Appendix
Starr in Old Mexico
Oaxaca, Mexico, March 1.—Prof. Frederick Starr, of the University of Chicago, is deep in the midst of his savages. He is manipulating primitive town governments, wielding the authority of federal and state governments, county police, and that of the clergy as well. He is threatening, cajoling, clapping in jail, when necessary, and in general conquering his series of strange nations. I found him doing all this, and more, in a little native village fifty miles from the city of Oaxaca, Feb. 2nd. The fat little man was complete master of the Zapotec town of Mitla, far distant from the end of the last of the railroads, a town famous for its ruins. He bustled about like a captain in a war haste, dressed in a massive Indian sombrero, from which a white string floated picturesquely behind, a necktie of slim, dusty black, which seemed not to have been unknotted for many a day, a shirt less immaculate than the one he may wear at the entertainment shortly to be given him in London, and no coat. The professor’s trousers are not Indian. They are farm trousers, of an original type, with double seat for the saddle.
The professor’s blood was up. A grand native feast—in which drunken dances, bull-fights, and a state of accumulated irresponsibility are the rule—had delayed him three days. The Indians could no more be measured and “busted”—as the professor calls the making of plaster casts—than could the liquor they had drunk. After three days of pleading, threatening, and berating, in which orders from every government and church official in the country, from lowest to highest, had failed, Prof. Starr seized the black-bearded and wiry president of the town council, the chief potentate of the reeling set, called him a drunken scoundrel, threatened in deep seriousness to imprison every man in the town, and finally won his point—but not until the feast was done. When feasts are over, the people are kindly, suave, gracious.
Then the professor corralled those he wanted. He was to measure for scientific purposes 100 of the Indians, in the order in which they chanced to present themselves. After such wheedling as it must have taken infinite practice to acquire—pattings of the Zapotec back, hugging of the men, chucking the children, with elaborate explanations—the thing “took” and the people fell into the spirit of it. The jail was the only accessible building, and was strangely empty. It was of adobe, a jail of one room, with a dirt floor. There were no windows, only the single barred door.
From every cane-walled, thatched, tropical hut that helps to make the irregular cluster around the central plaza and its adjoining bull ring they came, if not to be measured, to see. They were driven by the highest of the town authorities—for every element of the population waited on the bidding of the little sugar-tongued professor from the north—one by one into the jail, and the rest curiously watched. The measuring was done without undressing, but the “busting” was the point of chief interest. Five representative specimens had been carefully selected for this purpose. They were won slowly, by the glitter of 75 cents of Mexican silver. In some towns, only 50 cents was required, and in others, $1. The smirking Indian, with his wildness hidden away, or only peeping from his eye, entered. He disrobed with no shame. He was put flat on the floor, face down, on a little piece of matting. At this stage some objected. Then the Anglo-Saxon was down on the floor, wheedling, talking such sweetness as can be spoken without silliness only in the Spanish tongue.
The victim finally consents. Then the Mexican plaster worker, who has followed the caravan from its start, goes to work. He makes a cast of the back of the head and shoulders, and the Indian is turned over, face up. Another cast of the breast and neck and chin is made, and yet another of the front half of the head and the face, with little tubes for breathing sticking through it. The Indian has grunted, snorted, laughed and squirmed, but he has been made to understand that he must be still. That great 75 cents is held always over him, and the thing is accomplished.
During all the process, the crowd of Indians about and in the jail was eager-eyed and astonished. The women wear odd woolen, blanket-like skirts of red or black, folded in two great plaits down the front. The dress does not reach the ankles, and the feet are bare. They carry the baby on the back, wound in the rebozo, with its bare legs straddling her and sticking out. The men wear a sandal quite different from the ordinary Mexican footgear.
Of the 100 that were to be measured, Jose was one. Jose was of a better family, a character in the town, and proud. He rebelled. This breach of the professor’s authority could not be allowed. Jose was summoned by the president of the town, the honeyed, affable “Señor Presidente,” the same who had been called the drunken scoundrel, now accommodating, a true and emotional friend. Jose sent a thousand excuses, and finally defiance.
“That man,” cried the professor, showing his writ of authority from the jefe politico of the district, “I order to be arrested.”
Jose did not flee. He was found next morning in the bull ring riding a bull. He was arrested by the Chicagoan’s orders, and taken to jail. He was peremptorily ordered by the professor to appear for the measurement. He escaped, and again defied the powers. He was again caught, and it was explained to him by the president that this man of might from the beyond had sworn to drag Jose with him all the way across this wild country slowly to Tehuantepec, thence back to the city of Oaxaca, where the state authorities would deal most painfully with him. And this, indeed, in mighty manner and impressively, had the “man from the beyond” sworn to do. Jose came and was measured, and I afterward saw him calling to the professor to come and take a jolly drink out of the gourd he was shaking at him, in the manner of a comrade.
In the afternoon, the work being done, the civilities and sugared conduct must be continued, with a view to future visits. The professor wanted to enter the church, which, though modern, stands in the middle of one of the mysterious ruins. The church was locked, and the mayor-domo not to be found.
“But I must photograph a strange picture you have in there.”
“The mayor-domo is drunk, at your service, my most excellent friend,” replied the president, sympathetically. “I am sorry, but he got under the influence three days ago at the beginning of the feast, and he has slept ever since. Ah, the mayor-domo is sleeping now, my excellent friend, and he has the keys.”
“You shall send a boy into the tower to ring the bell and wake the mayor-domo,” cried the professor.
The crowd sat on the stone steps, the bell was pealed, and at last the church was opened, and the picture photographed.
The procession then moved to the top of an ancient pyramid, in which tombs have been opened, and bones and gold ornaments found. The professor dashed through all the tunnels, with the government after him, before mounting to the top. On top a strange conversation was held between the professor and the president and secretary. They appealed to this northern man, who seemed to have all earthly authority back of him, to grant them one longed-for boon. Would he not please speak, when he returned to the capital, to the minister of encouragement, that he send them a brass band! They wanted to welcome northern visitors to the ruins with modern music.
“You have great power. You need but to ask of those in Mexico and the band will come. Most beloved friend, oh, most excellent professor from the far north, give to us a brass band!” And the professor promised to speak to Minister Leal about it. Then, too, the beastly state government was dragging some of their precious ruins away to put in a museum. Would the professor please have the kindness to stop this? The professor promised to do what he could, and he was hugged and blessed and patted by the simple people.
Prof. Starr began his ethnological studies to westward of Oaxaca. Mitla is eastward. In the west, he visited two tribes—the Mixtecas and the Triquis. The latter are a branch of the former, but much different, living in round bamboo huts, surprisingly like those of some African tribes. He secured two excellent casts of the Triquis, and three of the Mixtecas. He intended to take five of each tribe he visited, but his plaster failed to arrive. He studies the languages, also, as he goes, and finds many varying dialects, from each of which he secures a test vocabulary of 200 words. He is now approaching the Mixes, the “cannibals.” All the City of Mexico papers laugh at the idea of his encountering the slightest danger, and the professor himself scoffs at it. He believes some of the Mixes have, within forty years, eaten human flesh, but he says he is certain they are harmless now.
CHARLES F. EMBREE.
[From The Chicago Record: March 24, 1899.]