and ambassadors, and to tend to a wounded cock he abandons cabinet meetings. He founds more cockfight arenas than hospitals and issues more cockfight rules than decrees on education. Cockfighting men form his personal court, along with cardsharps and widows of colonels who never were.
He is very fond of a piebald cock that pretends to be a female and flirts with the enemy, then after making a fool of him slashes him to death; but of them all he prefers the fierce Pedrito. He brought Pedrito from Veracruz with some soil too, so Pedrito could wallow in it without nostalgia. Santa Anna personally fixes the blade on the spur. He exchanges bets with muleteers and vagabonds, and chews feathers from the rival to give it bad luck. When he has no coins left, he throws medals into the cockpit.
“I’ll give eight to five!”
“Eight to four if you like!”
A lightning flash pierces the whirl of feathers and Pedrito’s spur tears out the eyes or opens the throat of any champion. Santa Anna dances on one leg and the killer raises his crest, beats his wings and sings.