Helen’s father, an old hand at traveling himself, was more reasonable. He suggested a compromise. “Why not make three piles? In one put all the things that are essential, in the second put those things about which you can’t make up your minds, and in the third, the items you would like to have along but can do without.”
We tried his suggestion, but everything went into the essential pile. But it was still a good idea, so we tried again.
“We can prepare our meals on the jeep’s bow.” We discarded the folding table.
“After riding all day we won’t want to eat sitting down anyway.” We rejected the camp stools.
“What about this lantern?” Helen asked.
“We’ll go to bed early.” After working eighteen hours a day on the jeep the thought of lots of sleep was very appealing.
With little storage space and a wide range of temperatures to prepare for—requiring everything from a turtle-neck sweater to a Bikini—clothes presented a bit of a problem. Though we planned to be gone a year, we had to settle for no more than we would take for a weekend. For the cities we decided on a suit apiece and whatever else we could squeeze into two small suitcases, and for traveling whatever we could cram into one of the cabinets along with our pocketbook library. We had visions of some peaceful tropical island where we would sit under a waving palm and while away the hours with the Odyssey or the Oxford Book of English Verse, or perhaps we would feel adventurous and sail the stormy seas with Horatio Hornblower, or live vicariously Ahab’s quest for Moby Dick. And for lighter moments there were the Thurber Carnival and the poems of Ogden Nash. There were a few practical books too—a Spanish dictionary, a dog-eared copy of the Bible that had been with us since we were married, and an Armed Forces publication with the portentous title Survival on Land and Sea.
It took three days to stow everything in La Tortuga. As each item was jammed into place Helen checked the list:
PORT CABINET—
traveling clothes, library, sewing kit, first aid kit, folder of maps and folder of documents (passports, inoculation records, police clearance certificates, Dinah’s health certificate, and jeep-ownership certificate).
STARBOARD CABINET (ship’s galley)—
one-burner paratrooper stove, coffeepot, dishes, and canned stores.
FORWARD BOW COMPARTMENT—
spare parts, tools, machete, ax, shovel, anchor, rubber life raft, winch cable, and hand bilge pump.
LOWER HOLDS (under the bunks)—
suitcases and three weeks’ supply of emergency rations sealed in taped coffee tins including walnuts, dried fruit, powdered eggs, powdered milk, chipped beef, vitamins, and dog meal for Dinah.
When we were finished everything was stowed neatly out of sight except for the camera cases, typewriter, and portable radio on one bunk where they would be protected from road shock. We stored our photographic film in a large campers’ icebox with silica gel for humidity control. But there was still one thing we had found no place for. I held up the life preservers. “What can we do with these?”
Helen, still skeptical, didn’t hesitate. “We’ll use them for pillows until we need them.”
Dinah, with no such problems about what to bring, was waiting at the jeep several hours before we were ready to leave. Clamped between her teeth was the one thing she prized most—her green rubber dish. As we climbed into La Tortuga I noticed that Helen had no difficulty: she was wearing denim culottes.
CHAPTER TWO
A PORTLY man in a shabby green uniform and sporting a thick Stalin mustache greeted us as we drove over the border from Nogales, Arizona, into Mexico. Taking our identification and automobile registration, he led us to a tiny cubicle, where we proceeded to answer the questions of an even portlier man with an even bigger mustache. After he had written our names, birthplaces, and professions in the large book that covered the top of his desk he asked:
“Your destination, please?”
Unthinkingly I replied, “Ushuaia.” His mustache twitched and I hastily corrected myself. “Mexico City,” I said.
“Type of automobile?”
At my answer, “Amphibious jeep,” his mustache twitched again and he reached for the telephone. There was nothing in his rule book about amphibious jeeps. I knew that if he called his superior it might be hours before we were cleared through customs. Again I explained. “It’s just a regular jeep with a different type of body.” That seemed to satisfy him, and then came the moment we had been dreading. He asked us to bring in our bags.
We had had nightmares over the thought of unpacking the jeep at borders. I thought of all the things in the cabinets and of the suitcases at the bottom of the hull under the bunks. I stretched a point. “But everything is in compartments.”
“Compartments?” he repeated suspiciously. “Amphibious jeep? Ushuaia? This is all very strange. I must look into this matter myself.”
That was the last thing I wanted. I was certain he would go through La Tortuga from bow to stern. I could see tools, spare parts, dishes, clothes, and cameras piled high in his office, but there was nothing to do but follow him to the jeep.
“This looks like a boat!” he exclaimed.
“Well, it is, more or less,” I said. I showed him the propeller and the capstan winch on the bow, the bunks and the overhead hatch. He was so intrigued by the idea of a floating jeep that he forgot all about the inspection. He issued us our tourist cards, and with a cheery “Que le vaya bien” wished us a pleasant journey and sent us on our way.
Many of the cars that swished by us that first day in Mexico bore American license plates. Fishing poles protruded from the windows as sport fishermen drove to Guaymas to try their hands at the huge marlin and sailfish. It all seemed so familiar: adobe dwellings, shades of pink and sun-baked yellow spiked with elementary blue, mother and child one in striped shawl, burros barely visible under their loads of fodder, centuries-old churches with neon crosses and cloistered archways edged with violets, modern tractors in front of mud hovels, and buzzards floating over half-devoured carcasses beside the road.
That evening when no one was in view, we eased from the road and wound through the sage to a clearing where the tall organ cactus of the Sonora Desert pointed to a reddened sky. We had barely stopped when Dinah reverted to her old custom of scouting the area. Then, apparently satisfied that the camp was to her liking, she lay on the warm sand near the jeep to await her meal of canned dog food.
Our campsite was completely hidden from the road. Too many times on the previous trip we had awakened to find ourselves surrounded by faces, noses flat against the windows and eyes ringed by fingers.
While Helen stacked the cameras and typewriter in the middle between the bunks and turned back the sleeping bags, I lifted one of the five-gallon water cans from its rack and lit our small stove. In a few minutes coffee was bubbling. We dined sumptuously on fried chicken and fruitcake, cheese, chocolate chip cookies, and shortbread. Despite the banquet there was a mood of sadness. At home there had been no goodbyes, and as we finished the last of the goodies pressed on us by family and friends, it was as if we were severing that last tie.
“This hood makes a fine table,” I said, trying to be cheerful.
Helen went along with my attempt at conversation. “And we don’t need stools. I’d rather stand anyway.”
While Helen and I washed the dishes, Dinah made a last-minute patrol. We heard a surprised yelp, and she came running to us with an apple-sized cluster of cactus spines stuck in her nose. She had forgotten that in the desert it was sometimes painful to be too inquisitive.
Less than an hour from the time we pulled from the road the three of us were climbing into the jeep for the night. Dinah, as usual, was the first one in and was already making herself comfortable on my bunk. “Oh no, Dinah, that’s your bed only in the daytime and only when your blanket is on it. At night you sleep there.” I pointed to the right-hand seat and Dinah moved reluctantly from the bunk.
“Camping in La Tortug
a is almost luxurious,” I said as I stretched out on the air mattress.
“It’s certainly a great improvement over the first jeep. How I dreaded undressing outside in the Guatemalan cold.” As Helen reached for the light overhead, Dinah was still trying hopelessly to make herself fit on the seat. “We don’t need pillows. Let’s fill the gap between the seats with the life preservers. Then Dinah can stretch out too.”
Through the open rear window came the chill desert air and the tranquil noises of the night. I reached for Helen’s hand over the pile of things that separated us and Dinah gave a contented sigh.
Almost a week later we checked into a hotel in Mazatlán. The occasion? A bath. In our room overlooking the beach happy sounds came from the shower.
“You’re doing much better,” I said. “On the last trip you insisted we check into a hotel after only three days.”
“But I’m a hardened camper now,” Helen laughed.
I recalled her first bath in Mexico four years earlier, when she was wetter from her tears than from the shower. There had been a freak snow and we had been cold for days. As we passed a sign advertising a new motel boasting hot water, Helen pleaded, “Can’t we forget the budget just once?” When we stopped she could hardly wait to get under the shower—she was already undressing when I went out for the bags. I came back and found her quietly sobbing under a trickle of water. “It’s cold,” she cried. But I knew that it was more than the shock of the cold water and the fact that she missed her two baths a day. She was homesick.
There was plenty of hot water in the hotel at Mazatlán, however, and we showered once to get clean and once again just for the fun of it. The next morning we had had enough luxury to last another week and we drove to Camarones Beach, a few miles from town, to pay a call on an old friend, a Jamaican Negro named Manuel.
Manuel ran a small cantina near the beach. His kinky hair was a little grayer but his gold-toothed smile was as bright as ever. Near the cantina were palm frond canopies and he invited us to set up camp.
Along with his business of dispensing beer and soft drinks Manuel made drums. When business was slack he transformed bits of metal and hardwood into bongos or congas, diligently polishing them and tuning them with a sensitive ear. Afternoons, music-loving teen-agers congregated on the shaded patio with their instruments—guitars, trumpets, maracas, and bones. While they played, Manuel beat out the tempo on his drums. Little Armando, Manuel’s son, who had been only a baby when we’d seen him last, broke into a mambo Arthur Murray would have envied.
Helen made me a present of a pair of the small bongos and I tried to learn to play them, but my efforts were disappointing. Patient Manuel tried to teach me. After several hours with no results he turned the task over to his son.
Six-year-old Armando began with an enthusiasm which quickly dwindled. Standing between my knees, he guided my hands in the basic beats—the bolero, the ranchero, conga, tango, and mambo, and then stood aside.
“Now you try it alone,” he instructed. I did try, but he just shook his head. We went through it again, but as soon as Armando removed his small hands from mine the rhythm left me as completely as if I’d never heard it.
He looked up at me with sad brown eyes and said, “There is no hope, there is no hope.”
Every time I heard a mambo or bolero I picked up my drums, but I was as lifeless as an Aztec idol. I kept trying. A few days later a ranchero was moaning from the loudspeaker and the bongos were clamped between my knees. When the music stopped, Manuel grinned approvingly and Armando danced with excitement at my progress.
“There is hope, there is hope,” he shouted gleefully.
The paved highway from sub-tropical Mazatlán turned inland from the coast and wound through steep jagged cliffs so formidable that even the conquistadores bypassed them. We drove leisurely, waving to bus and truck drivers who nodded appreciatively at the name La Tortuga printed on the side of the jeep. Their own vehicles were decorated with painted scalloped curtains on the windows, curlicues on the fenders, and proudly named El Toro or Hurricán or, more affectionately, Lupita. The mere fact that we had bothered to name La Tortuga seemed to make us members of that great fraternity of choferes, a highly respected profession in Mexico.
There had been a mild interest in the jeep the one night we had parked in front of the hotel in Mazatlán, but we were not prepared for the reception she received in Guadalajara. On the outskirts of the city a child let his hoop roll unnoticed down the street and shrilled, “A boat.” Pushcart vendors halted by the curb and drivers slowed their mad pace to ours and followed us to the same small hotel where we had stopped before. When we went out to the jeep for Dinah and our bags it was surrounded. Fathers were holding their children up to the windows, little boys were jumping on the roof, and two would-be mechanics were opening the hood. It was then we established the precedent that was to hold for the rest of the trip. Like Minos, I hid the monster in the labyrinth of a local parking garage.
In the hotel we asked for the same room. To my delight, the plumbing still worked. On our first visit to Guadalajara I contracted the usual, the turista disease, and for days I dared not leave the room. Afterward Helen never let me forget the eloquent speech that I so sincerely delivered while my condition was critical, “God bless them for the plumbing, God bless them for the plumbing.”
Through the wrought-iron grillwork of the balcony window poured a medley of street noises—bicycle bells, horns, the squeal of brakes, and the shouts of lottery-ticket vendors. It was a discordant medley, but it was also part of the music of a new experience, and we were beginning to get in step. The Spanish we had forgotten was coming back, the drone of voices in the restaurants seemed less strange, and we mingled with more ease among the people in the streets or in the markets.
The tempo was easy. There was no hurry, and momentito could mean hours. It is said that the only thing that starts on time in Mexico is the bullfight, but in Guadalajara there was something else. At two o’clock sharp the bells in the old cathedral boomed, the stores closed, and the siesta began. Outside the restaurants the mariachi orchestras assembled, and the customers settled back to enjoy a two-hour repast.
Each day Helen and I tried a different café. In most places women were conspicuous by their absence and men looked up from their tables as we entered. Although we couldn’t eat all six courses, the meal of the day was still the least expensive way to order, and we enjoyed lingering over dinner and listening to the music. One afternoon as we returned from lunch in a nearby restaurant we heard some exceptionally fine mariachi music coming from the hotel dining room. Through the open doors we saw an eight-piece band playing for a lone diner, who, from the number of empty glasses before him, was apparently taking his nourishment in liquid form. The musicians, resplendent in silver-brocaded sombreros, spangled jackets, and tight black trousers, stood in a semi-circle around their patrón.
“Let’s not miss this,” I said to Helen. “You go in and order some coffee and I’ll go up to the room and check on Dinah.”
As I came down the stairs I thought I was too late—the music had stopped. But as I approached the open door I saw that the entertainment had just begun. The fiddlers, guitarists, and trumpeters stood waiting while the gentleman who had hired them raised his glass in toast to Helen. The first musician was walking over to her table. Amused, I stepped back. This, I thought, is a good opportunity for her to practice her Spanish. I have to admit, however, that if her admirer had been young and dashing instead of fat and fortyish I might not have been so willing to further her linguistic endeavors.
The first musician reached her table and bowed. “My patrón requests that the charming lady make a selection.”
Helen looked up from her coffee and smiled. “Please thank him for me, but I have no request.” I thought she had handled that very nicely and was just about to enter when I saw that the gentleman was not to be brushed off so easily. There was a whispered conversation and the musician returned to Helen’s t
able.
“El señor insists that the señorita make a selection.”
Helen hesitated. Apparently all Spanish song titles had escaped her—all except one, that is.
It was an unhappy choice. The patrón’s eyes brightened. He was obviously a firm believer in the very prevalent idea that American women are easily approached, and he took the song title as a direct invitation. Wobbling in Helen’s direction, he beckoned to the mariachis to follow and the room filled with the strains of “Amor.” Not satisfied with the vocalists, he took over the serenade personally, and with each line leaned a little closer.
Terribly upset at having been so grossly misunderstood, Helen moved farther and farther into the corner. Even in the guise of a Spanish lesson I couldn’t justify my entertainment any longer. With a straight face I took the chair beside her and nodded to the startled patrón. “Please continue,” I said. “It’s our favorite song.”
Every morning of our week’s stay in Guadalajara we awakened to the whisk of the street cleaner’s broom and began our daily wanderings through the city. Sometimes we rode in a horse-drawn carriage while the clippety-clop of the hoofs rang through quiet side streets. We caught glimpses of radiant gardens behind sterile walls or watched children leave for school, blue and white uniforms neat and books like knapsacks on their backs. Or sometimes we walked to the central market, where the commercial heart of the people beat its unchanging rhythm under the steel ribs of a block-square concrete building. With the crowd we pushed between shaded stalls outside, past the saddles and bolts of bright cloth, the sandals made from tires and the tinsmith hammering ladles from old cans. We watched a boy scrape the insulation from wire and a girl weave the wire into a basket. Nothing was wasted except time. On the corner a street magician chanted his patter to an indifferent audience while nearby an old woman shrouded in her shawl slept by the wares no one bought, her gentle snores accompaniment to the unceasing pat-pat of hands making tortillas. Through the iron gates of the market poured an overwhelming dissonance of smells. Meat, covered with flies, hung in strips, thick wheels of yellow cheese overpowered the fragrance of adjoining flower stands, and next to them vegetables formed high pyramids on the floor. Stems of bananas swayed in one corner and one giant variety was new to me. I asked its name and smiled at the answer. Another reminder of Mexico’s emphasis on man.
20,000 Miles South Page 3