The rains that had started prematurely in Tapachula had not followed us into Guatemala, but Helen and I both knew that we could not tarry. We worked out a rigid schedule, one which allowed little time for sight-seeing, and decided to travel as many hours each day as Helen’s weakened condition would permit, and as fast as the combination of the jeep’s low power, the sharp curves, chuckholes, and washboard road allowed. In Guatemala City we stopped only long enough to procure a visa for El Salvador, and then speeded on to the border, constantly shifting gears and steering around slides and boulders on the ill-kept road.
After having crossed two Mexican borders and two Guatemalan borders with only a few minutes’ delay and with no inspection, we were full of confidence when we braked to a stop in front of the Salvadorean customs house. Before us was the longest stretch of paved road we had seen for almost a month and we were anxious to see how La Tortuga would perform at a speed better than twenty miles per hour. But the officials had other ideas. Perhaps it was just that it was close to siesta time and a hot sweltering afternoon, but our statement that everything was in compartments made no difference. Besides, the chief of customs was tired and it was all of thirty feet from his desk to the jeep. So we spent the next few hours carrying our things in to him. When everything was in order the chief of customs wanted to send one of his boys along with us to make sure we didn’t sell anything, but he couldn’t get any volunteers when, at our encouragement, Dinah made a very convincing show of her teeth. As it turned out, it might have been better if someone had gone with us—we might not have been stopped by police every few miles on our way to the capital.
El Salvador is the smallest, but most densely populated country in Central America, and one of the two countries in all of Latin America that has its portion of the Pan American Highway paved. Principally a coffee country, almost all of its wealth is in the hands of a few large producers, and it is said that there are more Cadillacs in its capital than in Beverly Hills. El Salvador has had a relatively peaceful revolutionary history in comparison with its neighbors, probably because of the government’s policy of keeping taxes just low enough so that it is cheaper to pay them than to buy guns. On our first visit we had entered on tourist cards, similar to those of tourist-wise Mexico. Apparently the El Salvadoreans had found that too simple a solution. They had reverted to the more bureaucratic and complicated visa system. I noticed, too, that the chimbimbo, our American dime, was still in circulation. I had been considerably confused on the first trip when I was handed a dime in change. The next time I bought something worth ten cents, I handed the clerk two nickels, but he wouldn’t accept them. Later I learned that our dime was their official twenty-five-cent piece; their own contained too much silver and had disappeared from the market.
In San Salvador, the capital, Helen and I checked into the Hotel Internacional—there is always a Hotel Internacional—for a bath before making the rounds of the Honduran, Nicaraguan, and Costa Rican consulates for visas. We hired a cab for the morning. It turned out to be for the day. Previously our meetings with the consulates had been painless; it had never taken more than a few minutes to obtain our visas. It came as a shock, therefore, when an owlish-looking gentleman at the Honduran consulate peered over his glasses and said that there would be a ten-day wait.
“But,” I protested, “we can’t wait that long. Ten days could make the difference in being able to reach Costa Rica before the rains begin. We’ll be in your country only a few hours. As much as we would like to, we can’t even take time to stop in your lovely capital.”
With that glowing reference to Tegucigalpa he warmed up. “Under those circumstances,” he said, “I can issue a transit visa immediately—if you first have a visa for the next country on your route, Nicaragua.”
I saw a strange gleam in his eyes when I said, “Fine, we’ll be back with the visas in a half hour.” We learned the reason for that gleam when we arrived at the Nicaraguan consulate. There would be a two-week delay for visas to Nicaragua. It seemed that Somoza, Nicaragua’s dictator—or pacifier, as he preferred to be called—had just dodged a bullet. He was personally approving all visas. The fact that there were more than a thousand miles of unpatrolled border where anyone with evil intentions could slip across with ease didn’t matter. Anyone entering by the one patrolled highway was under suspicion. After an hour of explanation, persuasion, cajolery, and flattery we had gotten nowhere. There would still be a two-week wait.
We were desperate. In the trees outside of town thumb-sized beetles were praying for rain. According to local superstition, this particular type of insect begins to sing about two months before the rainy season, and had already been praying, so we were told, for about six weeks. We had to be in Costa Rica before those prayers were answered.
Again we explained to the consul how critical timing was. The consul agreed to cable for permission, but added that it would still take at least seven days. Another hour passed while we went through the whole story again. Tired of arguing, the consul finally said, “I’ll give you a visa under one condition—if you can get a personal recommendation from the American Ambassador.”
To us this condition seemed tantamount to bringing back the Golden Fleece. Except for one unofficial and embarrassing contact in Nicaragua four years earlier, our experience with the American diplomatic service consisted of calling for our mail. Not quite encouraged by the Nicaraguan consul’s compromise, we walked glumly out to the still waiting taxi and directed him to proceed with all haste to the American Embassy. We were met there by a very courteous secretary who listened sympathetically to our tale of woe and then informed us that the American Ambassador was in the United States. I could hear the thunder and lightning already. It was not at all difficult to picture La Tortuga engulfed in a sea of mud in the Guanacaste area of northern Costa Rica.
Just then a tall, slender, impeccably dressed Hollywood version of a young diplomat came down the stairs in time to catch the last act of the melodrama. He introduced himself as D. Chadwick Braggiotti, chargé d’affaires in the Ambassador’s absence. In many subsequent encounters with the U.S. Foreign Service we never met a man who grasped a problem more quickly or with greater understanding than Mr. Braggiotti. Even though he was already late for a state function he took time right there to call the Nicaraguan consul and to instruct his assistant to draft a letter. He asked us to come back and see him later that afternoon.
By 4:00 P.M. we had all our visas, and also our permit to leave El Salvador, an item which normally would have taken two days to acquire. At the American Embassy later that same afternoon we were ushered into Mr. Braggiotti’s office. A conversation followed that was to be of great consequence to us. He asked if we would do him a favor. Anything, I thought.
“You two are following closely behind Vice-President Nixon’s goodwill tour of the Latin-American nations,” he explained. “One of the purposes of that tour was to promote interest in the Pan American Highway, and I believe that news of what you are doing to get through the unfinished portions could do a great deal to help that cause. I would like to introduce you to our United States Information Service officer, have a few pictures taken, and get some background material on your trip. If you have no objections.”
After the interview with the USIS officer we were given a letter of introduction to other USIS officers along our route.
The next morning the insects’ prayers were still unanswered as we left San Salvador for the Honduran border, 112 miles away. We arrived there in a few hours, but it took another few hours to get through customs. The officials were tired there too.
Honduras is the only country in Central America where the Pan American Highway does not go directly to the capital. There was a fine paved cut-off to Tegucigalpa, but we passed it by with reluctance. Now every day counted in our race against the rains. We were anxious to cross the ninety-five miles of Honduran cactus and sage and enter Nicaragua before nightfall.
In Managua, Nicaragua’s capital, we ran into
another snag—Somoza also had to approve exit permits. We were told at the immigration office that the only way to avoid the delay was to see Somoza ourselves. We weren’t eager to climb the hill to his imposing palace, especially in such a tank-like vehicle as La Tortuga; however, without her we felt we didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of seeing him. On top of a prominence overlooking the city of Managua and Lake Managua his palace was a combination Forest Lawn and Fort Knox. Since the attempt on Somoza’s life the guard had been doubled, and it was with considerable difficulty that we reached the gate. Accompanied by a platoon of twitching soldiers bearing submachine guns, we were escorted to the Captain of the Guard, who told us that His Excellency was out of town. We asked to see his secretary, and, after three offices and three subsecretaries, finally we were led into a lobby-sized room with overstuffed leather chairs. After waiting only a few minutes we were introduced to a stocky, well-set gentleman in a white linen suit. Quietly he asked our business and made a telephone call. We were advised to pick up our exit visas at the immigration office within the hour.
Managua had been an experience on the first trip too. Though we had had no difficulty procuring an exit permit, we had had trouble enough in other respects. Mostly money, or rather the lack of it. Arriving in Managua with just enough for a hotel or a meal, we chose the meal, and then picked up our mail. We were expecting an income tax refund. But apparently my slide rule had slipped; instead of a check there was a bill. Taking up residence in the park on the shores of Lake Managua, we were pondering what to do when an angel appeared in the form of a little round man who approached us with the air of a street peddler selling pornographic post cards. He was not, however, a peddler; he was a buyer. Did we have any nylons, women’s underclothes, cameras, tools? He would buy anything. We had only one thing we could sell, but in a dictator-run country where anything more lethal than a water pistol was under government control we were a little hesitant to mention the .22 rifle we had smuggled across four countries. However, since it wasn’t digestible in its present form, we decided to transform it into cash, and our little round friend was sworn to secrecy. He said he would call at our hotel that night. “Where are you staying?” he asked. When I told him that we were staying right there on the shores of the lake, he grew very impatient. Finally we convinced him, and although he could not understand Americans not staying in the best hotel, or at least some hotel, he told us of a park high above the city where we could camp in relative comfort. “It’s cooler, there’s running water and no mosquitoes.”
With that Elysium in mind we followed his directions, given in Spanish, to a road leading out of town. We found the two lights, the guard, the high fence, just as he had described. With superb nonchalance we told the astonished sentry that we would like to make camp there for the night. With somewhat less composure he made a telephone call from inside his post, and then opened the gates. “Pick any place you like,” he said.
We spent a heavenly night, sleeping among hibiscus and roses. The next morning the gardener asked if we would like to bathe. What hospitable park commissioners, I thought. After a refreshing bath in a trellis-shielded shower dotted with blue morning glories we heated the last of our coffee and, with a piece of Dinah’s biscuit, had a breakfast fit for a dog. As I was rolling up the sleeping bags I saw a very impressive building away off on a hill. I asked the gardener what public building it was. “Oh,” he said, “it’s not public. That’s the residence of the American Ambassador. You’ve been sleeping in his garden.” We left an anonymous thank-you note with the sentry.
Baffled, we rode back to town, hoping that our black-marketeering friend was not also playing a joke on us with respect to buying the gun. When the transaction was completed, he asked us how we enjoyed the park. At my stormy reply he said defensively, “But, señor, you did not understand. I said go past the lighted gate, not through it. The park was just beyond.” Our Spanish has improved much since then.
Our trouble over visas and exit permits this time was caused in part by the rather strained relations between Somoza and Costa Rica’s President Figueres. Somoza blamed Figueres for the attempt on his life, and Figueres blamed Somoza for aiding the revolution that had been so recently foiled in Costa Rica. They were still on speaking terms, but the speaking was restricted to name calling. Tension was mounting between the two countries and there were reputed to be guerrillas in the mountains near the border. Our state of mind was not improved by a meeting with an Inter-American Geodetic surveyor.
“Don’t stop for anything,” he warned. “If you have a flat tire ride it on the rim.”
With that comforting advice we left Managua, planning to cross the border that same day. But we overestimated the quality of the roads. True to the tradition of making it as difficult as possible to cross frontiers, the roads on either side of the borders in Latin-American countries are rarely maintained. We made camp near the shores of Lake Nicaragua, the only place in the world where there are fresh water sharks. But it wasn’t sharks we were concerned about that night.
It was already dark when we finished supper and were ready to crawl in the jeep. Helen was the first to notice several bright lights moving very erratically across an open field several hundred yards away. They weren’t coming from the road, so I knew they couldn’t be automobiles, and besides, they were sweeping the country as if they were searching for something. It was with a decidedly squeamish feeling that we watched the lights get closer and closer; since we were only a few miles from the border, it wasn’t difficult to imagine some overzealous patriot shooting and asking questions later. But there was nothing to do but stand our ground and hope they wouldn’t discover us. We were overly optimistic. A stray beam glanced across the reflectors on the side of the jeep and they lit up like Roman candles. Simultaneously all the lights concentrated on us as if we were Sonja Henie at the ice show. Helen dove for the wings, and I took a bow.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” I quavered. “We’re friends. Turistas norteamericanos.”
There was a stony silence. Staring blindly into the lights, I tried to make out if they were in uniform, but all I could tell was that there were six men on horseback, all armed like comic book gangsters. The silence continued, and I was beginning to think they were all either unfriendly or mute. Eventually one of them asked me in Spanish:
“Where do you come from?”
“Alaska,” I answered. There was another pause, and then in perfect English he said, “Well, what the hell are you doing here?”
The lights blinked off and in a wink I was enjoying a cigarette with six sportsmen from Managua who were deer hunting. Hence the sweeping lights. Not a very sporting way to hunt, but I was in no mood to question their ethics.
The next morning we crossed the border into Costa Rica. At the wooden frontier post there were graphic examples of the activity of the preceding few weeks—not a pane of glass was intact and every square foot of the walls sported a bullet hole. We waited four hours for the captain of the small detachment of soldiers to return from hunting down guerrillas before we were permitted to pass.
The Guanacaste region of northern Costa Rica is wild country, a coastal plateau of canyons, rocks, and scattered dense vegetation. Devoted principally to cattle raising, it had a Wild West atmosphere in other ways too. As we drove along the narrow dirt track, every man put his hand on a concealed gun as we approached. It was the memory of the dry-weather trail in this area that had caused us to rush across four countries to reach it before the rains came. Although the first fourteen miles were still very poor, the rest of the eighty miles we had worried about was an excellent gravel road, thanks to the U.S. Bureau of Public Roads.
In San José, the capital, we asked a policeman for directions to the Pension Internacional, the new hotel run by our old friends the Ramos family. Being a very obliging fellow, he offered to take us there. Zipping behind our first motorcycle escort, without regard for traffic, we felt we had at long last discovered the answer to our city d
riving problem. Until we found ourselves in front of a big square building that said policía instead of pension. There followed a cross-examination of very leading questions that intimated that harmless La Tortuga might be a Trojan horse with Somoza hidden somewhere inside. Fortunately they permitted me to use the telephone before we were placed incommunicado and in a few minutes an indignant Señor Ramos was down to vouch for us.
San José, Costa Rica, was both an end and a beginning for us. Up to this point we had had past experience to draw on, but henceforth everything would be one great big question mark. We knew that no one had ever reached Panama in a wheeled vehicle under its own power, and that there was not so much as a foot trail over the mountains. The customary procedure for the Pan American traveler was to put his vehicle on a ship at the Pacific port of Puntarenas and disembark in the Canal Zone, Panama. We felt we had a new route mapped out. From San José we intended to travel south to San Isidro del General, where the Pan American Highway ended, and from there over a winding mountain trail down to Dominical on the Pacific coast. The practicability of our theory depended on several things which only an on-the-spot investigation could tell us. That there were beaches we knew from maps and charts, but what the jeep would do in water other than a calm bay was still in doubt. At best, our plans would mean traveling two hundred miles along an almost uninhabited coast from Dominical to Pedregal in Panama, the first seaport where we could again reach a road. Our maps also showed that the beach was broken by river mouths and rock outcroppings which would have to be skirted by sea, and we were depending upon the availability of protected coves from which to land and take off. We estimated conservatively that the trip would take two weeks and, allowing for the worst possible conditions, would consume seventy gallons of fuel.
20,000 Miles South Page 8