The rich bottom land along the river, wholly uncultivated, much impressed me. The soil, a black and chocolate loam, is capable of bearing any crop, and is twenty to thirty feet in thickness. There was no cultivation anywhere. These lands belong to some mighty _hacienda_ (a hacienda contains often from one hundred thousand to two million acres) owned by some absentee _haciendado_. It is said to be worth about ten cents (Mexican) per acre!
The river Balsas looks as broad as Elk River in West Virginia, where it enters the Kanawha (four or five hundred feet in width). It is now the dry season, but, nevertheless, the river is swift and deep, a tide of clear blue water too swift and too deep to ford or swim. In the rainy season it must be a boisterous mighty stream, for its fall is rapid. In the dry season it is fed by the melting snow fields of Popocatepetl and Ixtaccihuatl far to the east. The stream is said to afford good fishing, and in it veritable crocodiles (Cayman) abound.
Approaching the river, we found ourselves at a primitive ferry where two wild-looking _vaqueros_ were about to cross. Availing ourselves of this opportunity to voyage upon the Balsas--Mexico’s greatest river--we tied our horses in the shade of a friendly mimosa and climbed aboard the craft used as a ferryboat--a sharp pointed scow which is entered at the stern. The two Indian boatmen pulled each a ponderous blade, but despite their most strenuous efforts, the powerful current carried us down quite half a mile before we landed upon the farther shore--a wide bar of sand and pebbles. Our fellow passengers eyed us in suspicious silence, each holding fast his _broncho_ lest it should jump out, their wild dark glances betokening little friendliness. Reaching the shore each silently swung into his saddle and galloped off toward the not far distant Cordillera. These silent, untamed men traverse this desolate country everywhere, keeping constant track of the thousands of cattle and horses which roam their wastes; and the Indians of Guerrero bear the name of being the most turbulent and treacherous of all Mexico.
Recrossing, we traveled for an hour through rich and uncultivated bottom lands along the river’s course, until we came to the primitive town of Churumuco, a hamlet occupied by Indians only, an Indian priest gazing out of the dilapidated church as we rode by. Here we found a _fonda_ (inn) with ample _corral_. A half-caste Spanish-Indian woman, “_Señora Doña_ Faustina,” cooked us a supper of potatoes, rice, _tortillas_, and _chilis_ (peppers) stewed in cheese, substantials which were washed down with clear hot coffee. Here, in the intense heat, the burning peppers were vivifying and we ate them greedily.