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Show OuadMaJaizL '"""'v'" Public Letter Writers in Guadalajara. Prepared by National Geographic Society. Washington, D. C. WNU Service. AT DAWN comes the clang and peal of countless bells. The din is startling in its unexpectedness. unex-pectedness. It sounds like a battle call or an alarm that Guadalajara Guadala-jara is burning. Hurriedly you get up and go out on the hotel balcony. "All these churches," says a voice at your elbow, "and every bell with a different tone." It is the man from the room next to yours, a Spanish friend from the sugar plantations, in pajamas and straw sandals. "I first came here more than 40 ir- years ago, from Spain," he adds. "We at made the last stretch in a four-mile rn stagecoach on leather springs, after l.v a night battle with bandits. We got ep In just at dawn, with these same bells of ringing. Nothing here has changed ne much the same people, habits, on churches, and bells. Even the bats m. are still here. Read at night, and a your light draws the moths ; turn out )o, the light, and the bats fly in to eat the ay moths. But they don't eat their wings It next morning moth wings are all iz- over your floor !" lis In the street below now blaek- w- garbed women, their heads covered, are walking quietly to mass women ies of all classes, peon and aristocrat, but 36 hardly any men. Rattling heavily, a ,nd water cart turns the corner, sprink ling the streets and raising that am-ln am-ln monia smell of old adobe towns where d) humans and beast have long crowded ur the absorbent soil too closely. You ier. meet that same smell, mixed with the scent of roasting coffee, when at early de morning men wet the dusty streets of ev- Aden or Baghdad. "Ice!" "Bread!" "Morning paper!" All voices of the awakening city as truly as cackles, crows, grunts, and -1 squeals are the alarm clocks of the y farmer. Before the doorway halts an old man on a mule, carrying two big cans. A sleepy girl, with a clay jar, comes out and buys some milk. And the man rides on, calling his singsong "Leche, leche," milk, milk, In a despairing de-spairing wail, more like a cry of pain than an invitation to buy. enai Turkeys for Sale. Now a country boy in a ragged straw "If hat comes driving a flock of turkeys. : af- He carries a long stick, with a whip- es- like piece of string on one end, for flicking any errant turkey on the neck. He urges them on by hissing sounds, his tongue against his upper teeth, in that the familiar Indian warning. They market thousands of turkeys on foot Sor- here, as In parts of Texas, the lnquisi-atra- tive, shapely birds marching with tr 1 quick, graceful strides, necks jerking ,arti- sharply with each step. One strutting gobbler, with pendent red wattles long as a prophet's beard, ruffled his bronze plumage and dragged his wings. , By the time you dress, clap your 8 , hands for coffee, and read a Mexican paper still damp and smelling of fresh ink, all Guadalajara Is swarming. Tramcars are crowded; so are busses. Bobbed-haired senorltas, in bright organdie, silk hose, and high heels, chatter and giggle their cheerful way to work In stores, beauty and curio e aC" shops, at switchboards or typewriters. 1 not Many are pure Andalusian types with blue eyes and blond hair, small, shape-! shape-! onV jy hands and feet. The ease and Joy with which man may look upon worn-ankind worn-ankind in Guadalajara are proverbial, j "In all Mexico, no others are so fair." "Surely St. Peter must have opened k the gates of heaven to let down such aM a beautiful damsel," Mexicans say $j9 when a maid of pulchritude is pass- yj Along with the crowd, ogling the girls, come sleek young bank clerks. OIL bookkeepers In the brewery, the fac- nS tories, motorcar and other agencies, 3 spick and span In flannels of Holly-sflM Holly-sflM wood cut, carrying sticks, smoking $m pungent native cigarettes. The sidewalks of Guadalajara ! KjA Walk them at this hour and you see VM: the city eye-high and close up. $U(m Workmen Idly dig up the pavements, vjtfffl as always; traffic police in while gloves blow whistles and wave cars to stop. And they do stop ; for one dispute dis-pute with an alert Guadalajara traffic cop and the big jail yawns for you. fmj On an open space soldiers are drilling sJfa! an women wait before the colossal ?JM prison to get in at visiting hours. "They built the jail big enough to hold everybody in town, as a warning," ifSSk is a local saying. iS Workers in Clay. B fll Through tl e suburbs you meet more 1 M groups coming to work. In a flower SjU garden a sandal-footed man Is -..itlng WgH? 1,111 young plants to make a fancy-pattern fancy-pattern of birds and flags. From the tall of his big black dog, asleep beside him, an old Indian artist plucks a few hairs, twists them deftly Into his tiny, frayed brush, and resumes re-sumes painting eyebrows on a clay head of Pancho Villa, master outlaw. Other heads, new and shiny, stand on a board : Obregon, Carranza George Washington, Henry Ford and an American Shriner in a red fez. Pose for your own bust, If you like, and watch your nose and ears form swiftly from the mud. In half an hour old Pandura (Hard Bread), famed Indian In-dian sculptor, makes a fair likeness. "This Guadalajara clay art Is fragile fra-gile and hard to ship," says a buyer from the States. "But it sells well. Not the busts so much, but these urns, vases, and water bottles, in old Aztec patterns. These dancing girls are good, too, in their wide skirts and big sombreros." Around Tonala village and the suburb of San Pedro Tlaquepaque, Indians In-dians have worked in clay from time immemorial. The Spaniards found them at at it, making dishes for domestic do-mestic uses, making idols, images, and figurines of men and beasts. Untaught, and working far from the patter of studios and talks on art, these Indians produce excellent sculpture. sculp-ture. Tiny pack mules, street hawkers, hawk-ers, market women with chickens and baskets of fruit, vaqueros on rearing horses all are formed and painted with fidelity to life. Sophisticated and erotic pieces also appear, with miniaturea, ornaments, and vessels carrying a raised fretwork of deer, rabbits, ferns or palms. A fat clay pig, hollow, with a slit In his back through which coins can pass, is much sold as a child's savings bank. Happily Hap-pily for the child, these figures break easily ; all you have to do is drop them. San Pedro Tlaquepaque, once the retreat of Spanish wealth and fashion, is linked with the city proper by tram, through an old customs gateway. Country people taking things into town to sell had to pay a tax in the old days to pass this gate. A tiny, bright-eyed nurse girl, cer-tanly cer-tanly not more than ten, comes by, carrying a big fat baby. You feel the baby should get down, for a change, and carry the tired little girl. Gambling Is Prevalent. On the curb's edge, three soldiers are playing cards with a greasy deck. One man deals, calling "Ocho de espadas," eight of spades, and other faces as they turn up. Gambling is not thought a vice. Men accost you, holding up yard-long strips of colored lottery tickets. You can buy a whole or part ticket. Such peddlers work on a commission for the official lottery, which holds regular drawings, is run In a strictly business manner, and devotes net profits to charities. Police appear dragging two disorderly disor-derly men, one badly cut in a street fight. Certain knives here are made to fight with. Any battle-scarred mining min-ing or cow-ranch veteran will tell you he'd rather face a gun fighter than a Mexican trained with the knife. This business of knife fighting Is full of fancy tricks. One is to throw the knife; another Is suddenly to hit your opponent in the face with your hat, and then stick him while he's off guard. Defense work is equally skillful. skill-ful. The trained fighter wraps his serape around his left arm, or even grasps his big hat by the inside of the crown, using serape or hat as a shield, while thrusting with the knife. In "Old Mother Mexico," Harry Carr tells of a Mexican knife battle, fought to a draw, in which the heavy wool serapes were cut to shreds, but neither man hurt! After the knifemen comes a boy leading a very skinny horse. "Play us a tune on your harp," shouts a clerk, a Mexican witticism implying that the horse is so bony his ribs look like harp strings ! Up the street past your hotel, late in the night, comes a squealing orchestra, or-chestra, preceded by three young men. One of this trio Is celebrating his birthday. Hiring musicians to play in one's honor is good form, in keeping with established social practice. If you write a poem, win a horse race, or vanquish a rival. It Is customary to hlije a band and stroll from one cantina, or saloon, to another, or past the homes of your friends, with the music playing. Here music seldom ceases, and most of It is good. This makes you wonder how the many organ-grinders earn a living, till one explains: "They are subsidized by a fund willed to the city to Insure free hand-organ music in perpetuity." |