20,000 Miles South

by Helen Schreider

  From Tulcán at almost ten thousand feet elevation the Pan American Highway rose and fell, the afternoon sun glaring from the smooth cobblestones. In one place was a bit of transplanted Africa with tiny Negro children playing in the dust before conical-roofed grass huts. The tropical valley was green with banana palms and the sound of a river diluted the whistling wind from the surrounding barren hills. But except for that brief dip into the tropics the route led through the cool highlands, through Ibarra and Otovalo, where the Saturday market was dispersing. Hundreds of Ecuadorian Indians trotted along, the color of their hand-loomed cloths contrasting with the amber-colored terrain. In bright full skirts, bowl-shaped hats like halos, and shawls loaded with babies or other produce, women urged their men home. As the afternoon waned, the air grew crisp and the graceful folds of red ponchos covered the loose blouses and short white pants of the men, but always their thick queues of blue-black hair hung outside under their floppy felt hats.

  Ecuador, named for the line that girds the globe, was a paradox. It was far from our conception of an equatorial climate as we stood huddled in our ruanas straddling the center of the world while the sun tinted the snow-capped peak of Cayambe. Beside the road was a concrete replica of the earth and an obelisk inscribed Linea Ecuatorial 00° 00 00ʹʹ.

  Quito was busily preparing for an important event when we arrived. It seemed that we were always entering a city on a holiday, but this time it was something special. Everyone was cleaning or repairing. Sidewalks were freshly patched, public buildings were newly painted, grass was being transplanted, the streets were swept, signs were being erected, and along the main street a grandstand was partly constructed. The occasion? President Rojas Pinilla of Colombia was paying a visit to Ecuador.

  The festivities had resulted in a housing shortage in Quito. There were available rooms but they were either too expensive or very much too cheap. At one of the former class we asked the young lady at the desk if she knew of a more modest place.

  “Why, yes,” she said, “my family has an extra room.”

  It was another bit of extraordinary luck. Within the hour we were happily ensconced with the Vega family in their comfortable stucco and tile home a few blocks from the American Embassy. It was fortunate that we were close to the latter—we were to spend a great deal of time there.

  Señora Vega was a kindly woman who rarely wore anything but black. She had raised twelve children and two more in her home didn’t bother her a bit. Although we were paying guests, she treated us as part of the family. Even Dinah was welcomed by their huge dog. Señor Vega was a suave mustached gentleman who usually wore a Homburg, as did most of the professional men of Quito—probably because the Indians used the more conventional soft felt hats. Only three of the children still lived at home; about our age, they were all ardent lovers of American jazz and Italian opera. Although Pepe, the youngest son, knew some English, for our benefit only Spanish was spoken. And also for our benefit each day Señora Vega prepared a different Ecuadorian dish: avocado baked in whipped eggs; humitas, a savory mild form of tamale; locro, potato and cheese soup; baked bananas; and always the refreshing beverage of cooked pineapple and naranjilla, a pulpy fruit like an orange.

  The first thing on the agenda was to determine the truth about what was required for travel by car in Ecuador. After picking up our mail at the Embassy we made an appointment to see the vice-consul, Mr. Allan McClean. Mr. McClean was filling out a complicated form when we entered. A fine-featured man with dark hair graying at the temples, he sat back in his chair and relaxed.

  “Now then,” he said, “what can we do for you?”

  “We would like to know what is required to enter Ecuador with an automobile.” I went on to describe the difficulty at Tulcán. As I spoke, Mr. McClean grew less and less relaxed. By the time I had finished he was sitting straight up in his chair.

  “Smugglers,” he declared, “that’s what you are, smugglers. Bringing an automobile into the country illegally is one of the most heinous of crimes here.”

  Martians, circus performers, and now smugglers. What next? Previous name calling had provided many a laugh, but there was nothing humorous about this situation. With grave face Mr. McClean went right to work on the problem.

  He called the chief of customs. The chief of customs wired Tulcán. How had we passed a dozen guard stations without documents? Tulcán wired back. They had no record of us, had neither seen nor heard of us. We visited the customs chief, the police chief, and the automobile club. Then we visited them all again. At the end of a week all we had seen of Quito was what we saw between government offices. Finally, thanks to Mr. McClean, the last paper was signed. The customs chief waived the bond requirement, entered us legally in the country, and gave us a letter of authorization to leave. One thing still bothered us—what would we encounter in entering Peru?

  At the Automobile Club of Ecuador we learned the sad news. The man at Tulcán had been correct. The only alternative to a Libreta de Pasos por Aduana was a large cash deposit varying from 50 to 110 per cent of the value of the vehicle. Furthermore, all tourists with automobiles were subject to this requirement. And, what was worse, the requirements in the rest of the countries along our route, Peru, Bolivia, Chile, and Argentina, were even more stringent. With the Libreta, however, the tourist could travel freely across the borders. In effect a bond, the Libreta protected the governments against illegal sale of the vehicle and loss of customs duties.

  I felt like a prize sap. Of all the oversights of which I was guilty the worst was neglecting to join an auto club in the States. All this trouble could have been avoided; the Libreta could have been issued before we left. But one thing was certain—unless we could obtain this magical document our trip was over. How ironical—to pass all the physical obstacles only to be stopped by a legal one. The manager of the auto club was sympathetic but he said:

  “I’m sorry. Our rules prohibit the issue of a standard Libreta to anyone who is not a resident of Ecuador. However, perhaps we can bend those rules a bit and give you a temporary one good only for Peru. The auto club there has had much more experience in these matters. Maybe they can help you.”

  We went back to see Mr. McClean. Before the Ecuadorian auto club could issue even a temporary document, we needed a letter stating that the Embassy would be responsible should we fail to live up to the agreement. We both knew that the Embassy couldn’t possibly assume that responsibility. Why should they? But we underestimated Mr. McClean. In a short time we had a letter stating that he would do all in his power to assure that we fulfilled the agreement. It was an ingenious letter since Mr. McClean’s power in such matters was decidedly limited, but it accomplished its purpose. With our one-country reprieve safely tucked away with the letter from the customs chief and a letter of introduction to the president of the Automobile Club of Peru, we went back to the Vega house to pack. As we left, Pepe Vega joked, “Next time you come to Quito I hope you can find time to see the city.”

  Guayaquil was not on our planned route, but the Vega family extolled the virtues of Ecuador’s principal port to such an extent that we felt compelled to go there. Besides being fascinated by seaports we thought we might be able to sell the outboard motor. Before we left, a friend of the Vegas gave us a letter of introduction to a member of the Guayaquil yacht club. Just as in Colombia all business was done through friends, in Ecuador apparently it was through letters of introduction.

  We got a late start from Quito. Perhaps it took longer to pack in the nine-thousand-foot altitude or perhaps it was because we were unconsciously reluctant to leave the friendly atmosphere of the Vega home. In any event, we traveled only thirty miles before making camp between the marshmallow-topped peak of Cotopaxi, a perfect cone over nineteen thousand feet high, and Iliniza, a seventeen-thousand-foot fang piercing the blue sky. Off the road several hundred yards we prepared supper while little shepherdesses watched shyly from the midst of their flocks, smiling winsomely, timidly sharing our dessert of Life Save
rs. The next morning our hipbones were bruised and our joints stiff—both air mattresses had gone flat. Ah, the trials of camping. We were spoiled by too many comfortable beds.

  The precipitous descent to the hot coastal area was memorable. The road was a spiraling, crater-filled trail which knocked off the covers and overturned a can of Spry and a can of honey. The spilled honey inside the cabinet was bad enough, but the heat melted the Spry too. And then there was a rather rude introduction to the mixto, the half cargo truck, half third-class passenger bus that is the terror of the Ecuadorian roads. The first contact, a gentle caress along the side, left La Tortuga with three dented gas cans, a bent spare tire rack, and a nasty crack in the wood paneling of the cab. The driver didn’t even slow down. A half hour later the driver of another mixto was a little more considerate. He stopped and looked at the gaping hole he had put in La Tortuga’s bow before driving off without a word.

  We were sick. The jeep was no longer amphibious, and ahead of us was still the Strait of Magellan to cross. The whole front was battered in; she would never be the same. And it would be an expensive repair job just to make her watertight again; the hole was big enough for Dinah to crawl through.

  Guayaquil, too, was preparing for some important event—we encountered the same difficulty with rooms as in Quito. And after the accident there was an even greater need for economy. After lunch in one of the many sidewalk cafés I asked the waiter if he knew where we could get an inexpensive room. With a sly wink at me he pointed to a building across the street.

  “You might find a room up there,” he said.

  In a shaky groaning elevator we rode to the top floor of the building where a small peephole in a door opened to my knock and a carrot-topped middle-aged woman peered out. “My wife and I would like a room,” I said.

  “Your wife?” She raised her eyebrows doubtfully. “Yes, of course, your wife,” she repeated, smiling at Helen. “I have just one vacant room. Come in.”

  Looking as if she had stepped from a Toulouse-Lautrec canvas, she was shapely for her age—the silk dressing gown made that evident. We had never been greeted by a concierge in a dressing gown before, but then it was hot in Guayaquil. Following along the dark corridor, she showed us the room. Even in the obscure light the color was startling—a passionate shade of red. And there was a full-size double bed. That in itself was rare in Latin America.

  “How long will you be?” she asked.

  “Perhaps four days,” I replied.

  She seemed surprised. “Well, I don’t usually rent for that long, but I guess it’s all right.”

  The waiter had told us it was a boarding-house, but when I asked about meals the landlady corrected me:

  “I serve only breakfast, and I’m sure you’d prefer to take your meals out. We eat rather late around here.”

  We had been in rooming houses decorated in better taste but certainly none more colorful. Done in pink and baby blue, with turquoise satin drapes, only the perpetually drawn shades kept it from being blinding. After two days I concluded that the other residents were all women, and very popular ones judging by the number of male visitors they had. Dressing gowns seemed to be the accepted attire day or night, and there were always men sitting in the living room or enjoying a drink over their game of cards. By the end of our stay I was sure that either the waiter had misunderstood my intentions or I had misunderstood his Spanish.

  It was too late to do anything about the outboard motor or the hole in the jeep the afternoon we arrived, so we strolled lazily through the streets taking advantage of every bit of shade. The sticky heat clung, rose from the sidewalks in shimmering waves, changing reality to fancy, fantasy to entity, until both became fused, and that first day in Guayaquil became a fleeting series of dreamlike impressions:

  A waterfront town, a mile and a half of river, ships anchored in the middle with lighters attached to their sides like pilot fish to a shark. Tiny dots that scurried under the watchful eyes of customs officials, loading, unloading, bananas, coffee, automobiles, rice, machinery, hats. Wooden boats rubbing together, rudders askew, sails patched and dirty. A bell rings, “Cast off,” and brawny arms heave with a bamboo pole, the reflections golden in the muddy water. A breath of blessed breeze, the sails flutter, then droop listlessly like the ragged children who hung over the gunwales watching others play with pretty toy boats while maids kept a wary eye on their charges.

  From columns supporting the iron rail along the river an overpowering stench of urine mingled with the smell of newly milled lumber, of fish, of flowers, and of garbage floating to the sea. Men sleeping in corners, rolling blindly into more protected shade as the sun stabbed at their faces. And on the terrace at the yacht club, men in white sipping cool drinks; on the walk in front, men in tatters wandering aimlessly. The excited buzz of sidewalk gamblers as they watch the gaudy designs of the whirling wheel, the disappointed moan of the losers, and the smile of pleasure as the winner opens the pack of Luckies and slowly takes a puff from the prize.

  That evening we sat under the striped canopy of a sidewalk café enjoying our first taste of that Guayaquil delicacy, ceviche de corvina—raw fish and pink onions pickled in lime juice. The air was cooler and there was almost a music to the noise of traffic, but Helen’s mind was somewhere else.

  “Estrada,” she repeated again and again. “Estrada. That name’s familiar.”

  “It should be. We’ve seen it plastered on every building in town. Emilio Estrada, Mayor of Guayaquil.”

  “No, I mean before that.”

  Later, back in the room, Helen dug out the letter from Quito to the man in the yacht club. It was addressed to a Señor Estrada.

  “But that doesn’t mean it’s the same man,” I said. “Estrada in Ecuador could be like Jones in the States.”

  But when we inquired for the gentleman the next morning at the yacht club we were directed to the City Hall.

  The Mayor of Guayaquil was a handsome man in his thirties, tall, robust, and with a passion for sports cars and boats. La Tortuga could hardly be called either, but the fact that she was a sporting compromise aroused his interest. He received us warmly, speaking perfect English, and after reading the letter from his friend wanted to know all about the trip, and then asked to see the jeep. He spotted the hole in the bow immediately.

  “What happened here?”

  “Those mixtos are murder,” I said. “We were hit twice in less than an hour.”

  “Well, we can’t have her leaving Guayaquil like that. My brother and I own the Ford agency. I’ll call my boys and tell them to take care of you.”

  I was still thanking him when the conversation ended with an invitation to a Lightning-class regatta at the yacht club the next day. The next day was a dead calm—there was no regatta, but we were invited below decks of several luxury yachts and had an unequaled opportunity to meet people who might be interested in an outboard motor. The answer was always the same: “No, this is off season. But it will bring a better price in Peru anyway.”

  Three days later La Tortuga was ready. Mayor Estrada’s men had done a good job; she was watertight again, but there was no mistaking her mixto mar even with new paint on the bow. We hadn’t accomplished our main objective in going to Guayaquil, that of selling the outboard motor, but we had met some fine people, and even with La Tortuga’s disfigurement we felt the side trip was worth it as we headed for Cuenca and the Peruvian border.

  There was one bridgeless river to cross on the road out of town, but regular service was provided by a mobile bridge, a decrepit barge that looked as if it had fought all the battles of the Pacific. La Tortuga was surrounded by curious people, and we were avalanched with questions: “If that thing is really amphibious, why don’t you go in the water?” I gave up trying to explain that we always used bridges when available, and finally offered an explanation they understood—that I was too lazy. After even a short immersion it would take a full day to clean and relubricate the differentials and wheel bearings.

>   Honking loudly on every curve and moving well to the side for anything larger than a bicycle, we climbed steadily to the highlands and the Pan American Highway again. The road was a tortuous repetition of the descent—bumps, steep grades, and rapidly changing vegetation from mirrored rice paddies and extravagant fans of banana palms to the cold wind-swept paramos. A giant checkerboard of green and gold, the fields of waving grain rippled like a breeze-ruffled lake at sunset. Moving endlessly as in a circus ring, horses flayed wheat with their hoofs, and on the crests of the rolling hills sheep and goats were tended by red-ponchoed Indians in sheepskin chaps, the wool long and matted. Near Cuenca, the center of the so-called Panama hat industry, women in flame-colored skirts shuffled to market balancing towers of semi-finished hats on their heads.

  Between Cuenca and the Peruvian border there was supposedly a fifty-mile gap in the Highway, but it was rumored that a trail through the military zone was passable in dry weather. Closer to the border the trail dwindled to a path through tall ceiba trees and low shrub. In the rainy season it would be a quagmire, but that time of year—August—we had no trouble except with the suffocating clouds of brown dust. As a result of a border dispute the military zone was well manned and guard stations were numerous. In that fifty miles we were stopped fourteen times to show our credentials. We were happy to have some to show.

  The entry into Peru was effortless. Neatly uniformed officials stamped our passports and Libreta, and we silently blessed the auto club in Quito. At Tumbes, the border town, there were a few extracurricular questions when Peruvian Army Intelligence learned we had passed through the Ecuadorian military zone. When he was through with us, Pm afraid that the interrogating officer had a low opinion of Yankee powers of observation.

  La Tortuga speeded along the black ribbon of asphalt through the moonlike terrain of Peru’s arid north. By “speeded” I mean a fast thirty-five miles per hour. From the Pacific port of Tumbes, where some four hundred years earlier Pizarro began his bloody conquest of Peru, the Pan American Highway replaced the ancient Incan road that had stretched for thousands of miles to the south. Undulating yellow sand had covered the early thoroughfare, but there was bleak evidence of the past near Trujillo, where hundreds of acres of mounds pimpled the countryside. Chan-Chan, imperial city of the pre-Incan Chimu empire, remained as mud-and-pebble relics of temples, palaces, and a canal that brought water from the coastal range of the Andes. Some of the mounds had been excavated, exposing yellow ochre reliefs to the depredations of weather and man, but at nearby Chiclín, a vast irrigated sugar cane plantation, owner Señor Larco Herrera had guarded antiquity in his private museum. In the dim interior were mummies of warriors curled like fetuses in death, wrapped in millennium-old fabrics, the intricate designs still brilliant, preserved by the rainless atmosphere. Surrounding them were their copper knives, bone combs, wooden war clubs, and ceremonial masks. Spanning time, we wandered from room to room, but one piece of pottery brought me with a smile back to the twentieth century—a potbellied little man that was a perfect likeness of the Near-sighted Mr. Magoo.