Finally, our Blog problems solved, we continue the excerpt from the book, The Man Who Likes Mexico by Wallace Gilpatrick which was published in 1911.
Today, Gilpatrick is just settling in to enjoy the calm and peace of Lake Chapala and the comfortable hotel and good food when he finds he must journey on to Silao – in search of his trunk.
That the manager of the Hotel Arzapalo was a man of taste, I knew when I saw the hotel, with its clambering rose-vines, its well-kept gardens and the little pier running out into the lake, with comfortable benches at either side. When he assigned me to a room, with a view of mountain and lake combined, I was doubly sure. The memories of my ride, together with a bountiful dinner, made me content to loaf the rest of the afternoon; but towards evening I started in search of the warm mineral baths, for which the place is noted. A gentleman who knows Chapala, had said to me, "Don't go to the fine-looking bath-house with the `Bano' sign; follow the same street till you come to some old buildings and then ask for the tanque." So I walked by the fine-looking banjos and in an old orange orchard, I found the great swimming tank. It must be sixty feet long by twenty wide, and the bottom slopes so that at one end it is over a man's head. It is surrounded by a high wall and the palms and orange trees grow close up to it. The water is a trifle more than blood-warm, so that you feel an almost imperceptible accession of warmth in stepping into it. It is the kind of a bath that you leave reluctantly and then feel tempted to return to. The springs at Cuautla, Morelos, are nearly like these in temperature.
When I came out I asked the duena to sell me some oranges; and she sent a boy to pick them—three big, luscious ones for two cents. An Indian was launching his canoe, and I asked him to take me in; he ran and got a little rush-bottom chair which he put in the stern, and we paddled away. There was the last flush of crimson and purple in the west and a crescent moon overhead; and I could hear the voices of the Indian boatmen, as they rowed out through the dusk to the fishing grounds.
While the lake is often perfectly still during the afternoon, a breeze comes after sunset and soon little waves are running up on the beach. The moon makes a silver track across the water; you hear a soft lapping along the shore, and the scent of flowers pervades the shaded balcony of the hotel. The despondent traveler, who has been seeing the country by day and waging fierce wars by night, in hotels where he pays for a bed and then has to fight to hold it, will hail the Arzapalo as a haven of rest. The beds and bed-linen are spotlessly clean and one lies down with no misgivings as to the manner of his awakening. I could tell gruesome tales of nights spent in Mexican hotels, but I won't. Perhaps the reader is tender-hearted; and for me, it would only open old wounds anew. The Arzapalo has some fifty rooms, a large sala and dining-room overlooking the lake, and is provided with a bar and billiard table. The cooking is excellent and the bread is all made in the house. The hotel is situated in what is, beyond doubt, one of the loveliest and most healthful spots in all Mexico. Good hotels are a crying want in the republic, and when I encounter one I sing its praises.
Circumstances over which I had no control forced me to leave Chapala. My trunk ran amuck. I found it at Silao, but I lost—Chapala. I left it when my love was at its height. It was morning on the lake. The mists were hanging on the mountain tops, the breeze was ruffling the surface of the water, and the palms and orange trees shone emerald-green in the sunlight. I rode on top of the coach and as we approached the summit of the divide, we could see a good part of the length of the lake, some thirty leagues in all. There was the little island called "El Presidio" where the last of the Chapaltecos, about fifty warriors, made their final stand against two thousand Spanish troops; and were only dislodged by bullets and starvation. There is a plan on foot in Jalisco, to erect a suitable monument on the island in honor of these heroic men, who fought to the end for the freedom of their people. I was not familiar with this tragic episode and the gentleman beside me told it dramatically. I looked again and again at the little island, trying to fancy the scene during the siege. Just then we reached the summit. There was a last glimpse of a great stretch of shining water, and the next minute we had crossed and were bowling down the other side to Atequiza.
If you have never ridden on a Mexican coach, you have still a new sensation in store. The Chapala coach has a cushion on top and if you are fortunate in sharing this seat, you ride muy a gusto, seeing the country and the manner of manipulating an eight-mule-team at the same time. There are two about the size of rabbits on the lead, a string of four in the middle, and two larger ones on the wheel. The driver has a whip, with a lash long enough to reach the leaders. His assistant has another shorter one, but his chief persuaders are rocks. The assistant earns fifty cents a day and free insurance against dyspepsia. He alights at the base of every hill and fills his sombrero full of rocks on the way up. He then shies several boulders big enough to dislocate a hip at the leaders; and when the whole team are in full gallop, he swings himself onto the box in some miraculous way — I think he stands on the hub. He could never do it if he wore shoes. When they change mules, he leads the discarded team up and down to cool them off; while the driver takes the new ones and tangles them up, so you can't tell where wheelers end and leaders begin. At last they are off again with a whoop and a yell. People talk of Mexico as slow, but the word can never be applied either to stage coaches or street cars, when they once get started.
If you enjoyed this peek into Mexican life and travel as much as I did, you’ll want to continue reading this book, which is made available on line – free – by the folks at the Old and Sold Antiques Digest. Each chapter is a lively slice of the Mexico Gilpatrick found on his journeys 100 years ago and each page leads the reader to fun discoveries of life a century ago.
Here is the website for the entire book. (The Man Who Likes Mexico by Wallace Gilpatrick)
You may also enjoy reading a current book Lake Chapala through the Ages: an Anthology of Travellers’ Tales by Tony Burton. You can find this fun read La Nueva Posada in Ajijic or at www.sombrerobooks.com or at www.amazon.com. In it, Tony (who lived at Lakeside for more than 30 years) has included excerpts of commentary from more than 50 nearly forgotten sources like Gilpatrick– the centuries of travelers to Lake Chapala – from the 1500s to 1910. These poets, friars, travelers, exiles and scientists all tell their stories in their own words, with just enough of Tony’s explanations and direction to make it all fun and easy to keep in mind.
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