Читать книгу The City of the Sacred Well онлайн

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By the time the unhurried ritual of arising has been performed and one appears on deck all is flooded with brilliant sunshine. The sky above is a cloudless cobalt blue. The day is hot, but the sea-breeze keeps it from being uncomfortably so. One senses, nevertheless, in some subtle way, that he is actually in the tropics. So shallow is the water that ocean-going vessels may not safely approach to within less than five miles of the rather uninspiring port of Progreso, marked by several long piers jutting into the sea and the aforementioned lighthouse. Passengers and goods must be taken off in lighters or in small boats. On approaching the shore one sees rows of pelicans sitting alongside the wharves—the most serious and sad-looking birds imaginable. They remind one of the rows of Glooms frequently portrayed by one of our cartoonists in the daily newspaper comic strip.

There is little reason for tarrying in Progreso, even though it is the third most important seaport in Mexico. It is from here that the henequen of Yucatan is shipped, and the cultivation of this cactus-like plant, from whose fiber rope and twine are made, constitutes the chief enterprise of the province. Two railroads, one narrow-gauge, the other standard, cover the twenty-four miles between Progreso and the lovely city of Mérida, capital of Yucatan. Oddly enough, the fare is higher on the narrower, longer, and poorer road than on the road of standard gauge. The latter is modern in every respect and provided with coaches and locomotives imported from the United States. The daily Peniche Express starts on time and arrives in the same fashion.