Government

by B. TRAVEN

  The Jungle Novels

  Government

  The Carreta

  The March to Caobaland

  The Troza

  The Rebellion of the Hanged

  The General from the Jungle

  Other Books by B. Traven Published in English

  The Death Ship

  The Cotton-Pickers

  The Treasure of the Sierra Madre

  The Bridge in the Jungle

  The White Rose

  Stories by the Man Nobody Knows

  The Night Visitor and Other Stories

  The Creation of the Sun and the Moon

  B. Traven

  Government

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

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  1

  The government was represented in the eastern district by don Casimiro Azcona. Like every other jefe político, don Casimiro thought first of his own interests. He served his country not for his country’s good, but in order to profit at its expense. He worked better on those terms and, above all, he lived better. If a man can earn no more as a servant of the State than he can by running a snack bar, there is no reason whatever why he should aspire to devote his energies to his country’s service.

  After he had taken care of himself, he thought of his family. Then came his intimate friends. These friends had helped him obtain his post and now he had to humor them so that they would let him keep it, at least until one of them decided the moment had come to take it for himself.

  Every member of his family to its remotest branches—nephews, cousins, brothers-in-law, uncles, brothers and their nephews, cousins, brothers-in-law, and sons—all were taken care of. They were given jobs as tax collectors, postmasters, chiefs of police, justices of the peace for as long as he himself could hold his. For this reason they were all on his side, whatever he might do. He might steal to his heart’s content—provided always that when they in turn stole he did not order an inquiry into their conduct. Whatever they might do, lawfully or unlawfully, had to be right in his eyes.

  This manner of administrating the public welfare began at the top with the president, don Porfirio, was carried on in the same fashion by his secretaries; it was taken up in turn by the generals, copied exactly by the governors of the various states, and handed on to the mayors of the smallest towns and villages. The whole system was called in newspapers and schoolbooks the intelligent and well-ordered organization of the Republic.

  Since little if any ability was visible at the top, even less was looked for at the bottom. People were grateful to be allowed to live at all. And if a man was unexpectedly murdered because he had gotten heated over some administrative roguery or flagrant example of bribery and corruption, his neighbors and friends were only thankful that they themselves had escaped. The victim was buried and forgotten, and all he had by way of epitaph was “What did he want to burn his fingers for?”

  2

  Don Casimiro had a friend, don Gabriel Orduñez. This don Gabriel had been a cattle dealer but had gambled away almost all he possessed and drunk up what was left. Then he had opened a shop—until one day it was closed down by his creditors.

  He was an old schoolfriend of don Casimiro’s, and once when he was lamenting his troubles and the way he was dogged by bad luck, don Casimiro said, “I’ll see if there’s something I can do for you.”

  A few weeks later don Casimiro was on an inspection tour of the district and ran across don Gabriel again. Don Gabriel reminded him of his unfortunate situation, and as don Casimiro had a good heart and could not bear to see his friends suffer, he said, “I haven’t much for you. Everything’s gone. And they all sit as tight as ticks. But I’ve got a little Indian village—Bujvilum. A bad lot there. Won’t behave themselves. Kick up against everything. We send soldiers to burn their huts down time after time—but can’t catch one of them. They always clear out into the jungle and you can’t get ’em there. When everything’s burnt and their maize fields laid flat and the soldiers are gone, out they come and build up their village again as if nothing had happened. Then we leave them alone for a bit, but we can’t get any taxes out of them. If you’d like to go there, I’ll make you local secretary. You open a tienda, a little store. And I’ll give you an exclusive permit to sell brandy. You have a lockup—a prison, in fact. I needn’t say more. Well, there you are—if you want to go, the job’s yours. I’ve nothing else for you at the moment.”

  Don Gabriel had a good revolver and he could shoot as straight as the next man. The Indians had no revolvers and could not buy any either; they had no money and, in any case, it was strictly forbidden to sell them revolvers or rifles, apart from muzzle-loaders for game. So don Gabriel accepted the post. He would have accepted the post of watching boiling cauldrons in hell if anyone had offered it to him. He was so down on his luck that he had no choice. It was getting on to twenty years since he had sought a way out in honest work. And a job in government is far and away the best. A man has only to keep his eyes open and pounce as soon as the prey shows its nose.

  There was no reason for don Gabriel to be initiated into the details of his new post. There were no specific administrative regulations for that particular place, and even if there had been don Gabriel would not have needed to worry about them. He was a friend of the jefe politico’s; he had only to do as he saw fit and thought best. Every month he had to send the jefe a report giving the number of births, deaths, and cattle. If he had been compelled to shoot a few Indians he might put it down or not as he chose. In reporting such occurrences, he had only to be sure to state that they had taken place in self-defense and that the victims had publicly insulted the governor. No inquiry would follow—inquiries cost money. Besides, it was not to be imagined that a secretary, particularly when he was a friend of the political representative and had been recommended by him for the post, would falsify his reports.

  3

  Bujvilum was an independent Indian pueblo. It was inhabited by the Bachajontecs, a branch of the Tseltal tribe.

  The Bachajontecs were very energetic Indians, industrious tillers of the soil and zealous raisers of cattle. Their cattle consisted of goats and sheep and large numbers of swine. The swine kept them in meat and lard, and from the sale of pigs to passing dealers they procured the money for things they could not themselves produce and had to buy in the larger towns of the district—machetes, axes, cotton goods, needles, powder, and buckshot.

  Their wives made blankets, clothing, ponchos, and belts from the wool of the sheep. As these articles were well made and durable they were able to sell all that they did not need for their own use in the big market at Jovel. Their goods were always very much in demand and they could never produce enough to meet it.

  The land of Bujvilum was very poor. That is why it had not been too greedily coveted by the Spanish colonizers. Later, when Mexico became independent, Mexicans tried to settle on it; but the Indians were a match for them and made their stay so unpleasant that the Ladinos—that is, those of them who remained alive—were always
glad to curtail it. Outside their own district these Indians rarely did anyone any harm; that would only happen when they had sworn revenge and had good reason for it.

  The Bachajontecs rebelled—against the government and individuals—only when they were not left in peace in their district. Passing travelers and dealers were safe as long as they spent no more than twenty-four hours in the place. But if they tried to lengthen their stay, the Indians became suspicious: they were afraid a pretext was being established for staying on as settlers. If the new arrival was still in the place on the second day, he was informed that his time was up and that he had better spend the night in the next place. If he did not take the hint, he was found murdered on the third morning, or at the latest, on the fourth. His goods or whatever else he had with him were left untouched in a room in the cabildo, where he had been sleeping.

  The government, or, to be exact, the governor, was forever trying to bring Bujvilum under control—not because he was anxious for the well-being of these Indians, but because he could get no taxes from this industrious folk. It is no fun at all being a governor if no taxes come in.

  Not that the Bachajontecs could altogether free themselves of taxes. If they took a pig or a few goats to another place to sell in the market, they had their market dues to pay. Besides these, the alcalde, the mayor of the town, took something a head on all animals sold—a peso for goats and as much as two pesos for a fully grown pig, a little less for partly grown animals.

  When the Indians were on their way with their animals through smaller towns where they had no intention of selling, either because there were no buyers or because prices were bad, the alcaldes took a toll of twenty centavos for each animal driven through. It was very seldom they could avoid these places; they had to follow the roads that led from one town to another, owing to impassable bush and broken country which left them no other choice.

  Even when it came to selling their handmade products, the Indians had to pay market dues; and if they had no money, then they had to surrender such a large part of the goods that the market dues were far more than paid for.

  The Bachajontecs said nothing against these penalties. Every other Indian paid them. In any case, they could have said nothing, for they had no power outside their own territory. In their own pueblo, however, it was sometimes a different matter.

  4

  The governor would send twenty soldiers to accompany a newly appointed secretary to Bujvilum. All men and boys who had not fled in time into the jungle nearby were arrested and forced to build the cabildo. This was the official town hall. It was set off as government territory at a distance of a hundred paces or so from the nearest hut, or Indian jacal, of the village. For lack of other material the cabildo was built of sun-dried mud. It had one large room, which was the secretary’s office; a second room was the schoolroom, a third was the secretary’s living quarters, and a fourth room was the prison.

  The prison was very important—as everywhere on earth. Everywhere the building of a prison is the first step in the organization of a civilized state.

  As soon as the cabildo was completed it was inaugurated. The new secretary provided a few fireworks, which were set off at night with great jubilation. He further provided a keg of brandy to put the Indians in a good frame of mind. He made a speech in which much was said of la patria and amor por la patria and much was promised for the honradez—the uprightness and justice—which would mark his administration.

  Then the jefe of the Indians was called upon to speak. In the name of his people the chief promised to support the secretary with all his power in every just undertaking and to promote with zeal the well-being of the place and of all its native population.

  A message was sent to the governor, announcing the excellent understanding between the Indians and the representative of the government, namely, the secretary. The governor replied with a message of thanks and the promise of his protection.

  The Indians who had fled into the jungle with their families came back with their cattle and set about cultivating their fields. Peace and harmony were the order of the day.

  Then the place was connected by telephone with the nearest municipalidad, a county seat where there was a garrison. As soon as the telephone wires were laid, a small commission dispatched by the Department of Health arrived and all the Indians were vaccinated and given a few doses of quinine.

  Two weeks after they had arrived the soldiers were lined up in front of the cabildo, called to attention, and then, shouldering their rifles, they marched back to their garrison.

  5

  The secretary could not live and support a family on his paltry salary, and the government did not expect him to. He was, after all, the secretary of a place inhabited by active and industrious Indians.

  No one expected a governor, a chief of police, a mayor, or a tax collector to live on his pay; nor did the jefe político imagine for a moment that he had to live on his.

  So it was also a matter for the secretary to consider how he was to arrive at a decent income for himself. The jefe político expected a good share of it, just as a chief of police looked to the police under his command for a share of their pickings, in order to feel justified in continuing to employ them. How they came by their pickings was no affair of his. They were all born with heads on their shoulders, and he had given them each a good revolver and invested them with ample authority.

  So the secretary labored and labored to increase his income and to live up to the hopes of the jefe político, who wrote to him every fortnight, intimating that he required a further consideration and that it was high time it arrived.

  It depended entirely on the manner in which the secretary labored whether six or eight or even eighteen months passed by in peace. But ultimately one morning he found his best cow slaughtered, a week later his last one. Then his horse was found with a deep gash in the leg from a machete. Then the telephone wire was cut. He set out to find the place. At a spot where the bush was densest he found a fine new red woolen belt. As he bent down to pick it up, a machete whizzed by, an inch from his head. After that he did not dare leave the cabildo. And he could not telephone. One evening he stood smoking a cigarette beneath the portico of the cabildo contemplating the weather. As he turned to go in again and was just about to shut the door, there was a report. A great lump of shot pierced his hat and dug its way into the door.

  Next morning he packed up, put his family on horseback, and cleared out, never to return. The village was like a home of the dead, but he knew that a hundred eyes watched his departure through the bamboo poles of the jacales.

  If he did not go, then two or three or ten days later he was a dead man.

  A few weeks afterward the soldiers came. The jefe político had had no report for three months, so he had sent soldiers to investigate.

  The soldiers searched the huts. They found not a soul in them. Even the pots and pans were gone. They burned all the huts to the ground. The cabildo, with the ruins of the prison, was left standing.

  Their rations gone, and with not even a dried-up tortilla to be found, the soldiers marched off again.

  After a few months the governor decided once more to bring the place to heel and tax it in the name of the government. The jefe político had a friend for whom a job had to be found because he was forever pursued by bad luck and harassed for money. So the soldiers arrived once more, bringing the new secretary and his family with them. But there was nowhere for the new secretary to live. The cabildo had been burned down and wiry grass and vigorous scrub covered the place where it had once stood.

  The village had been built up again. The maize was green in the fields. But there was not a soul in the village, not a goat or a sheep, not a pot or a pan in the jacales.

  The jungle was dense, dark, and menacing. There were no paths, and it was full of marshes, tigers, snakes, and mosquitoes. The sergeant in charge of the soldiers was an Indian. He knew what jungle and bush were like. He had no desire to go catching Indians in the j
ungle to build the cabildo.

  Word was sent to the jefe político. The maize fields were green and promising. Taxes beckoned. The jefe político, who was in chronic need of money and who had for that reason made a friend of his the new secretary, could not afford to leave the village in peace. He needed money, and it was there to be got if the secretary knew how to go about it.

  He sent a message to the secretary of another independent Indian community, situated nearer the garrison, telling the secretary to have the Indian jefe of the village send twenty of his people to rebuild the cabildo, without pay, without even their rations—for the new secretary had to have his office and somewhere to live and the telephone and a prison.

  The cabildo was built. The Indians reappeared out of the jungle. Fireworks were set off and speeches made about la patria. The soldiers slung their rifles across their shoulders and marched off.

  Ten or twelve months wents by, and then one day a machete missed the head of the new secretary by a hair’s breadth.

  The village was once more burned to the ground. Then wiry grass flourished again on the spot where the new cabildo with its prison had stood, and then the soldiers arrived once more.

  So it had gone on over the years. It came and went like the seasons. There might be revolutions; there might be military uprisings; the presidents might be murdered or go to Europe for their health in fear of being murdered—but in Bujvilum nothing changed.

  And all this came and went not because these independent Indians were savages and rebels and murderers, or because they could not adapt themselves to the organization of a justly administered state, but because governors and jefe políticos and other officials were in chronic need of money; because they gambled and whored; because they tolerated and carried in their train a mob of parasites, called friends and relations; because they had three times more women than they could feed, clothe, and hang with jewels.