20,000 Miles South

by Helen Schreider

  He seemed so genuinely anxious to please us that we didn’t argue. When we climbed the flight of stairs again to our room, a waiter was already waiting.

  After dinner we went to pick up our clothes. Bogotá, at an altitude of almost nine thousand feet, was cold even in the early afternoon and we wore our ruanas despite the looks of scorn we received from the somber-suited men and women on the streets. At the airport we called for our things. Everything had arrived except one suitcase, the one with my suit in it. By mistake it had been sent to Cartagena; it would be a week before it would arrive. The week’s delay didn’t bother us—we had planned to stay that long anyway—but I was beginning to believe that in formal Colombia a sport shirt was not the correct attire for a gentleman. My suspicions were confirmed that evening when the maître d’hôtel again insisted that we would enjoy our meal more in our room.

  When we called at the American Embassy for our mail we saw Ambassador Bonsai again. It was Thursday afternoon. He warmly invited us to the Fourth of July party at his residence the following Monday. That was sufficient excuse to shop for a suit—a dark gray flannel, a product of Colombia’s progressive textile industry that had become one of the most important in the country.

  The next few days were a relaxing change from the helter-skelter pace we had been maintaining. Bogotá was the largest city we had seen since Mexico, a metropolis where the red tile roofs of colonial homes contrasted vividly with the newer buildings and residential areas that spread over the broad plateau. Near the center of town was a high hilly park with a funicular railway that climbed steeply to the top. As the small cage crawled slowly up the almost vertical incline, I thought of the joke about the appalled American passenger who, upon reaching the top and seeing the frayed cables, complained to the operator that they were unsafe, that they should be changed. The perplexed operator answered, “But, señor, we never change them until they break.”

  Sunday morning, indeed every morning we spent at our little hotel, we were awakened by the rustle of a newspaper being slid under the door and Dinah’s lunge to intercept the potential intruder. Always failing in this, as if to make up for her shortcomings as a watchdog she brought the paper and with much tail wagging dropped it in our faces. A few minutes later there was a gentle knock and Fernando, the waiter who had seemingly adopted us, entered with two glasses of orange juice and two cups of steaming coffee. With a cheerful “Buenos dias” he took our breakfast order. It didn’t take long for us to become accustomed to the luxury of steak, eggs, toast, and coffee in our room.

  On July 4 we drove along the broad avenues through town and then out to the exclusive Chapinero district, where the State Department maintains the Ambassador’s residence. Normally we would have taken a cab rather than risk the hazards of city driving, but on this particular occasion we had been asked specifically to bring the jeep. Parking at the end of a long string of cars, we walked along the circular driveway through the beautifully landscaped grounds and joined the reception line in the foyer to shake the tired hands of Ambassador and Mrs. Bonsai.

  “Why, hello. Where is La Tortuga?” he asked.

  “She’s parked several blocks from here,” Helen answered.

  “That’s no place to moor such an extraordinary vessel. Why don’t you sail her up to the door?”

  Accordingly, while Cadillac limousines deposited their important guests at the entrance and then drove away in search of a parking place, I drove lumbering La Tortuga nonchalantly through the imposing iron-grill gate and, at the Ambassador’s direction, parked her next to the portico.

  In Bogotá we learned that there are two types of parties, standing-up parties and sitting-down parties. The Fourth of July celebration was a standing-up party where almost all of the fifteen hundred American residents of Bogotá milled about the wings of the elegant and tastefully appointed mansion. Almost always we were introduced as the “couple with the amphibious jeep.” Helen, dressed in her green moiré taffeta, appeared hardly capable of pulling her weight at the end of a winch line or spelling me with a shovel. As she answered the usual queries she looked as if the closest she had been to the jungle was the potted palm in the foyer, and as if the most strenuous thing she had ever done was to fish the olive from a martini. A rotund lady with a sable stole draped in a carefully careless way questioned her:

  “Of course, my deah, you’re staying at the Tequendama. What an interesting trip you’re making. I understand that you have just come from Panama. I just adore traveling too. Tell me, deah, how were the accommodations along the way?” Flipping her long cigarette holder, she continued without waiting for an answer. “This may be a bit personal, but how do you manage to have your laundry done? It’s simply dreadful what these maids do to my clothes.”

  Helen sipped slowly from her martini before answering. “I don’t find it too much of a problem. I just beat them on the rocks, the way the Indians do.”

  There was a moment of silence. The woman drew back, and then broke into a fluttery laugh. “How perfectly delightful. What a sense of humor you have, my deah.”

  While in Medellín we had tried to sell the outboard motor, but with no success. We were advised to try in Bogotá, where we were in turn advised to see a certain party in Cali, the next large Colombian city on our route.

  After a week of parties and night life in Bogotá the more normal routine of traveling again was almost a vacation. As we followed the Pan American Highway toward the Pacific, the road to Cali was more of the same tortuous mountain driving that we had experienced all the way from Turbo. Precipices fell off on either side, mist obscured the road, and the Colombian drivers were about as considerate as a subway crowd at rush hour.

  Where the many ranges of the northern Andes divide Colombia into three and sometimes four parts, the roads are steep, narrow, and winding, shooting up and down from elevations of a few thousand feet to more than twelve thousand at the passes. At the higher elevations La Tortuga wheezed valiantly, but slowly, which was fortunate since on almost any curve we were likely to meet a truck or a bus on the wrong side of the road. Not always—sometimes they were in the middle. There were only two speeds recognized—wide open and standing still. Because of mechanical breakdowns the latter condition was a common one, and wherever the mishap occurred was where they stopped. But they were very thoughtful otherwise. Whenever anyone had difficulty, everyone who came along stopped to give advice, blocking traffic for miles.

  Our entrance to Cali was along the main drive, a wide avenue with a fresh green park and flowing river on one side. On the other side an occasional old cathedral broke the monotony of the sharp angles of contemporary architecture. At a much lower altitude than Bogotá, Cali was hot, and cotton dresses and sport shirts were common on the streets. But when we took refuge in an air-conditioned restaurant we found formality still the order of the day. It was an inviting place, modeled after an old Spanish inn with polished dark paneling and blue porcelain china. From the grilled windows there was a fine view of the streets, but when we took a table near them a waiter politely but firmly pointed to a sign on the wall: GENTLEMEN ARE NOT PERMITTED IN THE DINING ROOM WITHOUT COAT AND TIE.

  “But since you are travelers,” he condescended, “we will make an exception. Please sit over here.”

  Feeling like poor relations, we ate our filet of corvina shielded from the more decorously attired patrons by an embossed leather screen. “When in Rome—” Helen remarked. “Yes, or pay the consequences,” I finished.

  After lunch we looked up our prospect for the outboard motor, but he had already purchased one. “It will bring a better price in Ecuador anyway,” he consoled us. Our financial condition was not at that time critical, but the repairs, the purchase of the outboard motor, and other expenses in Panama had eliminated any surplus we might have had for emergencies.

  We were ready to leave Cali when several trucks disgorged a troop of well-armed soldiers. Traffic was stopped for two hours while a full-scale military parade blocked the stre
ets. First the cavalry, horses with their heads high, their riders carrying gilded wooden spears with banners waving, then the band, the infantry, the jeep squadron, the riot squad, each man with a tear-gas gun and a vest full of cannon-sized shells. Trailing behind came the volunteer militia, youngsters striding along energetically, and old men trying desperately to keep up with them, sweat pouring down their faces. I asked an onlooker what it was all about.

  Proudly he said, “July 20 is Independence Day, and President Pinilla is coming to visit Cali.”

  “But today is the eighteenth. What was this parade for?” “This is rehearsal,” he said logically.

  We returned to the jeep to find it in the midst of a throng looking like Gulliver teeming with Lilliputians. Shouldering our way through, I heard one discerning woman say to her husband, “Why, that looks like a boat.”

  “How ridiculous,” he replied firmly. “It’s just one of those late-model cars.”

  One little boy breathlessly asked, “Are you part of the circus?” The Royal Dunbar Circus was currently playing in Cali. Like the wide-eyed child in Mexico who asked, “Does it fly?” his enthusiasm dwindled at my “No.” But the rest of the crowd was enthusiastic enough for poor Dinah, who had slunk back to the most secluded corner of the jeep amid catcalls and barks. La Tortuga was getting a complete inspection, including tire-kicking, hull-pounding, and window-peeking. Several of the men were trying to lift the jeep, and two more were opening the hood. Some of the more musically inclined had discovered that the gas cans along the side emitted a variety of tones when thumped and, in keeping with the festive spirit, were busily engaged in playing what sounded vaguely like the Colombian national anthem. Then someone discovered the propeller and there was a joyful shout. The news was out. It was a boat. Considering it unthinkable that a boat should have a hole in it, one helpful individual started plugging the bilge pump outlet. Later I discovered that others had had the same idea. When I overhauled the bilge pump I removed one marble, three wads of gum, innumerable bottle caps, a handkerchief, and one Colombian peso. Unfortunately we were out of the country by that time and couldn’t spend the peso.

  Helen and I stayed around awhile to answer all the questions about La Tortuga, but when the second show started and new faces asked the same questions we excused ourselves and headed south.

  At Cali we had traveled almost a thousand miles from Turbo, a thousand miles of twisting, turning mountain roads, of towns set high on hilltops, and rugged green country that was for the most part uncultivated. But the remaining three hundred miles to the Colombian-Ecuadorian frontier passed through green pastures and yellow fields of waving grain, a rumpled patchwork quilt where hedges formed the boundaries between hilly farms. From the road along the ridge that overlooked the valleys it seemed that the almost perpendicular sides of the mountains were too steep for a man even to stand, let alone till the soil.

  Amphibious jeeping presented another problem when we arrived at the border and tried to leave Colombia. It was Saturday morning and we hoped to clear customs and enter Ecuador before noon, when the offices closed. On the Colombian side a heavy chain was stretched across the road in front of a small cement building. A black-uniformed gentleman in a peaked cap that said “Aduana” examined our passports.

  “These seem to be in order,” he mused. “Let me see your car papers.”

  I handed him the California certificate of title. That wasn’t enough.

  “Where are the papers that they gave you when you entered the country?”

  “What papers? They didn’t give us anything at Turbo.” “Turbo!” he exclaimed incredulously. “Nobody enters at Turbo.”

  “Well, we did. Why do we need papers, anyway? Proof of ownership was all we ever needed before.”

  “You need something to guarantee that you won’t sell your car in Colombia.”

  I looked at a big arch a few yards away. It said “Welcome to Ecuador.” Patiently I explained that we were leaving Colombia, not entering, that we had no intention of selling the jeep. But that made no difference. To leave the country we needed an export license. To get an export license we needed an import license, and since they hadn’t given us one when we entered we were stuck. Mentally I cursed the customs man at Turbo. Remembering his confused mutterings about a car navigating the Gulf of Darien or a boat driving up to the customs house, I understood why we’d had such an easy entry. He hadn’t known what papers to give us.

  By that time it was eleven o’clock. Slowly I explained once more that it was obvious that we were leaving the country. “Look at the direction the jeep is pointing. And how can we sell it in Colombia if we’re going to Ecuador?”

  “Rules are rules,” he answered adamantly. “You have to have papers. Are you sure you don’t have any other papers?”

  I fumbled through our stack of documents, which included everything from extra passport photos to postage stamps to a check for a short beer. In desperation I handed him the only other thing we had connected with the jeep, the Panama Canal tonnage certificate. Across the top it said Motor Ship LA TORTUGA. I showed it to him, explaining that our remarkable vehicle was also registered as a ship. To my amazement—and relief—his face brightened.

  “You’re registered as a ship? Why didn’t you say so? There’s nothing in the rules about ships.” He lowered the chain. “You may pass.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IT WAS just a few yards to the arch and Ecuador, and we were hoping that the welcome sign meant what it said. The difficulty in leaving Colombia had come as a surprise—proof of ownership had been sufficient to take the jeep across the borders of seven countries. We were convinced that the Colombian official had made a mistake, and when the Ecuadorian officials passed us with but a cursory glance at our passports we were sure of it.

  “There are still a few minor formalities to take care of in Tulcán,” they said, “but you have time to get there before the offices close.”

  Every few hundred yards of the four miles from the border to Tulcán there was a chain across the road, and a guardhouse that lacked only a crescent moon to make it a perfect Chic Sale. At each we stopped while the guard examined our passports and walked around the jeep several times before lowering the chain. It was still a few minutes before twelve when we arrived but both the immigration and customs offices were already closed. It looked as if we would have to wait until Monday, and Tulcán did not appear to be the most desirable weekend stop.

  Traffic was slight in Tulcán—in fact, when I heard a whistle there wasn’t another car in sight. “Halt.” A hefty policeman waddled over to the jeep looking as if he were loaded for bear. In Spanish that made a machine-gun sound like a dripping faucet he accused us of going the wrong way on a one-way street. I looked around for a sign—there wasn’t any, but I apologized for doing such an obviously stupid thing. Five minutes later he was still lecturing us when another gentleman made it a foursome. The newcomer said a few words to the policeman, who promptly left.

  “Thanks,” I said fervently. “I was beginning to think we would spend our first weekend in Ecuador in jail.”

  “It was nothing. I’m the immigration officer. May I help you?”

  How lucky could we be? Along with several others of the watching crowd, we followed him to his office, where he unlocked the door, stamped our passports, and inscribed the usual information in an immense book. When he was finished he rubbed his hands and said, “That will be ten sucres for overtime work, please.” Ten sucres was about fifty cents U.S. Fortunately we had procured some Ecuadorian money in Bogota before leaving. He was pocketing the money when a youth with a whiny voice and black stringy hair asserted that he was the assistant to the customs officer and was authorized to take care of the rest of the “minor” formalities—in exchange for overtime pay.

  In another office the assistant looked at our passports and opened another huge book.

  “May I see your Libreta de Pasos por Aduana.”

  I looked at him blankly. “My w
hat?”

  “Your Libreta de Pasos por Aduana, the document issued by the automobile club guaranteeing that you won’t sell your vehicle in Ecuador.”

  I had never even heard of such a document. Perhaps, I thought, it was for commercial travelers.

  “There must be some mistake,” I said. “We’re tourists. Is this document absolutely necessary?”

  “Oh no,” he replied. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Instead you may post a cash deposit equal to the customs duty on your vehicle.” He consulted his book and named some astronomical figure in sucres. Reduced to dollars, it was still more than we had for the rest of the trip. There had to be some mistake.

  “Quito,” I said, “is just a day’s drive from here. We’ll straighten this out there.”

  “You won’t get past the first guard,” was the gloomy reply.

  The first chain was just out of town. Inside the usual little outhouse of a guard station was a soldier, the end of his rifle sticking out the window. Walking slowly from his cubicle and around the jeep, he leaned against the door. “Your credentials?” he asked.

  With a self-confident and assured air which I didn’t feel I gave him every document we had. Most of them were in English, but he scrutinized each one carefully, some upside down, nodding and grunting approval. Handing them back, he gave us a slip of paper and lowered the chain. “That will be one sucre please.”

  I was so relieved I would have given him a hundred sucres if he had asked for them. It was several minutes before we relaxed enough to look at the paper which read, “As a driver you have contributed to a fund for a drivers’ mausoleum.”

  The road to Quito was of fine cobblestone construction, a pleasure after the chuckholed one in Colombia. We would have enjoyed the drive if it hadn’t been that every few miles there was another chain or a wooden bar like a railroad barrier. At each we sweated while the same ritual was performed and we were allowed to pass. The fund for a drivers’ mausoleum apparently had only the one solicitor.