Mexican paper money is useless between Tuxtla Gutierrez and Comitan.  At the latter city it may be exchanged for silver, but with difficulty.  From here on we found no copper in circulation, and before reaching Comitan we had begun to receive Guatemalan silver in our change.  Fully thirty leagues from the border we ceased to receive Mexican silver from anyone.  This notable displacement of Mexican currency seems curious, because Guatemalan money is at a heavy discount in comparison with it.  At San Bartolome we sent a soldier-police to buy zacate, giving him Mexican money.  He brought back two Guatemalan pieces in change, and on our objecting to receive it, assured me, not only that the money was good, but also that here the people were Guatemalans.  “Here,” said he, “not Mexico:  here we are all Carrera’s people.”  This, of course, was sheer treason.  Carrera, the pure-blood indian who in the stirring days of 1839 seized the power in Guatemala, a strange and wild being who had a real love for his country, has left a profound impression.  At times an exile, he had lived at Comitan, where his name was familiar to all the indians around.  His coins are much prized by the indians for necklaces and earrings, and even at Tehuantepec we had seen women wearing his little gold pieces in their ears.

It should have been an easy matter to go from Comitan to Nenton (in Guatemala) in a single day.  As it was, we made it with great difficulty in two, our mule Chontal apparently being completely worn out.  We crossed the llano, passed through patches of pines, and then came out upon a terrible country of limestone hills.  In our last day’s journey we had to coax, threaten, beat, drag, and push that mule until our voices were gone and our arms were tired.  Immediately on passing the line into Guatemala, we found the telegraph wires cut and poles down, a result of the late unpleasantness with Mexico.  The mountain mass before us, which had been in view for two days past, loomed up frightfully before us.  Would our little mule be able to pass it?  We remembered what an American tramp, whom we had met at Tuxtla Gutierrez and who had walked on foot from Guatemala City, had said:  “Between Nenton and Huehuetenango you will pass over a mountain that will make your heart sick; may God help you.”  Just at dusk we looked down upon Nenton in a little valley, with a fine stream crossed by a pretty bridge, where mountains rose steeply on every side.  Having been registered by the custom officials, we slept that night, our first in the new republic, in the municipal house.

Next morning we started bravely, the whole town having assembled to see us off.  We safely reached the foot of the mountain, where the mule stopped and braced himself.  We spoke kindly, coaxed, dragged, but all to no effect.  Finally he started, but three times within the next few minutes, he and we went through the same procedure.  Patience had ceased to be a virtue; we held a serious consultation.