The Titans of the Pacific

by Robert Gammon

  “When we arrive in Peru, everyone will be talking about APRA and Víctor-Raúl Haya. He’s the first Latin American politician with a real plan to develop his country for everyone’s benefit, and not just for the few, as usual. People know Víctor-Raúl speaks from his heart, like a father, like…” said Yolanda, suddenly contorting the subject:

  “John, did you know Haya is from Trujillo, like me? Many northerners support APRA, so their opponents scare people saying a civil war will start up north. If folk are scared, of course, they’ll prefer any other alternative, and the only one they have at the moment is Sánchez-Cerro.

  “When we arrive at the port of Callao you’ll meet my cousin Manuel. He’s from Callao but was brought up in Trujillo. He’s been with APRA since the party was founded. Manuel would die for Víctor-Raúl,” said Yolanda.

  Winter was arriving to North America and, although the first nights on board the Santa Clara were cold, they were sailing into the warmer Caribbean.

  Seagulls fluttered around the ship and the sailors amused themselves tossing food leftovers into the air, which the hungry birds caught in mid-flight.

  John had never left the northeast of the USA before. Everything seemed new. He befriended a pelican, who settled at the ship’s stern, commanding the best view of the sea below. Its ruffled but immaculate white feathers, constantly moist from the sea spray, with a grey crest resembling a crown. The enormous beak tasted the food John provided and selectively chose its menu. John was soon trained by the pelican what and when to feed it.

  The Santa Clara sailed along the northern coast of Cuba and approached the Windward Passage that separates Cuba from the island of Hispaniola, shared in difficult coexistence by the former French territory of Haiti and once Spanish colony of the Dominican Republic.

  “I wonder how many poor Dominicans have been eaten by sharks?” said Yolanda.

  “What?” said John, jolted abruptly from his daydream.

  “In the Dominican Republic, that despot Leonidas Trujillo enjoys slaughtering opponents and feeding them to the sharks,” said Yolanda.

  “What a bastard,” said John.

  “Yeah, if he dislikes someone, they’re taken out to sea and thrown overboard, to drown or get eaten by the sharks. The police just classify them as missing people. Trujillo rules the Dominican Republic like his private estate. He’s the greatest murderer in Latin America. I hate it that he carries the name of the city I love.”

  Yolanda was giving John a fresh perspective on Latin American history compared to what they taught at Harvard, “You know, the Dominican Republic was occupied by the USA army for years. Before leaving, they trained Trujillo as an army officer and left him as president, to safeguard American business interests. They don’t care about Trujillo’s methods for holding on to power, as long as he keeps communism out.”

  It was said that Herbert Hoover’s electoral campaign to be president of the USA was funded by American corporations, like the IFC. Hoover had to return the favour.

  John had learned that, at the beginning of the century, Panama had been a province of Colombia. The USA wanted to build a canal across the Isthmus of Panama so their ships could cross between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. As the Colombian government wouldn’t cooperate, Panama was declared independent from Colombia, with its independence guaranteed by the USA, and agreed to cede to the USA land to build the canal. The agreement allowed the USA to intervene in Panama in case of any public disorder. American interests were well protected.

  Pointing at a map of Central America, Yolanda continued, “Nicaragua has also been occupied by the American army. They say Nicaragua conspired with European businessmen to build another canal to link the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, in competition with the Americans’ Panama Canal.”

  “Every country welcomes foreign investment, but a country cannot become a private estate for companies like the IFC,” said Yolanda, waving her fan faster and faster to keep herself cool.

  But she hadn’t finished, “Look what you Yanks did to those banana republics in Central America: you sent in your soldiers, murdered peasants and changed governments, imposing your own puppet presidents. And what about the Panama Canal? You stole the land from Colombia to create a new country – Panama – just to build your canal. Imperialism – that’s what it is.”

  John felt a surge of anger as he cut her spiel, “Imperialism? But if you want foreigners to invest in your countries, they need protection. And as far as the Panama Canal is concerned, it’s a great project, benefiting the whole continent.”

  Yolanda’s eyes were ablaze and her mouth wide open. Yes, that’s right, you were asking for it, thought John.

  “You and that Kemmerer mission… exactly what I was saying: you’re coming to Peru to ‘advise’ the new government – better say: instruct them what to do, just like in Central America,” she replied, snapping her fan closed and prodding him with it. Then, she turned around and fumed off to her cabin, leaving John standing there.

  The trip was becoming long and tiresome, so John decided to write to Lisa: Have you passed those exams? Finally got rid of Commercial Law? What have you been painting? I can just imagine you, sitting in front of your canvas, bright colours splashing up and down – yes, you look happier painting than studying law. As for me, the trip has been boring – I’m tired of being at sea, day after day. But at least it’s been interesting talking to Yolanda. You might even know her: she was researching at your Law faculty in Harvard. She’s a mine of information, she’s charming, she’s.…no, better scratch that out or Lisa might get jealous. Next stop is Panama. I’ll write again when I get to Peru. Remember you can write to me at the USA embassy. I love you and I’m thinking of you always.

  Putting Lisa’s letter into its envelope, John felt confused. Lisa’s image regressed in his mind and Yolanda came forward. Obvious, wasn’t it, as they spent all day together. Bad temper aside, Yolanda provided a marvellous brief about what to expect in Peru but, there was something else. He enjoyed her silent moments too – yes, she could be taciturn at times – and just looking at her. Well, she was only making up for the absent female company of Lisa, wasn’t she?

  The crossing of the Panama Canal and its lakes was exciting – the most amazing engineering project of all times, linking the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. John gaped at the enormous steel lock gates – two metres thick – which allowed ships to be raised, and later lowered, no less than twenty-five metres – the height of John’s home building in Boston.

  It was absolutely incredible – but what about the cost? Not only money but, horrifically, in lives of thousands of workers who’d died of tropical diseases – now that the monumental project had been completed, did anyone care?

  As the Santa Clara sailed up the canal towards the lakes, John gazed at the tropical forest surrounding him. Colourful parrots screeched at him as they settled on tree tops, a toucan with a large yellow and black beak flew above his head, and a family of monkeys gathered to greet him in a nearby tree. He’d never seen anything like it. Boston seemed so, so far away – another world.

  Was this what the first Spanish explorers had seen on arrival in the Americas four hundred years earlier? Did they imagine they’d discovered Eden? But how would they have faced this unbearable tropical heat and humidity? John found it hard breathing the thick, hot air and couldn’t stop sweating and slapping his arms and face – mosquitos buzzed around him, hungry for his blood.

  Then, a tug on his shirt sleeve – Yolanda was beside him, mutely offering him a bottle with some liquid.

  “No – don’t drink it,” she said laughing. “It’s for your arms and neck – but don’t put any on your face.” John’s puzzled look invited her to explain, “Mosquito repellent – if they bite you, you could contract a tropical disease.”

  Shit, like those thousands of poor workers who’d died building the canal, thought John, as he gratefully accept
ed Yolanda’s peace offering, after their argument about the Panama Canal, imperialism and whatever.

  “Thanks, Yolanda… that feels a lot better,” said John, relieved as the mosquitos abandoned him.

  “And you should also use this cream to protect your skin – the sun is much stronger here than in the USA,” she said, handing him a container.

  As he followed her instructions, John learned the hazards of this new world he was entering. Then, the clouds burst – the pouring rain reminded John of Father Joseph’s story about Noah’s Ark. At last, fresh air to breathe.

  When they disembarked in Panama City, John posted his letter to Lisa. Yolanda enticed John to eat some spicy pastries from a street vendor. Then the sailors took them for a glass of rum, then another and, well, a few more.

  But, damn it, the rum didn’t go down well. John found walking difficult. His stomach was bursting. Thank God the sailors got him back to the ship just before diarrhoea set in. What the hell happened afterwards? He must have dozed on the toilet seat and only woke up with the next attack of diarrhoea. Goodbye Panama.

  Finally, he fell asleep. Lisa appeared behind his eyelids – those deep blue eyes looking down at him as he lay in his bunk. He stroked her soft pink cheek and that auburn hair, and she kissed him. Next, a knock on the door – it was Yolanda. She sauntered in: Poor boy, how are you? She stroked his hand and smiled: her light bronze face and red lips leaned down and kissed him. What the hell was Yolanda doing… kissing him in front of Lisa? But when he looked up, Lisa was gone. Yolanda walked towards the cabin door, turned around, smiled and melted away. He was alone.

  When John awoke and clambered out of his cabin, Yolanda informed him they were now in the Pacific Ocean. He eyed her as they looked over the railings. Maybe he’d had fever. Thank God, he’d only been dreaming.

  Days went by – sea and more sea. Far in the distance, the coast of Colombia, then Ecuador, could be seen. They crossed that invisible line called the equator. On arrival in Guayaquil, a handful of passengers, like John, crossing the equator for the first time, were subjected to a tradition the sailors called the baptism. They were drenched, painted and dressed like clowns. Then, forced to drink a disgusting cocktail with mustard and, finally, they were topped up with rum – for John, the only enjoyable part of the ordeal. After that, somehow, he must have got back on board and slept for hours. He woke to hear the next stop would be Callao, Peru.

  Chapter 5

  Pedro Vargas came from the city of Arequipa, in the southern Peruvian Andes. In 1883, his family lost its small mine after the war with Chile – which annexed large parts of Peruvian territory. With the family heirloom gone, Pedro’s father became a career army officer.

  Major Gonzalo Vargas was a muscular man, with jet-black hair and a bushy moustache decorating a harsh face, tanned by years under the sun, from which clear brown eyes shone. The stern gaze of a dedicated officer disguised a warm heart. Although unlikely to make the grade of general, his superiors deemed him hardworking, dependable and honest.

  Gonzalo’s life was tough after his wife was killed by a drunken driver – a rich spoilt brat losing control driving one of the earliest cars to arrive in Arequipa. Then, the boy disappeared – spirited away to Lima by his influential family. The poor army officer just had to swallow his pain and pull through, for the sake of his two young boys.

  Alfredo, the elder son, earned a living working in commerce; but it was Pedro that worried Gonzalo. Pedro wasn’t a bad school student but his day dreaming could exasperate any father. He might end up becoming a writer, an actor or, heaven forbid, even an artist. How on earth would he make a living and entice a girl to marry him? Girls wouldn’t be captivated only by Pedro’s handsome looks, curly black hair and sparkling dark eyes; nor his friendly smile and charm. But, hell, Gonzalo thought, how could anyone not like such a nice kid?

  Arequipa is a beautiful Spanish colonial city, enjoying crisp mountain air, guarded by El Misti, the majestic snow-capped volcano towering above the city. El Misti provides white volcanic stone, used over the centuries to build Arequipa’s churches, monasteries and palaces for the aristocracy.

  Living in one of those palaces was the Piérola family, with roots going back to the colonial period and, more recently, to Don Nicolás de Piérola, president of Peru in the late 19th century.

  Carolina de Piérola enjoyed a comfortable childhood in Arequipa. She was a very good student and, once she’d finished school, her father would want her to join the family business. She was too bright to just get engaged to marry and become a socialite housewife, like most of her friends. She was determined to have a career.

  Young Carolina hated restrictions to local girls venturing out from home, except to school. How boring, walking to Mass with her family every Sunday. Still, at least the girls enjoyed evening strolls in the main square, the Plaza de Armas. She detested being chaperoned by her mother or aunts, intent on keeping her safe from teenage boys bursting with testosterone. Carolina and her friends walked around the large square, dressed in latest fashions from Paris or London, chatting and giggling, until time to go home to a family dinner.

  Not only did the girls walk around the Plaza de Armas. The young men of wealthy, and sometimes not wealthy, families also did their rounds, smartly dressed in suits and ties made by the best tailors in the city. This old ritual allowed young men and women to see and be seen.

  “Hey, what are you doing?”

  “Umm… just breathing in deeply.”

  “Huh… you look like one of those guys who come up from Lima, out of breath here in the Andes.”

  “No. I’m breathing in the fragrance of these beautiful flowers parading around the square.”

  “You mean you’d like to pluck one of those beautiful flowers. Come on: tell us which one.” The young men joked and pushed each other, setting off the girls’ giggles as they watched.

  “And what’s wrong with you, Pedro?” His friend had noticed Pedro’s absent expression.

  After a moment’s silence, Pedro reacted, “I’ve seen an angel.”

  “You never go to church, you heathen, but you say you’ve seen an angel?” They all laughed.

  “Come on guys, leave Pedro alone: he’s in love.”

  “In love? You’re going to tell us who she is.” Pedro’s friends cackled and one pretended to twist his arm.

  “There she is. Don’t you think she’s an angel?” Pedro said pointing at a group of girls, with a sheepish look on his face.

  “Which one?”

  “Carolina.”

  “Carolina? Carolina de Piérola? Forget it, Pedro. You don’t stand a chance: she’s rich and you’re poor. That’s it.”

  “I know, but don’t you think she’s pretty? I’d love to meet her,” continued Pedro.

  “Yeah, last year her face was spotty, but she’s grown up and they’ve gone. She’s in the same class as my sister. They’re good friends.”

  Pedro grabbed his friend’s arm, “Is that true? Your sister must introduce me to Carolina.”

  “Come on, man, no way. Do you see the old witch sitting at the end of the bench? That’s Carolina’s aunt – always keeping an eye on her, to make sure no lecherous guys like you lay a hand on her niece.” They all laughed, except Pedro.

  Pedro sighed, admiring Carolina. She’d turned sixteen and, indeed, was blossoming into a beautiful young lady – a shapely brunette with bright green eyes commanding a rosy face; long, styled hair with blond flashes. Always immaculately turned out, neither family nor friends could influence her attire: American style was more exciting than prevailing European trends.

  Carolina knew her mother and aunts were working hard, scanning the best families in Arequipa for a young man deserving her as a wife. But she wouldn’t allow herself to be a pawn in a high society chess game – she was determined to marry for love.

  Courtship started early in A
requipa and it was unthinkable for girls from good families to have had a history of boyfriends, and become tainted before marriage. Pedro was determined to get to Carolina before someone else did. It wasn’t just love at first sight. You could know a lot about someone in Arequipa society, through friends, family and, well, yes, gossip. Pedro sensed she was a determined, intelligent and brave young lady.

  Days went by. Pedro waited and waited. When he grabbed his friend by the arm he was told:

  “Don’t worry, Pedro, my sister has already spoken to Carolina.”

  Pedro imagined Carolina’s surprise, “Pedro who? Pedro Vargas? Oh, that Pedro. Talk, about what?”

  And her friend tittered, “Uh… isn’t it obvious what a man wants to talk to a young lady about?”

  Pedro knew it wasn’t an easy decision for Carolina. Meeting him, speaking to him – her girlfriends might know even before it happened. ‘Pedro Who’ would be the subject of their gossip, and disapproval, “Carolina, your parents will never allow it.” “Why on earth do you want to meet someone like Pedro Who?” “There are so many eligible young men, from good families.”

  As they strolled around the Plaza de Armas, Pedro imagined he’d spotted Carolina eyeing him when their groups of friends crossed. Had her friends looked at him and giggled? Perhaps her friend hadn’t been able to keep the secret. Carolina may have been showered with comments of disapproval from snootier friends. Still, she’d smiled at him, hadn’t she?

  The next day, Pedro’s friend took him aside, “Okay, Pedro. She’ll talk to you.”

  “She will? Are you sure? Fantastic. When? Where?”

  “She’s not said yet. You know, it’s got to be casual. She doesn’t want anyone suspecting.”

  The following day, Pedro’s friend called him over, “Listen. This is what we’ll do: as they go around the square today, Carolina and my sister will break away from their group of friends. You know, like they’re talking in private. Then, I’ll call my sister, as if I had to tell her something.”