Since that time I have often wondered what would have happened if we had not met that fisherman. I have cursed him for what happened and blessed him for saving us from what might have happened, but always I have wondered. If he had not come to talk to us that night, the next morning we would have continued as we had been, feeling the same sickening chill when we entered the surf, the same numbing fear when we landed. Maybe we would have reached Panama as planned, maybe we would have turned turtle on some desolate beach, or maybe we would not have been so lucky at steering a course through a maze of rocks. I wonder.
The fisherman returned the next morning as we were picking a spot to cross the river mouth. He asked to see our chart. Running a calloused finger over it, he said:
“Up this river fifteen kilometers there is a United Fruit Company plantation. When I worked there five years ago, there was a road to a little town called Piedras Blancas, where the Rio Esquinas flows down to the Golfo Dulce.” He traced a course that would cut off a hundred miles of sea and beach travel around the Peninsula de Osa.
I don’t know why I believed him. Officials of the United Fruit Company in San José had said there were no roads. The fisherman swore he had seen one. We should not have taken the chance, but we were both too unnerved by what had happened and too afraid of what might lay ahead. We were ready to grasp at any straw, no matter how slim. We reasoned that just as there was a forgotten trail in southern Mexico there could be a forgotten trail in southern Costa Rica. We changed our plans again and headed down the steep bank into the river and upstream toward the banana plantation.
The incoming tide pushed La Tortuga up the sluggish brown river. The sound of the sea grew fainter; we felt almost as if we had been reprieved. Keeping close to the deep-cut bank, we steered clear of the flotsam that drifted by. On either side mangrove trees sat like giant spiders on their spindly roots, and in their branches black-faced monkeys played. Overhead brilliant-plumaged parrots filled the sky with color and the air with their raucous cries. As the river curved back on itself, we watched for the merging tributaries the fisherman had described. A few stilted grass and cane huts spotted the gray shore with yellow, and below them on the muddy banks of the dark river were long dug-out canoes.
After five miles or so the water appeared fresh, and we thought of a bath, the first in fresh water in almost a week. Dinah reluctantly parted with her pan, and Helen crawled out on the bow to dip water from the river. Just from the way she scrubbed I could see how relieved she was; I felt the same way. When she had finished, Helen took the wheel and I took my place on the hood. I was still covered with soap when a sharp jolt nearly threw me over the side as the jeep came to a squishy halt. We had gone aground.
“Some navigator,” I jibed. Scrutinizing each log and shadow on the bank for the alligators the fisherman had warned of, I jumped in and pushed off. As we continued up the river, the dark green jungle banks gave way to the yellow green of banana palms. Approaching the plantation, we heard the foreign sound of another motor. A small launch with a surrey-like shade of palm fronds drew alongside with four astonished plantation workers aboard. After they had asked the three questions, one of them tossed me a can of beer from an insulated box under one seat of the boat. All this and cold beer too! The one dismaying factor was that none of the men knew anything about a road to Piedras Blancas. But they said there might well be one and suggested that we ask at plantation headquarters.
The tide was full when we reached Puerto Cortés, an outpost on the edge of the plantation. It looked like an easy ascent up the riverbank to firm ground, and with all wheels driving and the propeller engaged we hit the bank. The jeep buried its wheels in soft gumbo clay that had the consistency of wet cement. With confidence I secured one end of our new steel cable to a big palm tree and engaged the winch. The cable tightened, the jeep moved a little deeper into the mud, and with a twang like a guitar string the cable snapped. I tried to back up, but we were stuck fast. Doubling the cable, I tried again. The jeep moved forward a bit, and then a loud clatter came from the winch housing. Something inside had sheared, and I had no spare parts for the winch.
With the tide at its highest and the winch out of commission, there was no way to get out by ourselves. A plantation dump truck tried to pull us, but it just sat and spun its duals. One of the men put in a call to Palmar Sur, plantation headquarters a few miles away, and in a half hour what must have been the granddaddy of all tractors rumbled into view. As easily as a pair of tweezers picks up an insect the long crane on the front of the tractor picked up La Tortuga and set her on the firm bank. I’m afraid that we rather disrupted the work at the plantation that afternoon. By the time we were clear, scores of natives had come from the fields to watch.
On either side of the gravel road to Palmar Sur were forests of banana palms. Hiding among their shiny drooping leaves, stems of green fruit hung pendulously, accented by the deep red of their heart-shaped buds. Tractor-pulled low-bed trailers carried the burlap-wrapped fruit to the sheds where they were washed, sprayed, and covered with clear plastic bags before being shipped immediately to the U.S. markets.
We had been advised to see Mr. George Newell, the general superintendent at Palmar Sur. Covered with river mud, unshaven, I hesitated even to walk up the flower-lined path to his home. With an expression something like shock Mr. Newell greeted me at the door. I tried to make my story as brief as possible, and then asked about the road.
“Yes,” he said, “there is a road, but it goes only twelve miles. And even if you could get to Piedras Blancas, the Rio Esquinas, which you plan to navigate, is just a rapid-filled rocky stream. Good for fishing, but that’s all.”
It was late afternoon when we received that disheartening information, and Mr. Newell suggested that we put up at the Palmar Sur guesthouse, have a good dinner, and talk about it later.
Palmar Sur was an amazing example of what good organization could do. The United Fruit Company had turned a jungle wilderness into a model community of neat houses, parks, and gardens, where roses and shower of gold bloomed prolifically. In the stilt-elevated guesthouse overlooking the golf course Helen and I bathed under a strong hot shower, refreshed with a cool one, and made repeated trips to the refrigerator for ice water. Later that evening, looking more presentable but no more cheerful, we sat in the Newells’ living room. Over cool drinks Mr. and Mrs. Newell listened sympathetically to the story of the trip, but their only suggestion was a flatcar on the United Fruit Company railroad to Corredores, some fifty miles away.
“From there,” Mr. Newell said, “a bull-dozed trail leads over the mountains to Volcan, Panama, where you can again catch the Pan American Highway. We’ll be happy to make arrangements for a flatcar to take you to Corredores.”
I thought of southern Mexico and what we had done to avoid taking the train. “Thank you, but we can’t do that,” I said. “In the morning we’ll go back down the river and continue along the coast.”
“Why don’t you think about it? Tomorrow’s a holiday, Good Friday, and, according to tradition, nothing moves in Costa Rica. Even the banana company shuts down. We couldn’t load you on a flatcar until Saturday anyway—Good Friday is the one day in the year the trains don’t run. Take it easy—the Pacific will wait for you. Think it over.”
I was thinking. A whole stream of thoughts. That was pretty big talk about going back to the beach. With a useless winch what would I do if we got stuck in the sand again and the tide rolled in? Good Friday. The only day in the year that trains don’t run. It would mean a compromise which we were not willing to make in southern Mexico for even a few yards, but we would still be traveling under our own power.
“Mr. Newell,” I asked, “would it be possible to drive over the railroad bed to Corredores? If it’s only fifty miles I’m sure we could do it in one day.”
Mr. Newell thought a moment. “I’m sorry, but the company would never give permission. Besides, the tracks are unballasted. They’re on a fill, narrow-gauge, with a drop of
f of eight to ten feet and more on either side. Your jeep would be pounded to pieces.”
“After what the jeep has been through, I’m sure it could take it, and we promise to be off the tracks before the trains start running again.”
Still not convinced, nevertheless, Mr. Newell made a telephone call. When he hung up the receiver he said, “The head office will not give permission. But, since there will be no traffic tomorrow, they will not prohibit you from trying—provided you’re off the tracks by midnight.” He brought out a map of the railroad. “In the morning I’ll go with you and put you on the right track. For the first fifteen of the fifty miles you will have a dirt road, so that leaves only thirty-five miles on the railroad bed. Now I think you had better get a good night’s sleep.”
The next morning we checked over the jeep, drained the sea water from the differentials, and left Palmar Sur along the dirt road that paralleled the tracks. The Costa Rican police garrison, for some unknown reason, insisted on sending a soldier along with us. Poor Humberto, he was about to have the roughest duty he would ever see.
We made a strange caravan that Good Friday morning, with the Newells leading the way in their car through the plantation camp. In one of the open fields the natives were hanging an effigy of Judas Iscariot. Inside the jeep was a huge picnic lunch packed by Mrs. Newell, and our gallon thermos jug was filled with ice. Full of hope, we followed to the end of the road, where a flat area made easy access to the tracks. The Newells were still waving as we bounced off toward Corredores, thirty-five miles away.
Mr. Newell had been right about its being a rough roadbed, but I had no doubt as to La Tortuga’s ability to take it for a mere thirty-five miles. With the ties sitting on top of a fill, set twelve to eighteen inches apart, and with no gravel ballast between, the jeep bounced along like a marble on a washboard. The jeep’s tread was too wide to fit between the rails of the narrow-gauge track, so we rode with the left wheels between and the right ones rubbing against the outside of the rail. To make things worse, the jeep’s wheelbase was of such a length that both front and rear wheels were between the ties at the same time. At very low speeds we dropped between each pair of ties; at high speeds we skimmed over the top of them, but with no steering control. We found ten miles per hour a fair compromise, and the springs and shock absorbers took most of the shock. However, dozens of switches and spur lines prevented us from maintaining that speed, and time was consumed in getting over each one. There were unguarded trestles over chasms with rocky streams below where we crept along with only a few inches of tire riding the end of the ties. Each time we were forced to stop there was the agonizingly bumpy period of getting up to speed again. The inside of the jeep became a shambles as the contents of the cabinets showered to the floor. Cameras, typewriter, large chest of film, everything almost floated with the constant jolting. After a few miles of this the drum of gas topside cut its lashing and we jettisoned it beside the tracks. I had the steering wheel to cling to, but Helen, Humberto, and Dinah just floated along with everything else, hitting their heads on the ceiling and being slammed against the sides.
When we stopped for switches the wheels lodged between the ties, the hull clanged against the rails, and it was only with low-range, four-wheel drive and Helen and Humberto pushing that we could rock free. At one spot we slipped sideward and hung over the edge of the fill. Just the left wheels caught on the rail kept us from sliding to the bottom. An inch at a time I maneuvered for over an hour, following Helen’s frantic signals, before we were back on the tracks.
By two o’clock in the afternoon we had covered but ten of the thirty-five miles when all four shock absorbers failed. They had become so hot that all the oil had boiled away. After that there was no speed at which we could stay on the tracks; on every tie the jeep was flung to the side, once coming down diagonally across the rails. Getting back consumed more of our dwindling time. Unable to continue with all four wheels bouncing on the ties, we maneuvered the two left wheels up on the rail so that at least half the jeep rode smoothly. With the upper part of my body hanging from the open door I drove looking down at the wheels and steered blindly, listening to Helen’s directions.
As long as the track was straight or there were only left curves, I could keep the wheels on the rail, but at spurs, switches, or right curves the jeep slid off. The clutch began to slip a little, and a queer click came from the transmission. At dusk we were still moving ahead slowly, the headlights boring twin holes in the mist that crept down from the mountains. The moisture made the rails slippery and we slid off more and more often. We had covered another ten miles when the right front tire blew out—the constant rubbing against the rail had worn completely through the sidewall. The right rear tire was through two cords and the left rear had a big piece torn from it. They could never last the remaining fifteen miles to Corredores.
With one spare, the other three tires barely holding air, the clutch slipping, something amiss in the transmission, and with no shock absorbers, we had but four hours until midnight, when the trains would start to run again. I knew we could expect another blowout at any time, and when that happened it would be impossible to get off the tracks. I thought of reversing the tires, but I knew I was kidding myself. It had taken all day to come twenty miles. Allowing at least an hour to switch wheels, how could I hope to go that last fifteen miles in the dark, and in less than three hours? At the first wide spot we turned around and limped back a half mile to a plantation camp, where we called Mr. Newell. Humberto slept that night in the camp while Helen and I lay sleepless in the jeep. A little after twelve the first train rushed by.
The next morning we left Humberto with battered La Tortuga beside the tracks, and Helen, Dinah, and I climbed aboard another train for Palmar Sur. The conductor said no dogs, so the three of us rode in the baggage car. Technically we were out of bounds there too. A sign on the wall read, “Only those accompanying the sick and the dead are allowed in the baggage car.” But as we sat dejectedly back to back on a packing crate we felt that we met that requirement well enough.
In Palmar Sur, Mr. Newell met us as we walked sadly up the walk. “I’m sorry, Frank. I thought sure you’d make it. Come on in and make yourselves at home.”
That night we didn’t stay in the guesthouse—the Newells invited us to stay with them, and did everything they could to ease the sting. I still couldn’t accept the thought of a flatcar, but orders had come from the head office that under no circumstances could we continue on the ties. With the jeep full of holes, she would sink in a minute even if we could get her back to the sea. We had but two alternatives—leave her where she was or build a ramp and take her to Corredores by rail. I asked Mr. Newell to make arrangements for a flatcar.
The next day, Easter Sunday, we rode with Mr. Newell in a rail auto to where the jeep sat. The efficient United Fruit Company railroad had already built a ramp of old ties, and a flatcar was waiting. But poor tired Tortuga just couldn’t make it up the steep incline without help. With the whole crew pushing, she finally groaned onto the car and was lashed securely in place with her own broken winch cable.
The train that hooked on to the flatcar later that day took us only a few miles, to Coto Junction, where we spent the night. Of all the places we camped on the whole trip I think the most depressing was on that flatcar. Another train picked us up the next morning and carried us to Corredores. I adjusted the clutch and broke out our supply of tire-repair material. Avoiding the use of the noisy second gear, we headed for Volcán, Panama.
The mountain trail over which we drove had been bulldozed and forgotten by the Army engineers during World War II. Maintained in places by a colony of Italian immigrants, nothing more than a narrow dirt path in others, the trail clawed along the sides of the mountains, dropped into dense forested valleys and over unbridged streams. Less than seventy-five miles from Corredores to Volcan, it took two days to get there. It was another two days over the part-gravel, part-concrete Pan American Highway to Panama City.
BARELY in the Canal Zone, we were just beginning to enjoy the feel of smooth concrete beneath the wheels when we heard the wail of a siren, and a big unsmiling Zone cop pulled us over to the curb.
“Ah, civilization,” Helen commented. “I wonder who they think we’re hiding this time?”
The policeman parked his motorcycle ahead of La Tortuga, walked over, and leaned against the door. His stern look changed to a sheepish grin. “That was a mean trick,” he said, “but when I saw this thing going by I just had to get a good look at it.”
Helen and I both let out a whoosh of breath. “Look all you want, Officer.” He asked a few questions, and then I asked one. “Do you know where we can get a good hamburger and a chocolate malt?” We had been looking forward to that bit of Americana for a long time.
With that welcome to the Septic Strip and a warning that Dinah really should be in quarantine, we continued over the bridge across the Panama Canal to Panama City, about the quickest transformation it is possible to make from the United States to Latin America. At the Ford agency we unloaded La Tortuga, and with the back of a taxi crammed with her contents we went to the hotel recommended by Señor Ramos in San José. It might have been a fine hotel when it was built fifty years ago, but since that time nothing obvious had been done in the way of maintenance or cleaning. But it did fit our pocketbook, an important factor since it had taken quite a beating from the flatcar charges and would be even flatter before the jeep was in condition again.
At the desk a buxom woman, whose reddish hair was uniformly gray halfway from the roots, looked apprehensively at Dinah, then in all directions about the lobby, under tables, and behind the wastebasket. There was nothing big enough for her to hide behind, so I reassured her:
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