To assure that one is well provided for in his old age, it is advisable to have a goodly number of sons. Next best is to have a goodly number of mules. A man with half a dozen tiros (pairs) of mules can live off the income of his mules alone. Old Manuel Gallardo, with whom I stayed in Caballo de Arriba, has as his only effective capital, seven tiros of mules. Now in his seventies, he is too old to work the milpas, and his sons have spread out in various directions. Yet as long as his mules outlive him, he is secure. Each June he rents them out to campesinos for the duration of las aguas. Renting is no problem, for the demand is always greater than the supply. Not only can the farmer—where his land is level enough—plant his corn better and quicker in a plowed field than with a güica, but if he is to sow ajonjolí (sesame), which is the major cash crop in the foothills, a plowed field is imperative. A mule team, far better than horses, can pull a crude wooden plow over a remarkably steep slope. At the steepest, I have seen one man working mules on a slope of nearly 45º. Nevertheless, most of the country of the upper barrancas is still too steep to use anything but the güica, and each June, Manuel Gallardo drives his fourteen mules some 50 miles to Espinal, in the flats below, where he has long-standing contracts for rentals. Mule rentals are almost invariably paid off later in corn, once the sun-dried harvest is taken in each December. The seasonal rent for a team of mules is usually ten centílitros of corn (about 2000 lbs.), and while the selling price of corn at harvest time in December is only 50 pesos the centílitro, by June its value has doubled. A young mule will cost from 1200 to 2000 pesos, depending on its size and manners. At this rate, a mule, which has a working expectancy of from 25 to 30 years, can pay for itself in three or four years. Or, if the owner also rents out his mules (10 pesos a day), or uses them transporting cargo during the dry season, a mule can pay for itself in as little as one or two years. For the man wino can afford it, there is no better investment.

In order to travel mounted during the rainy season, it became :apparent that my only solution was to buy a horse or a mule, for all my friends who during the dry season were so ready to lend me animals, and to accompany me, I found were committed for both themselves and their bestias during las aguas.

I debated for a long time whether to get a horse or a mule. My experience—limited as it is—with horses has been good; my experience with mules, bad. Horses, like dogs, have an exaggerated respect for human beings. They tend to be not only more manageable, but cooperative. The better you treat them the better they respond. Mules, like cats, are more independent. True, if you condition mules by feeding them corn every day, they will mutter when you approach the corral, and come trotting. But they never get to like you, to trust you, no matter how friendly you try to be. They are constantly eyeing you as if, for no fault of their own, you are going to put a pin in their backside. And, alternatively, they are always waiting for that moment when they can, plant a hoof in your forehead. I have treated nearly as many “patadas de mula” as I have “hachadas de machete”, and the kicks from mules have been worse Between Carrisál and Platanár is a small wooden cross where a 15 year old boy was kicked to death by a mule; on the way to Las Chicuras lives a young man, partially paralyzed and unable to work as result of a kick to the spine; and such examples are endless. Yet I know of no one here who has suffered such abuse from a horse.

Another advantage to a horse is the price. A good horse can be purchased for as little as 600 pesos, one half to one third the cost of a good mule. Nevertheless, all my friends have insisted I should with a mule. A mule is stronger, if I plan to carry any equipment in addition to myself, which I do. A mule is surer-footed than a horse; for the narrow, precipitous trails of los altos (the ridges) which I must follow now that the river is flooded, and for the treacherous crossings of the river and flooded arroyos, a mule is safer. Furthermore, if a spot is too dangerous to cross safely, a mule will stop automatically, while a horse, relying doggedly on the judgment of its master, will barge straight ahead, be it to destruction. A mule is easier to care for than a horse, and cheaper, for a horse is more chiquión (picky) about its diet, requiring corn and good fodder regularly. A mule, like a goat, will eat most anything, will browse in a weed patch where a horse will starve. A mule can go longer without food or water; it has more endurance. Finally, although the initial cost of a mule is greater, when the time comes, a mule is easier to sell than a horse.

I decided on a mule, although I insisted on “una mula mancita” (very tame.) I hunted high and low but to no avail. I went as far as Agüines and Campanillas on a wild goose chase. Benigno Ríos had three mules to sell, but the only reason he had not already sold them was that they were still “broncos”, too wild to be hitched to a plow. His father, Daniel, also had a mule for 1000 pesos, seat and all, which he admitted was “un poco flojo” (a little lazy). However, my friends insisted that this mule was well over 20 years old, and while it might hold up for the time I needed it, no one would buy it from me when I wanted to sell it. Next, the bartender, Fidel, sent word that he would sell his mule. The mule, like Fidel himself, is quite fat.. “Por la misma razón,” says Dimas Lomas, “No trabajan.” (For the same reason: they don’t work.) Dimas advised me 1000 pesos would be a good price. But when I went to see Fidel, he told me that “just for me” he’d sell his mule for only 2500 pesos. “¡Mi esposa va a llorar!” he added sadly. (My wife will cry!) His price was just for me all right! He wouldn’t dare ask that much from anybody else. I told him that I would buy it at once except that I didn’t like to make women cry.

Both Dimas Lomas and Chuy Manjarréz have mules which are about as tame as they get, and they offered to swap with me for the duration of las aguas if I obtained a mule which would be suitable for plowing, if not riding. The problem still remained to locate one.

The day before I had planned to leave for Verano arrived and I still had no animal. I had too much luggage to make the trip on foot, most notably my typewriter. I thought of borrowing Caytano’s horse to take my things, bringing it back and then returning to Verano on foot. Then, about noon, Dimas arrived with a broad smile, and said, “¡Ponte tu sombrero!”

“¿A donde vamos?” I asked.

“Vas a ver,” he replied. “¡Vamanos!”

Dimas took me to his corral, saddled his mule for me to mount, and he mounted another which was standing, already saddled, nearby. We set out in the direction of Las Chicuras. When we were a short way out of town, we both dismounted and Dimas handed me the reins of the mule he was riding, saying, “¡Esta es…!”

It was the funniest looking mule I had ever seen. Its color was pardo rayado, a dark reddish-brown with strange fuscous blotches and stripes, which made it look moth-eaten and therefore old. But Dimas insisted that it was only seven. He said that it was supposed to be half zebra. He had never seen a mule of that color before.

The mule took my fancy at once. My own coloration is unusual for the region, and it seemed to me fitting that my mule should be a little odd as well. At least I would have no trouble recognizing it. Dimas said it was “muy mancita.” (Very docile.) I mounted, and the animal responded well. It was more lively than the mule of Dimas. We rode to Las Chicuras, and went to see Remedios and his sons, who were planting with güicas in their steep milpa. Goyo hopped on behind the saddle, and the mule did not protest. I dismounted and tried removing the saddle. The mule suddenly kicked, but Dimas said that was because I was inexperienced and had tickled it in the backside.

I was pleased with the mule, and yet was not quite sure about it. It seemed more nervous than many of the mules I have handled. I would have liked to try it out for another day, and under a wider variety of circumstances, but Dimas had to return that evening to his rancho and had all the papers for the sale. The mule had been sent from San Ignacio, where news had reached that I was looking for one. The price, although it included saddle, bit, bridle, and the works, was 1800 pesos, which I thought was high. Dimas assured me it was a good price, and I trust him. At 1800 pesos I would have to cut deeply into the money I was keeping for the “Agua Potable” project, but as the collection would not take place until after the rains, I decided I could resell the mule if necessary. And so I bought it.

No sooner had I completed the purchase, however, than the mule began to give me trouble. It needed shoes, and Ramona’s grandfather made them for me specially. The next morning the Sindico helped me shoe the mule, which I had decided to name Albóndiga (Meatball) in memory of a canoe which we had once brought into Mexico. Albóndiga was not happy about being shoed, and with a sudden kick, nearly made “Albóndigas” out of the Sindico. Next, I took my mule to the water, but I could not make her drink. The river was in flood, dirty, and deep, and she was apparently afraid that I was going to make her pass it. All I wanted was for her to put her nose in it, but she was not about to get that close. She reared and bucked, and I pulled the reins and swatted her backside, but she wouldn’t enter the water. At last I had to take her to a quiet, shallow spot, and there she drank, thirstily.

“What,” I asked myself, “am I going to do in the rainy season with a mule that is afraid of water?”