20,000 Miles South

by Helen Schreider

  When we climbed out, Helen looked green too. “I thought there wasn’t supposed to be any surf on the Caribbean side.”

  I had nothing to say. I was getting used to my theories being shattered.

  The next morning we headed out through the breakers again toward the first mouth of the Rio Atrato. An hour after we left, a three-layer bank of clouds with a long tail started forming to the south, from whence came the chocosanos, but rather than risk another landing we kept going. Around noon the water calmed and I moved in closer to shore, which was some of the most desolate I had ever seen. There was a narrow beach littered with debris from countless storms, a wall of bleached driftwood and dead brush pushed by the waves to the edge of the jungle lowlands beyond. There were no towns or habitations of any kind from there to Turbo, and it came as a shock when we passed a high rock island and saw a nondescript boat nestling against a cliff on one side. About fifty feet long, its gray hull was uncared for; there was no flag or identifying mark. It appeared to be waiting for something or someone, and through the binoculars I saw six men studying us. There was a sudden belch of black diesel fumes from its stack and it swung our way.

  “Run up the American flag,” I told Helen, “and get out the radio. Maybe we can bluff them as we did White Suit.” But either they didn’t know what it was or they were aware that our handie-talkie had no range for they kept coming. Flooring the accelerator, I pointed La Tortuga for the shore; we couldn’t outrun them on water, but on the beach we could leave them far behind. Without a thought to the surf we hit the beach with all four wheels churning, the propeller still engaged, and a stream of water shooting from the bilge outlet. It was like running a slalom weaving between fallen trees and around debris until four miles later we were stopped by the muddy banks of the Rio Atrato. Because of a bend in the shore line we couldn’t see the boat. With the jeep concealed behind a pile of brush we waited, and several hours later we saw a trail of black smoke heading across the Gulf of Darien.

  With a sigh of relief Helen commented, “Storms, reefs, and gunrunners. Believe me, I’ll never go to sea in a ship that doesn’t have wheels.”

  That night the chocosano hit. Were we glad to be onshore! The tail of the triple-decker dark cloud rose even higher as the wind shifted from north to south, lightning split the sky with jagged red fingers, pronged spears, and sheets that turned the horizon into a wavering white line in the blackness. Increasing steadily, the wind swished in gusts, whipping the waves to froth and sending them rolling up on the beach through the debris and washing the sand from beneath the wheels of the jeep. Already back as far as we could go against the woven dense jungle growth behind us, we worked quickly to build a barricade of driftwood in front of the jeep, but before we were finished the tires were buried six inches deep.

  The main storm center lasted almost an hour, but all night lightning stabbed and thunder rumbled incessantly. The torrent of rain that came with the first gust of wind continued until almost morning. When the sun rose, another cloud was forming, and we decided to wait another day. For breakfast we halved the usual ration. The month’s supply of food was almost gone even though Helen had been eating very little the past few days.

  Our campsite was not the most desirable. Right at the mouth of the river the water was thick with brown mud. Trees and islands of floating vegetation drifted down from the jungle interior forming a green delta in the center. Sand fleas invaded the jeep as if the screens were not there. Thriving on insect repellent, they apparently considered it a delightful hors d’oeuvre before their main course. And we couldn’t relieve the itching by bathing in the sea. Ugly brown sharks circled endlessly in the river mouth, coming so close to shore that they squirmed on the muddy bottom, their eight-foot-long bodies half exposed in the murky water.

  Later in the day we sighted a distant Navy patrol plane, identifiable through the binoculars, but we were unable to make contact. The rest of the afternoon we watched almost spellbound as the black fins of the sharks swung back and forth, sometimes exposing their gray bellies, sometimes thrashing furiously when two of them fought over a fish. That night it stormed again, a repetition of the previous one, but the following morning was clear, and after retracing our way a half mile along the beach we started on the next-to-the-last lap.

  Less than thirty miles away across the Gulf of Darien lay Turbo, but it was thirty miles of mudbanks and strong currents from the Rio Atrato. Our plans were to edge along the shore to the narrowest part of the gulf, and then to cross the ten-mile stretch of open water as quickly as possible, coming ashore on the spit of land where the chart showed the customs house to be located.

  All along the shore a mud shelf extended into the gulf, and we proceeded slowly. If we went aground, I wanted to be able to push off from the bow with the pole and not from the water, as I had done in Costa Rica. There was a sharp line of demarcation between the blue of the Caribbean and the opaque brown water of the Rio Atrato. Heading directly across the fan of current that spread from the mouth of the river, we dodged scattered masses of bobbing vegetation that were being carried out to sea. It wasn’t until we were halfway across that we saw we were being carried with them. Pushing the engine to its full six knots, I headed closer to shore, tacking back and forth across the current, keeping just beyond the shelf of mud, until we reached a short black sand beach near Bahía Candelaria. There was the current of two more branches of the Rio Atrato to buck, but through the binoculars we could see Turbo’s customs house ten miles away. When a patrol plane found us that afternoon, I notified the pilot that with good weather we would land at Turbo the next day.

  We were too excited to eat much that evening, so we didn’t mind saving the last of the C rations, a can of beans, for breakfast. And with the rain and the sand fleas we didn’t sleep too well either.

  Day broke with a beautiful orange sunrise and a calm sea. At 7:00 A.M. we took off through gentle surf and pointed La Tortuga toward Turbo. Tacking at full throttle in the currents, letting the engine cool off in between, we reached the halfway point. The customs house grew larger, a few specks on shore became people, we could make out the shingle beach, the logs that cluttered it, and the uniforms of the customs officials. Twenty minutes before we hit the beach at Turbo, just thirty days from the time we left Coco Solo, a Navy patrol plane zoomed low. To our surprise, from the receiver came the voice of Admiral Miles.

  “Glad to see you made it. Are you both all right?”

  We assured him that we were. The plane circled twice, dipped its wings, and headed back toward Panama. As we watched it disappear, I signed off.

  “So long, Angel—and thanks.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  APPROACHING the beach rapidly, we headed for the group of people who had congregated onshore. The hard-packed gravel offered no resistance, and when the wheels took hold the jeep surged right for them. I stepped hard on the brakes. Even though wet they should have slowed us a little, but nothing happened. There was a flurry of flailing arms as white shirts and khaki uniforms scattered like tenpins until we came to an abrupt halt against a piece of driftwood. Feeling that the first vehicle to reach South America under its own power could have gotten off to a better start, I hastily apologized to the customs official for nearly running him down. But if a Martian had landed on the beach he couldn’t have been more confused. He muttered something in Spanish about a car navigating the Gulf of Darien or a boat driving up to the customs house and then asked for our papers. He stamped the passports and tourist cards, ignored Dinah’s health certificate, and lingered an especially long time over the certificate of title for the jeep.

  “Is it a car or a boat?” he asked.

  “It’s both,” I replied.

  There was a whispered conversation between the customs official and his crony. One said to let us go, and the other one said he wasn’t sure. I didn’t know what it was all about, but I had learned many borders ago not to complicate matters by opening my mouth. Ten minutes of head shaking and creased
brows were climaxed by much shoulder shrugging, after which they returned our documents and waved us on.

  “Well, that was easy,” Helen commented cheerfully as we climbed back in the jeep. It wasn’t until we tried to leave Colombia that we learned it had been much too easy.

  From what we could see, Turbo was nothing more than a customs house, a few wooden shacks, and an airstrip on the edge of the jungle. Parking the jeep in the shade of one of the shacks, we relaxed a bit. For the first time in a month I felt no tension, the ground felt good beneath my feet, firm and solid, and I could look at the choppy water without apprehension. My only regret was that I couldn’t see Captain Parker’s face when he paid off his bets in Panama.

  The customs official had pointed out the road to Medellín, Colombia’s second city, but, although it was only 240 miles away, we would have to procure supplies and service the jeep before continuing. With tools, grease, and oil that I had brought from Panama I was prepared to do the job on the spot. But a half hour later when I had removed one of the front wheels I found something for which I wasn’t prepared. The brake linings had all but disappeared, ground away by sand and salt water. I was pondering the problem of where to procure new linings when a very foreign sound broke the Turbo silence—a soft Texas drawl. It seemed that the Lone Star State had emissaries everywhere.

  Tall and lanky, the speaker even looked like a Texan. Dressed in faded khakis, he was about fifty, with thinning gray hair and a neatly trimmed mustache, but his eyes had a youthful merry twinkle. “Howdy,” he said. “I’m Louis Coulson. Aren’t you the folks that plane was looking for the other day? Radioed it was hunting a missing craft of your description.”

  “I didn’t know we were lost,” I replied. Then I remembered the distant speck in the sky and our failure to make radio contact.

  Coulson walked around the jeep. “You were mighty lucky to get across the gulf in that,” he said.

  “We’ve been mighty lucky all along. We’ll be even luckier if we get to Medellín.” I showed him what was left of the brakes. “Is this all there is to Turbo?”

  “Oh no,” he said. “The rest of it is across a shallow bay, but you won’t find any brake linings there. There isn’t even a road into the town. You have to get there by dugout canoe.” He thought a moment. “Say, I’ve got a friend who can fix you up. He’s head of the road commission camp a few miles from here, and you won’t need brakes to get there either. The road’s flat.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “I don’t suppose there’s anyplace we can send a telegram around here, is there? We would like to let our family know we made it.”

  “Sure thing. I’ve got a friend in the telegraph office. Say, a friend of mine has a dugout. Why not let me show you Turbo—what there is of it?”

  I thanked him, and laughed. “You’ve sure got lots of friends around here, Mr. Coulson.”

  “Yes sir, after twenty-two years in Colombia I sure do.” He chuckled. “That’s the only way you can do business here.”

  “Mr. Coulson”—Helen hesitated, “you don’t happen to have a doctor friend too, do you?”

  “Why, as a matter of fact, I have. What’s your trouble?”

  “I don’t know, but I’d like to have him take a look at my mouth.”

  Helen hadn’t said anything to me about her mouth hurting but she hadn’t been eating much. When I saw the roof of her mouth I knew why. It was covered with red ulcerated sores.

  Hurriedly I put the wheel back on. I had finished before I realized that I had left out the universal joint that was essential for four-wheel drive, but Coulson assured me I wouldn’t be needing it before reaching the road camp at Sunga, thirty miles away. At Mr. Coulson’s suggestion, we left Dinah to watch the jeep.

  The small port of Turbo lay across a narrow arm of water from the spit of land where we had come ashore. Maneuvering the outboard-powered dugout between the stumps and logs that filled the bay, Coulson shouted over the noise of the motor, “Turbo used to be a busy place. But that was hundreds of years ago, before the Rio Atrato filled the bay with mud. In those days it was a stopping place for Spanish treasure ships.” He slowed the engine and pointed at the dark opaque water. “There’s still a chest of gold down there.”

  From the open bay we skimmed through a narrow channel where the water was a mirror and double-ended trees lined the sides until the wake from the boat sent the reflections rippling away. At a crude wharf Coulson tied the canoe to a piling and we climbed a rough plank boardwalk that led to the town. On either side were more dugout canoes, some of them incongruously graced with shiny outboard motors. Near one of them stood an immense Negro. Tobacco juice stained a snarled beard that almost concealed a red flannel undershirt.

  “That’s Santa Claus,” Coulson laughed. “Don’t let his appearance fool you. He’s one of the richest men in Turbo. Owns half these boats you see. Old miser—never spends a cent except for a plug of tobacco.”

  Turbo might have been a busy place at one time but there was no evidence of it that day. There was an air of quiet about the place, a stillness, as if the people were afraid even to speak for fear of using their last bit of energy. As we walked along the wooden sidewalks, past blue-and green-painted houses, the sun sent heat waves dancing upward from the metal roofs, and I found myself stifling yawns and moving slower and slower. The atmosphere was contagious.

  Coulson, it turned out, actually lived in Medellín. He had flown to Turbo for a fishing trip—with a friend of his. He seemed to know everyone in town, and the doctor, whom we met in the street, greeted him like a lost brother. Younger than Coulson, with straight black hair and a big black mustache, he was also the local druggist. When we were introduced, a few people on the sidewalk pricked up their ears, a few more came running over, and by the time we arrived at the doctor’s office we had quite a following. They all crowded in behind us to help him make his diagnosis. Quite conveniently the doctor’s office was in his drugstore, behind the railing that served as a counter. Seating Helen on a chair, he asked her a few questions and then said something to another man, who disappeared into the back room. His aide returned with a spoon and meticulously wiped it off with his thumb before handing it to the doctor.

  Helen opened her mouth; everyone leaned forward to look and emitted a sympathetic moan. Asking them quietly to move back so he could work, the doctor prodded Helen’s mouth. There was another moan from the crowd when she gargled a protest, and a nod of complete agreement when he made his diagnosis: “A serious vitamin deficiency, early stages of scurvy.” He reached for the shelf behind him and blew the dust off a box of pills. “Take four of these each day. In a couple of weeks you’ll be all right.” He smiled. “Since you’re a friend of Don Luís, there will be no charge.”

  Back at the jeep again Mr. Coulson gave us directions for getting to Sunga and invited us to spend a few days with him in Medellín. I was beginning to see why he had so many friends.

  The road from Turbo to Medellín was a new one, open only a short time after being under construction for almost thirty years. In fact, there was still some machinery along the way: one piece in particular, a huge shovel, was parked right across the road between a mass of jungle on one side and the gulf on the other. Five or six cars were waiting patiently, one of them since early morning. “This,” I said jokingly, “looks like a job for Super-car,” and without hesitation drove into the water to bypass the shovel. Less than ten feet from shore La Tortuga stuck—no four-wheel drive. And with the winch on the front we could not pull ourselves out backward. What a twist. After two hundred and fifty miles of ocean we were scuttled by a steam shovel. We dug and we pushed. The people in the cars waded out to push. We deflated the tires, but without four-wheel drive it was no use. And with the front wheels under water I would have needed an Aqua Lung to replace the universal joint. Two hours later a road commission truck arrived with a crew to move the shovel and the men hauled us out at the same time. Feeling rather sheepish, we continued to Sunga and arrived
there late that afternoon.

  Mr. Coulson had told us to ask for his friend, Dr. Solis. I couldn’t imagine a doctor being in charge of a road-construction camp, but this was Colombia. We learned that all professional people are called Doctor, whether they are lawyers, engineers, or medical men. Dr. Solis was an engineer, a most genial person. “Yes,” he said, “I think we might have some jeep brake linings around here.” He assigned a couple of his men to help me and invited us to stay with him.

  Helen eyed enthusiastically two boiler-sized washtubs and a scrubboard which looked as modern as a Bendix after washing on the rocks in the rivers. The next morning Helen shocked the servant girls—that a guest of Dr. Solis should do the family wash. But what surprised them even more was that the man she was traveling with was her husband. In Latin America apparently that was rare. And when they learned how long we had been married they were incredulous. “Americans,” they exclaimed, “married eight years! Aren’t you ready for a divorce?” Even in remote Sunga, Hollywood had had its effect.

  Sunga, a clearing in the jungle lowlands, was a large camp, and there were lots of pets—most of them for sale. If Helen had had her way, La Tortuga would have been a rolling menagerie with marmosets, baby alligators, and parrots. The snakes she would gladly have done without. There was one animal we hadn’t seen before. Called a guagua, it was a large zebra-striped rodent about the size of a pig. Its owner assured us that if we didn’t want it for a pet, it would make a delicious roast. To all I politely said that one big dog was all the pet we could handle, but Helen almost persuaded me to add one more member to our crew.