CHAPTER VI: TO SOUTH AMERICA AND BACK

Accompanied by daughter Aura May (alias Sugarfoot), Pap embarked

on a two-month land, sea and air tour of Latin America in late

November, 1949. This journey, extraordinary for the time, was

recorded in a series of letters printed in successive editions of

the weekly Putnam County Graphic, Greencastle, Indiana.

Each letter was hand-written, in pencil, on yellow, ruled tablet

paper, and then mailed to the paper, where they would be set into

the equivalent of two to five full columns of type. The touring

was extensive, and the letters were inclusive, giving conjecture

to just how Pap found the time to do all this writing? Aura May

said that other than during the cruise down, he did it all at

night after she had gone to bed. She remembered one time in

particular when he awoke her at 2 a.m. to ask how to spell the

name of the highest peak in the Andes--Aconcagua.

At first there was only a two-week delay between the writing and

the publication, but these intervals grew longer as the tourists

progressed from country to country, demonstrating the limits of

postal departments and/or carriers of the day. By the time the

final letter was printed, Pap and Aura May had been home

approximately three months.

EMBARKING FROM NEW ORLEANS

At Sea, Nov. 27, 1949

To the Graphic:

We will start with Mattoon, Ill., where my daughter, Aura May

Durham, and I went to catch the Illinois Central's "Panama

Limited" for New Orleans.

This is a thoroughly-modern, diesel-powered all-pullman train.

Among other things it has a folding removable ladder for all

night access to each upper berth, which does away with the porter

and his wooden stepladder and small washrooms at each end of the

car, which permits the car to add two full sections. Time will

tell whether this feature proves popular with the traveling

public. The train is fast, the roadbed good. She was on-the-dot

into Mattoon and about five minutes ahead at destination.

Our reservations were at the Roosevelt Hotel . . . centrally

located a block and a half off Canal St., reputed to be the

widest street in the world. The warm, soft dialect we generally

attribute to the south is lacking. New Orleans has its own. I

can't describe it. You have to hear it.

Well-suited to hospitality

Hospitality here, as well as in about all of New Orleans, is most

cordial and unusual. Here is an example of what I mean: I thought

it best to get another tropical suit--a rayon and cotton affair

made by Haspel of New Orleans. I called the manufacturer's office

to locate a retail store carrying the Haspel line. I was

connected with the manager, A. Haspel himself. I stated my case.

He answered: "We are mighty proud you like our clothes. Tell you

what you do. You go to such and such a store almost across the

street from your hotel, call for Mr. A. or Mr. B. and tell him

what you want. This is an off season for hot weather clothes. He

may not have them. If not, tell him to measure you and call us

and we will send down four or five to choose from."

"But," I said, "I want only one suit and in Indianapolis it would

cost $25.50 and that is too much trouble for both of you for that

money."

He said, "No amount of trouble is too much trouble for us to go

to for a man who came all the way from Indianny to get one of our

suits of clothes."

And that was what happened. The store was out, but I got the

clothes.

THE PILOTS UNION

That evening we went to the Roosevelt Blue Room for 8 o'clock

dinner and floor show. I noticed a modestly, yet well-dressed

bald headed, rather heavy-set man of about 60 eating alone at the

next table. The waiters all knew him as did many of the customers

who passed.

I said to him, "You are alone this evening. Why not come over and

join us in dessert?"

He replied, "I shall be delighted, and consider it an hon'r to be

asked to join you and this charmin' young lady, but you must

excuse me from dessert." Turning to his waiter, he said, "Bring

the bucket over here if you will, Pierre." The bucket was a

bucket of Burgundy, fairly well gone. Naturally he asked us to

share it, and showed no resentment at our refusal.

It took only a few minutes to discover that our new friend was a

"trifle high," and gaining rather than losing altitude, as time

went on. He was a river pilot of long standing, and simply superb

at modest elevation.

Putnam County is a bit shy on pilots, but not New Orleans. If I

get the facts right, outbound and inbound ships have three

pilots--river, bar and the ship's regular pilot. The last takes

charge only when the ship is at sea. . . On leaving the wharf,

the river pilot is in charge until the bar of the Mississippi is

reached--the narrows or jetties where the river empties into the

Gulf some 90 miles below New Orleans. . . The "bar pilot" steers

the ship through the narrows and out into the Gulf. It is then

that the ship's regular pilot takes charge.

It is these bar pilots who have a unique organization, virtually

a family affair. To become a bar pilot you must either be born

into the family or marry into it. Talk about your tight little

corporations and monopolies! Bricklayers and other trade unions

are accused of limiting memberships and daily numbers of bricks

to be laid in order to hike wages. This "union" does the same

thing by means of a sort of birth control feature. It's a honey

of a trust. These bar pilots, I hear from pretty reliable source,

get from twelve to fifteen thousand per year and work about six

months of the year.

Last Tuesday morning, the Director of Commerce of the Board of

Commissioners of the Port of New Orleans called to invite us on a

tour of the harbor, along with some eight or 10 shippers. . . New

Orleans shipping is tremendous, second only to New York. I

casually mentioned San Francisco and was told that New Orleans

had more shipping than the combined West Coast. Generally

speaking, it draws the territory drained by the Mississippi

River. New Orleans has 10 to 12 miles of wharves. On the trip we

surely saw more than 100 ships, barges, ferries and other big

water craft. Two ships were unloading thousands of cases of

pineapples, so our local A&P store should be stocked with

pineapple for you by now.

TIME IS A SEASONING AT ANTOINE'S

That evening the director and his wife took a local Democratic

official and his wife and Aura May and me to Antoine's for

dinner. Antoine's is an institution. Established in 1840, it has

served food uninterruptedly, and is now owned and operated by a

grandson of its founder.

The building, tableware and linen are severely plain. The waiters

are noiseless and speak many languages. No bands, orchestras or

entertainers--"You go to Antoine's to give your palate an

undisturbed treat." No bar--"It is people who drink without

eating who become paralyzed by alcohol." Yet it has a narrow wine

cellar a block long, containing well over 5,000 bottles. The

oldest wines date back to 1884, the oldest brandy to 1811.

Its gallery of celebrities contains over 2,000 autographs and

pictures of distinguished visitors. Besides the main dining room,

it has 15 others. One room's floor, the Mystery Room, is covered

with sawdust. Guests have included Marshall Foch, Sarah

Bernhardt, Will Rogers, Jenny Lind, Caruso, Edwin Booth,

"Gentleman Jim" Corbett, General Pershing, down to enough U.S.

Senators and Congressmen to ruin anybody's country.

The present head waiter has been there 40 years, his predecessor

50 years. Bus boys must serve an apprenticeship of 10 years. Time

is a necessary element in the proper preparation of food at

Antoine's. If you are in a hurry, Antoine's recommends you go to

the corner drug store.

But let's get back to dinner before it gets cold. We started off

with a cocktail of something. I think our host said it contained

applejack, champagne and some other ingredient. It had a white

collar like the beaten white of an egg. Then came "Oysters

Rockefeller," so named because of the richness of the sauce . . .

The recipe for this sauce is a closely guarded family secret. The

dish consists of six oysters on the half shell. A much used pie

tin is filled with rock salt to hold the heat indefinitely. The

oysters covered with the sauce are imbedded in this salt and

baked. The concoction, pie tin and all, is served on a plate.

Due to the salt, the oysters and sauce will remain hot for

perhaps a half hour. Many a worthy brother's and sister's tongues

have been blistered. Since 1899, the management has given with

each order a post card showing the number of your order. Mine was

1301744. And so, figuring six oysters to each order, we find that

the actual number of oysters used to date has been near eight

million.

I had fish--Pompano en papillote--pompano served in paper bags

(rumor hath it that the paper bag retains all the flavor), with

Pommes Soufflees, or a glorified branch of fry or potato chips

blown up like large flat pea pods with peas removed.

Dessert consisted mostly of Cherry Jubilee. Large, fat cherries

are put in a metal bowl and covered with brandy. The lights are

turned off over your table. The brandy is lighted with a match.

The waiter stirs the cherries, flames and all, until thoroughly

hot and the alcohol in the brandy is exhausted. Then he takes

them to the kitchen, pours them over ice cream and something and

brings back the portions, hot and cold. A Presbyterian deacon

could eat Cherry Jubilee without a twinge of conscience.

All this took from 8 to 12 p.m., followed by a ride around the

old French section, listening to the music of jazz bands as we

passed the dance halls, winding up the evening's entertainment

about 1 a.m. at the Morning Call--another New Orleans institution

in a class of its own. Here rich and poor, young and old, meet on

a common level and eat delicious doughnuts and drink cups of

combined hot milk and hot coffee poured together simultaneously.

Nov. 24th, we sailed on the Del Mar. The ship's management

distributed brightly assorted paper tape to the passengers

gathered at the rails of the different decks and the farewells

and bon voyages began. A Negro jazz band assembled on the wharf.

One dancer was as nimble at catching coins tossed from the decks

in an old plug hat as he was on his feet. The ship sailed at 4:20

p.m.

SHIPBOARD AND ST. THOMAS

To The Graphic,

Greencastle, Indiana

So we approached Charlotte Amalie, the only sizable town in the

Virgin Islands, all white and gleaming in the sun and closely

following the narrow shore lines. The high hills start almost

abruptly from the shore. St. Thomas Island has a population of

perhaps 12,000. Of these, Charlotte Amalie has well over half.

Taxis--good enough taxis--took those of us who wanted to go into

town. . . When we met another taxi head-on at the top of a hill,

he was on his left side, and so were we on ours. Woe is me, I

thought. Here is where one of Russellville Bank's oldest

directors gets directed to the nearest hospital, if any. . .

During the time I rode taxis there in Charlotte Amalie I never

got used to left-hand driving. What makes 'em do it? Even Aura

May flinched. And I--I pushed the driver's seat forward some

three inches or so.

HOTEL 1829

One Walter J. Maguire owns and manages Hotel 1829. He and his

wife "Pete" are natives of New Jersey, living in C.A. for some 10

to 12 years, since acquiring Hotel 1829. Yes, you have guessed

it. The hotel was built in 1829, and it shows it. Stucco, brick

and some frame. All doors and windows remain wide open. At least

until a hurricane comes. The original tile floors remain, showing

considerable wear. It has a mammoth combination kitchen, bar and

dining room, with built-in ovens and walls hung with quart to

five gallon shining copper cooking utensils. All cooking is done

with charcoal and gasoline stoves. The second floor sills are

closely spaced and exposed from the first floor. I don't know the

dimensions of these sills, but if one loosened and fell on one,

one would never know.

The hotel has a honey of a patio, like you see in travel bureau

literature. All first floor doors are double and fasten from the

inside with glorified gatehooks that look like the twisted

lightning rods on Mrs. Bridge's brick house west of Greencastle,

only bigger and heavier. The one hanging on the inside of one of

the front main double doors was about three feet long and the

"staple" it hooked into was three-quarter inch solid iron.

Hurricane insurance, probably.

Hotel 1829 has a maximum capacity of 24, although if remodeled

for efficiency and waste spaces done away with, it could

accommodate 124. Reservations are required and one hour notice

for lunch and three hours for dinner. Rates: $10 per day per

person, and up.

C.A. is a free port. Silverware, souvenirs, straw hats and

sandals, cigarettes, wines and liquors and vegetable markets are

predominant, but the greatest of these are wines and liquors. Old

Gold cigarettes and the other three or four principal brands

retail at 90 cents per carton, no tax. French champagnes like

Moet and Somebody, $3.50 per bottle.

By the time we got there, the market was about closed. It is

quite a place. It occupies a short block for length. The market

has a roof; the sides and ends are open and the stalls are made

of cement. A few stragglers remained with odds and ends of

oranges, bananas, limes (4 for 5 cents), lemons, potatoes,

peppers and things of that sort.

WATER SHORTAGE

Probably the biggest problem for Charlotte Amalie is that of good

water, particularly drinking water. It is scarce and during the

dry season, very scarce. Mr. Maguire told me drilling for wells

is out of the question. They are either dry, or salt water. St.

Thomas has no lakes, natural ponds, rivers or streams. It is even

said that women sometimes wash their hair in the ever-present

Coca-Cola. As a result of the water shortage, large patches of

steep mountainside are cemented with water catches at the bottom

for the rains when they do come.

All the police, the woman behind the window at the post office

and the school children were Negroes, neatly dressed. No race

problem here that I could see. A very few women carried loads

balanced on their heads. When the ship docked about five or six

rowboats of boys gathered on the bay side. The idea was to throw

pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters down and they would dive for

them. They rarely missed. . . They stayed from 10:30 a.m. to 3:40

p.m., when the ship sailed. One of the ship's officers told me

the average take was three to four dollars.

Since leaving the island of St. Thomas we have moved steadily on.

The ship averages something in the low 20's of our land miles-

per-hour. . . Now we are far past the eastern hump of South

America, have crossed the Equator, turned back southwest and are

running along the coast of Brazil, and tomorrow we dock in Rio.

The ship has a tiled swimming pool, well-patronized. The cabins,

dining room, bar, latticed verandah, etc., are air conditioned,

and well need be.

This is a fine way to rest and eat. Other than the ship's

activities, all you see is a very few cargo ships, five miles to

invisibility away, porpoises, flying fish, a gull or so,

occasional low, dim landheads, the sky, the stars and moon--and

water, reasonably calm but still as restless as a candidate on

election night.

SAILING DOWN THE 'RIVER OF JANUARY'

To The Graphic

Greencastle, Ind.

We are southbound out of Rio de Janeiro (River of January,

because I am told it was discovered in January). . . We docked

early on the morning of Dec. 7th and sailed out at 6 p.m. next

day.

I was standing at the rail when we docked. I have had feelings of

helplessness many times, and more or less acute. But when I

looked down some 30 feet and saw that crowd of coated, black

haired and hatless men, and saw those upturned faces ranging from

swarthy to ebony black, and heard that strange Portuguese as it

came up in increasing volume along with its accompanying

pantomime . . . I wondered and wondered what I was going to do

and how.

By that time passengers were descending the accommodation ladder

and strangers had come up. Shortly, the cabin boy came with a

short, thin, wiry, coal black haired young fellow. He said, "You

are Mr. Durham?"

"Yes," I said.

He handed me a card bearing the name of a well known American

firm doing business in South America and said, "We received word

you and your daughter were arriving and I am down to ask you to

be our guests so we may have the pleasure of entertaining you

while here. May we have that pleasure?"

"Son," said I, "you most certainly may--and before you have time

to change your mind." And I meant it.

He looked a trifle puzzled. We went inside the Verandah Cafe and

right there another less swarthy and older man accosted me in

like manner, for a like purpose, and handed me a card of another

well known American firm.

We sat down and ironed it out: the answer was most simple--and

most satisfying to both hosts. We saddled ourselves on the young

fellow the first day and on the older man the second day.

Come to think it all over carefully, that thing could have been

rehearsed by said parties of the first part. Things fit in too

well.

UNIQUE TRAFFIC PATTERNS

In Rio they drive cars mostly by horn. The balance of it is done

by guess. The din and confusion is terrific. Added to this,

pedestrians pay no attention to cars and drivers give no heed to

pedestrians. The latter cross and re-cross the streets wherever

and whenever they get the notion.

The first day in Rio we spent driving the downtown congestion

along the beaches, and other sight-seeing. The big percent is one

way traffic. To get a block or so away from where you are you

execute some geometric figures they didn't have in the books when

I took geometry.

This day we had an accident. Driving in the downtown congestion a

car from the lane to our right pulled into us, tearing off the

right hind fender of our almost brand new convertible. Traffic

stopped momentarily only. You would think the two owners were

exchanging pleasantries. They gathered up the pieces and pulled

out what was left of the fender to keep the tires from scraping,

and away we went. No cops, no report, no exchange of license

numbers, no fight, no profanity, no nothing. It was a bit

discouraging.

At noon we gathered at the head office, collected some more

officials and our host took us to lunch at the Jockey's Club. . .

With the aid of all present I ate those things for which Rio and

Brazil are most noted. Some most excellent, some so-so. The

famous coffee at the Jockey's Club, and elsewhere for that

matter, must have bitter root and paint remover in it.

That afternoon, we drove to Petropolis, the summer capitol, about

40 odd miles up in the mountains over one of the few good

highways. The paved highways of Brazil, a country larger than the

U.S., have a total mileage of 450 miles. That wouldn't reach from

Greencastle to Topeka, Kansas. Petropolis must be a half-mile

above sea level. At places, where the highway ran near the

cliff's edge, you could look down and see where you had been some

15 or 20 minutes before, but you'll never know how you got from

there to where you are now.

CAVERNOUS EX-CASINO

On the way is the Quintandinha (or some such spelling) Hotel--the

biggest I ever saw. Here is where the Pan-American Conference was

held. There it was on the mountain side, all quiet, no one about

and just beginning to look a bit like our cattle barn east of

Russellville, or "Happy" Cal's derby hat. The hotel is closed.

The reason? It depended on its casino to keep it going. The new

president of Brazil was instrumental in enacting a law making

casinos illegal. So now the gambling element of Brazil is

thinking of getting a new president. So you see, the world is

pretty much the same all over.

We drove up under whatever it is that great big hotels have in

front of them and there stood six or seven cars. Most of them

held Del Mar sightseers. Nobody could get in. Our host

disappeared somewhere and came back directly, saying we would get

in. I asked, "How." He said, "Folding money." So you see, we are

still pretty much the same, all the way around.

Did you ever see a whale of a big hay loft with all the hay left

out? When we stepped through the front door into the dimness of

that hotel, that was my thought. No lights and total silence.

Everything on a tremendous scale and everywhere in semi-darkness.

That conference room must be the size of our court house lawn,

hitch rack and all. The flags of all the nations still hang.

Hundreds of thousands of cruzeiros changed hands nightly under,

and surrounded by those flags. Inside, I saw a swimming pool 25

feet deep at the deep end. The fellow who I think took the

folding money told me in broken English the dome of the hotel was

bigger than that of St. Peter's in Rome. I doubt that. I said to

him, "It certainly would hold a pile of clover hay." That went

clear past and beyond him. But who am I to tell a Brazilian how

big his dome is?

DOM PEDRO AND HIS MANY FANS

In Petropolis we went through the Palace of Dom Pedro. I'll not

try to tell you just who Dom Pedro was, and how he came to be,

because I don't know. I should, after all the Dom Pedroing I went

through that afternoon, but I got confused. But Dom Pedro had to

be some boy. Between him and his wife or wives and his sons and

daughters and grandsons and granddaughters, and their activities,

there wasn't much left to say about anybody else.

At the front door pious looking attendants slip felt slippers,

open at the heel, over your shoes, and from there on through the

palace you slide your way along the highly polished wooden floors

(original). Dom Pedro, his wife (let's give him credit for only

one) and their get were everywhere, in oil, bronze and marble,

horseback and on foot. But Dom himself seemed to take pretty much

to horses for the big pictures the big scenes. We saw the throne

room, bed rooms, dining hall, nursery and its cradles, uniforms,

swords, state dresses, black-hair combs a foot high, old china

and glassware and ladies fans.

Let me tell you about the fans. My Aunt Jennie Black was a fan

fan--the kind that folded up--and the art was to fold and unfold

them gracefully. Remember? In a way, cigarettes are to our coeds

what fans were to Aunt Jennie and her era. Well, don't think Dom

Pedro's queen and women folk weren't in there fanning hard with

their fans, and long, long before Aunt Jennie and hers. A room

the size of Crawley's pool room was full of them in glass cases.

Hundreds, yes almost thousands of them: Wood, bone, ivory,

tortoise shell, amber and whatever else that could be made into

fans. Delicate filigree, gold, silver, mother of pearl, inlay of

superb workmanship and so fine it should be magnified to show it

is really hand work. Yes, they had fans in Dom's day, and just as

many as Brooklyn has now.

And away back behind was a small cubby hole room where Dom and

his Senators, or Cabinet, or advisers, or whatever it was he had,

met and considered matters of state. Then Dom, after being duly

advised, would go out and make his own laws. Up home you had Huey

Long and some others I mustn't name out loud do about the same

thing, so you see, we are pretty much . . .

BRIGHTENING PROSPECTS

Two full days in Rio is hardly enough to get much idea of a

foreign city of a million and a half to two million in

population. One man expressed it this way. "Rio has a limited

number of rich to big rich, and a world of poor to very poor. We

lack a middle class. We are very short on middle class. After the

war people of Brazil flocked to Rio, and, far far oftener than

not, left a position and life much higher than the one they

attained, or could ever attain, in Rio."

Right now, they are slowed down almost critically by reason of a

shortage of American dollars. They want and badly need to buy

from us, but have no stable currency to pay with. Added to this,

it would appear to the average outsider, they have some

unfortunate and crippling legislation that doesn't help this

situation.

We went to a cocktail party at the Copacabana Hotel. And there we

met some 20 to 25 men from the States in various commercial and

financial activities in Rio. It was the general opinion that the

financial and industrial situation is rather bad. No impending

panic seems evident, but a ripple of pessimism exists. As the

evening advanced and the cocktails expanded, that pessimism

dissipated. By the time some of us got to where a cock's tail

blended into the rest of his feathers and where the cocktail

party blended into the dinner party, it appeared a boom was about

to start.

LABOR AND CLIMATE

Sailing out of Rio at 6 p.m. Dec. 8th, next morning early we

docked at Santos. We loaded 400 tons of rather inferior bananas

for Montevideo and Buenos Aires, all hand work except for the

crane that lifted the sling of loaded bananas off the dock and

lowered them into the hold. When they wanted to move a car up or

down the track, about 50 men would surround it and push, and

slowly she would begin to roll. At 11 a.m. the city siren blew

and everybody quit work right then and there until 2 p.m. That

gave us two full daylight days in Santos.

I had been told in Rio that another representative of one of the

companies would meet and take care of us at Santos. The first day

we drove to Sao Paulo, referred to by Brazilians as the "Chicago"

of Brazil. To me, that is a Churchillian understatement. It is

the manufacturing city of Brazil, some 50 odd miles up in the

mountains from Santos. The two cities have rail and truck

connections. I asked our host how come manufacturers would unload

raw products or knockdown parts onto railroad cars or trucks,

make the haul up to S.P., manufacture or assemble it there, then

rail or truck it back down to Santos or Rio. Why not do it at

Santos or Rio and cut out all that haul and extra handling?

The answer was "labor conditions and climate differences--mostly

the former." After seeing those 50 men gingerly moving that

banana car of half the capacity of one of Sir Herbert Martin's

box cars, I began to catch the idea.

We had lunch in a super class French restaurant. For some unknown

reason our host and his sprightly wife wanted to take us to The

Jungle--a real, for sure Brazilian jungle some 140 kilometers on

beyond Sao Paulo. We started, but long, long before The Jungle we

practically ran out of road. They were improving and re-locating

the highway. We held a caucus. Our host was as game as they come.

. . Open revolt came when our host said he had inquired and was

assured the road would get better farther on and that he would

have us back aboard ship by midnight, perhaps before that time. A

vote was taken. Three were for returning then and there, with one

not voting. We turned around and headed back for Sao Paulo.

On the way out toward The Jungle we met truck after truck loaded

high with sacked charcoal enroute to Sao Paulo where it sells as

high as a doctor's bill back home. It is used in cooking. There

seemed to be no coal. Gasoline is expensive and oil men tell me

it is not as good as our "regular." No Ethyl.

Our host, knowing we had driven from Rio to Petropolis, at the

day's end told us we had traveled almost half of the total good

road mileage of Brazil.

NO MINK SOUTH OF KEY WEST?

At Rio and Santos we lost upward of a third of our original

passengers. Newcomers filled all the vacated cabins, Portuguese

or Spanish speaking peoples. Most of them were business men and

not tourists out for a lark. Talk started about going through

customs at Buenos Aires, and how many cigarettes and how much

liquor we could take in. For some reason opinion on number and

volume differed. . . As to liquor, the question centered around

whether it was liters or number of bottles that counted, and if

so what size bottles. All of which didn't help those who had it

in jugs. I never will know how the jug crowd came out.

Sugar Foot's problem is something else. It has to do with a neck

piece Mummy or someone else in the family besides me is sending

to Ann Drew in California. Now you know why it is taking this

roundabout way of getting to California, so why ask me that

simple a question? But so far on the trip there has been no place

for the display of furs, and the only way that comes to me now

that we can achieve that air of affluence is for the hot water

system of the flying machine to give out when we are 2,000 feet

in the air going over the Andes to Santiago. But let's hope it

doesn't. I don't want anything to happen to anybody that high up,

much less Sugar Foot and me. I wouldn't want that to happen even

to a Republican--provided there are any of them left up there by

this time.

I see I started out telling you about Aura May's problem and

wound up in politics. Her problem is this: she didn't declare

said alleged mink neck piece on leaving the States. Now some low

fellow tells us we will have trouble getting "back-in" with it.

My hope is there are no mink south of Key West. And besides, the

more I get the few glimpses of that neck piece the more I am

convinced they're house cats made up to look like anything that

has to pay a duty.

INTERVIEWED BY THE URUGUAY PRESS

To The Graphic

Greencastle, Ind.

The evening of Dec. 10th we sailed out of Santos, redolent of

coffee, and the next morning docked in Montevideo, to be met by

another "angel" from one of those heaven sent Companies we've

been blessed with so far. . . With the aid of an interpreter, we

were to have our pictures taken and give an interview to a

reporter for one of the newspapers.

They wanted to know how we liked Uruguay and Montevideo.

Naturally, we didn't know, not having set foot on either yet.

Well, where were we going and what were we going to do--business,

pleasure or diplomatic? And all this time I was repeatedly asked

what advice I had to give to the people of Uruguay. You bet I had

none--none whatever.

When this filtered to the reporter, he looked amazed and puzzled.

He was thinking. The next perplexed question that came through

the strainer was, "But you are a lawyer, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am a lawyer, but a lawyer is the last fellow you want to

go to up home for advice--except politicians, veterinarians and

undertakers."

They caught the "politician" part of it, but I don't think the

reporter ever did unravel the rest of it.

He was a persistent pressman, however, and kept firing the advice

question at me.

I finally said, "I have no advice whatsoever to whomsoever," etc.

(using other big sounding words lawyers use when they don't know)

"to give you splendid sovereign peoples of Uruguay. If I had to

give something, it would be this: observe International Law and

your Treaties to the letter, and then run your own country in

your own way and without let or hindrance from anybody outside."

The interview was an unqualified success judged from the nods,

gesticulations and shaking of hands. I got so I thought it was

pretty good myself.

But alas. You should read what came out in the paper next

morning. . . I was quoted to have said Uruguay had a most forward

and socially stable government, or something like that.

LIVESTOCK--REAL AND BRONZED

Our friend, the manager of the company, proved to be most

capable. . . We drove over the city after picking up his wife. .

. Montevideo is much cleaner and more mechanized than is Rio or

Santos, or so it seemed to me. The docks were less littered up.

Perhaps people and business moved faster and more orderly. . .

Saw a world of sheep. Sheep is a big industry in Uruguay--perhaps

its biggest. There were also pen after pen of cattle. I never saw

a steer there as good as Oscar Clodfelter's worst one.

If I have worked kilos into pounds and pesos into dollars

correctly, prime steers are selling on the hoof there at the

market at five to six cents per pound, our money. But always

remember they're probably grassers and not the way the Hazlett

boys or Jude Grimes corn feeds them.

Another thing in Montevideo. I've seen a real piece of art, a

bronze piece of statuary "of heroic size." It sets in a park. It

is called La Carreta, and depicts an early settler on a horse

beside a two-wheeled pioneer cart with one big wheel sunk in the

mud plumb down to the axle pulled by one bull and seven steers or

oxen all yoked together, and with a spare ox tied on behind. I

looked to see about that ox. He was an ox and the only possible

criticism I have is that he should have been a cow tied on

behind. Otherwise the thing is perfection to me. The cart slopes

just right, the oxen look hard-worked, the bull like a bull,

thick neck and all, the horse like a thin, tired horse ought to

look, and the man like some men up on Raccoon I've seen in my

time. Only he had on some local trappings my men never had. But

there they are, the man yelling, the bull and oxen set and

straining for every ounce, and all trying like hell to get out.

Maybe that cow was following behind a half quarter or so, and I

failed to see her.

CLEARED FOR BUENOS AIRES

We sailed out at 6 p.m. Dec. 13 for Buenos Aires. In the meantime

the Argentine doctors had come aboard to look us over and sort

out the rots and specks. They, along with our ship's doctor and

some of the officers were in the bar when Sugar Foot and I came

back to ship. One man who had traveled before said they were

being mellowed-up so they wouldn't be too technical with us. If

they were, it took a long time. . . The Purser handed in Sugar

Foot's passport. The doctor found the right page, took one look

at her and stamped her "sound", remarked something about the

beautiful senorita. They are good at that down here--mighty good.

I don't know how many men have kissed her hand to date on

introduction. . .They stamped me next and we were off.

A man from one of those blessed firms met us at B.A., and got us

through customs in record time. Not only that, he got us and our

luggage to a waiting car, and said, "This car and the chauffeur

are at your disposal day and night during your stay in Buenos

Aires, which we hope will be most pleasant. . . Don't hesitate to

ask us for any information."

And here I had been worrying about two extra cartons of

cigarettes all the way from St. Thomas.

We first got settled at the Plaza Hotel and then drove to see

many of the sights. In B.A. they also drive pretty much by horn.

I am told it is the second sized city in the Western Hemisphere--

bigger than Chicago even. Anyway, it is big.

The sights of Buenos Aires are many and varied. About like any

other S.A. city, only bigger. . . The shops are elaborate. . .

Prices are reputedly relatively higher in B.A. than at home. I

sincerely doubt this. I positively do. Especially if you get your

money changed into pesos at what some are willing to give for

American dollars. It may be a bit shady, but it is done rather

openly. Never go to a bank. The banks are pegged. They can give

you 9.3 pesos per dollar. Our blessed friend at the dock warned

us. He told us to have our (get that possessive) chauffeur stop

at one of the cambios, I think they call them, and go in--just

like that. . .We got 15 for 1.

Due to the number of us arriving via S.S. Del Mar, we were not

required to go to the police station to register. The authorities

detailed a man to come to the Plaza Hotel and do the job. . . He

had a big sign, "Silence," on his desk; also a typewriter. He

assumed a very important look, much the same as the one I took on

when the lobbyists began calling me "Senator." The job was soon

over. We received our tourist cards with instructions to carry

them at all times--or else.

JOCKEY'S CLUB--WHERE THE BEEF IS

Beef is the staple food, killed that morning. No self-respecting

Argentine would touch ripened meat or chilled or deep freeze

stuff. He wants it right off the hoof. And yet, I am inclined to

think they want it fairly well-done. Sugar Foot has been having

trouble getting hers rare enough.

The best meat I have had was at the Jockey's Club. Every town

down here seems to have a Jockey's Club. . . All of them are

owned and operated by the same people. Who started them? The

farmers of the Argentine. Away back there these beef growers

began to get rich. Then they got feudal. They were the

Aristocracy of hereabouts. Big holdings and immense herds. Then

they moved to town and took over. Now some of them have gone to

Monte Carlo and Cannes and New York while the overseers and hired

men run the place back home. That is the way I am told. . . To be

a member you have to be one of those farmers. Or else a

descendant of one of those farmers--you've got to have Hereford

blood somewhere in you.

The Club has all the dignity it is possible to have. Marble

floors, big well-spaced tables with large roomy chairs, heavy

dark polished woodwork, immense wide stairways and steps with low

risers, an enormous library with old men in dignified dress

asleep here and there, kinda like English clubs, say.

On Sunday we went to the races at Palermo track. . . We had as

our guests Captain Jones and Purser Stricker of the Del Mar and a

Mrs. Somebody who operates a girls' school in Buenos Aires. The

captain and Mrs. Somebody go to bet on the races, and bet they

did, on every race. I said above that we were hosts. That's

wrong. The good captain had the big thing--access to the Jockey's

Club part of the track, the stand right at the wire. In my

innocence I had asked them as guests. They had accepted as such.

Having sat at table with the good captain for about three weeks,

he had long since gotten my number and what I knew about Palermo

and everything else south of the Putnam County line. He just

bided his time and then let me down as easy as possible. He's

that way.

EVALUATING THE WOMEN

I remember what Claud Smith (now a pious, sedate lawyer and ex-

judge down at Princeton) said once when we had gathered in a room

at Indiana U for the usual talk. In his blunt, matter-of-fact

way, Claud spoke up first. He said, "Well, shall we begin talking

about the girls right off the bat, or gradually lead up to them

like we've been doing?"

So let's talk about these beautiful women down here. They know

how to dress in a striking way. Black-eyed, black-haired with

smooth swarthy complexions. Some are as sinuous and graceful as

all get out. But my observation is that the majority are from

trifling bulky to good and bulky. But you must bear in mind that

I do not see much of the younger set. It is the older women I get

to see most. . . I do not understand Spanish. That is a terrible

handicap. But if they talk as intelligently as they do animatedly

and rapidly, they're honeys.

Nevertheless and notwithstanding, I think I know where the

prettiest women on earth are to be found in the greatest numbers,

and I'll tell you where to see them. Go sit on the Boulder in

East College campus when classes let out and you'll see them.

You'll see more per square inch there than you'll see here per

square rod. If you are too self-conscious or too dignified now to

go sit on the Boulder, then I'll tell you, . . . if we had

brought Miss Bess Robbins and Miss Sedelia Starr down here some

time ago they would have won 99 out of 100 of all the beauty

contests hereabouts. I'll add my sister, Mrs. Margaret D.

Bridges. I thought she was the prettiest girl I ever saw.

OVER THE ANDES BY AIR

On a certain bright morning at 11:15 we started my biggest trial

by fire or whatever the poets call it--going over the Andes in a

flying machine. To me the plane didn't look any too new, or the

paint any too fresh, or the pilot and crew any too much like I

thought high-flying Andes pilots ought to look. The passengers

looked pretty heavy, and there was a world of baggage.

The takeoff was the usual one. We got higher and higher. The

literature on the back of the seat just in front of me was none

too assuring. It said, "If you feel yourself getting sick just

use the strong paper bags in the pocket on the back of the seat

in front of you. Don't feel ashamed. Others before you have used

them," or words to that effect.

We climbed and climbed. From time to time I thought I heard the

engine sputter. We would hit bad going occasionally, the wings

would dip up and down, and my seat would sort of try to get fully

out from under me.

The best way I know to describe the scene is . . . rectangular

straight sided patches of land of varying sizes and colors as far

as one could see: green, purple, dirt color, straw color.

Sometimes I thought there were streams of water. Houses or barns

were mere ballot-sized squares, evidently surrounded with trees

in full leaf. . . Inevitably each town had a plaza with spokes

running out like those of a wagon wheel.

At the foot of the Andes the ground was closer and looked like

the crinkled hide of an elephant. Then came the Andes. Soon there

was plenty of snow. Eventually we passed to one side of Mt.

Aconcagua, the highest peak in South America, 23,000 and some

feet. We must have been 21,000 feet up. Then we saw its glacier,

blue-green and cold. Up there we saw lots of blue-green ice.

In short order we circled over Santiago and landed. Gosh-a-

mighty! Was I glad! We landed at 1:15 p.m., one hour change of

time. It had been a three hour trip. And right there at the

airport was a representative of one of those Heaven-sent U.S.

corporations I've been talking about, ready and willing to take

us and our one remaining jug of St. Thomas rum through the

customs and to the Carrera Hotel.

And now we are going on our big adventure into and among the

unknown. Daughter Joan and her husband, Bill, met a couple in

Paris, France, last whenever it was who are from Nehuentue, in

southern Chile, near the lakes and volcano region. Sight unseen

they have asked us down over Christmas, and sight unseen we are

going. They are of French extraction. Speak Spanish fluently, but

no English. Sugar Foot speaks and understands considerable

Spanish. But what am I to do? How am I to learn where the

bathroom is even--if there is any.

IN CHILE: ROCKY ROADS, BIG 'FARM'

The train from Santiago to Temuco, where we were to meet our

unknown host, is a three or four car diesel train. In English, it

is "The Arrow." All seats are reserved and it is probably an

extra fare train, all first class. The train left at 7:45 and

arrived in Temuco, about 450 kilometers away, at 6:10 p.m.

Going south toward Temuco, we kept in the valley with fair sized

mountains on each side, quite a distance away. Garden truck,

fruit trees and wheat, cattle of European breeds, considerable

dairy stuff, but nary a Hereford. Huasos (Chilean cowboys,

corresponding to the Argentinean gauchos) in their mantas (cloth

blankets with slits in the middle to put the head through) became

common.

Temuco is the biggest city in south Chile, about 65,000. On the

platform we met our host, a clean-cut, energetic young fellow

about 32 years old, and another young fellow who turned out to be

a schoolmate of our host in Paris. Our hostess was home with a

slightly ailing four-month-old boy.

The two men were to take us southeast to Pucon in the lake and

volcano country, 50 kilometers away. The road was a bit rough and

we must hurry because we should see the scenery enroute and then

spend the night in the fine resort hotel at Pucon. Then back next

day to Temuco and thence due west another 80 kilometers or so to

mine host's fundo (farm) near Nehuentue. It was all arranged.

We got in a 1947 Chevrolet that had taken a beating since it left

the factory and started over the road described as "a bit rough"

. . . Man of Samaria! Was that road rough! And did the loose

round rock fly. . . Our car had a special network of steel bolted

to the frame to keep flying rock from damaging the underside. And

7-ply tires--I never heard of them. And most of the time our

speedometer ranged from 45 to 80 kilometers per hour, depending

on how the road looked to our host. He mis-guessed many times.

We had three blowouts on that road to Pucon, and the first one

tore the inner tube all to the devil. We never saw the valve

stem. Our friends donned overalls, spread a piece of thick

material and got under.

The blowouts caused us to change plans. We couldn't make Pucon

and its splendid resort hotel that night, because we might run

out of tires. We would have to stop short about 25 kilometers, at

Villarrica, near a tremendous volcano of that name. Our host knew

a French woman who ran a hotel there. Not much of a hotel for

looks and all of the comforts, but the food would be

exceptionally good. It was.

That late evening was the last time we were to see Villarrica. A

mountain of a volcano, snowclad, it stood high above everything

else, cold, white and still. It appeared shaped like one of the

pyramids of Egypt, except that the top didn't come to so acute an

apex. It erupted last year after a long period of dormancy. It

awed me something like the Grand Canyon of Arizona does. Next day

brought a big haze.

QUEST FOR HOT WATER

That hotel is something to write home about. The evenings and

nights were cold. We wanted a room with twin beds and bath. By

golly, they had it--such as it was. We wanted heat, but that they

didn't have. The bed was too short for me, even sleeping

crosswise.

Next morning I turned on the hot water faucet for shaving. No hot

water. My interpreter, Sugar Foot, was asleep, so I thought I'd

try to make myself understood. I asked the first girl I saw about

hot water. She spoke and gesticulated rapidly, which opened the

flood gates, and five or six more came running. Thus reinforced,

we all ventured back to our room.

They must have forgotten all about any daughter being along. She

was asleep and covered up, head and all. I called her. When she

got unraveled and that head emerged, framed in all those aluminum

and tinware bobby pins, the nearest girl gave a wild-eyed half

shriek. When the baby of the family unwound some more, the girls,

seeing no blood, finally consented to listen. With a something in

Spanish or French that evidently meant, "Oh, that was what he

wanted," the girls filed out. Aura May, in a tone they don't

teach in finishing school, said, "They will bring some hot water

as soon as they can make it."

She gave me a crab-apple look, turned over and wound up again.

In far longer than due time, a long-eared boy brought a pint

container of water. It was just enough to take the chill off the

bottom of the lavatory. And the rubber plug leaked, to boot.

The trip on to Pucon was uneventful, concerning tire trouble. We

were never to have any more. The hotel looked all it was

represented to be. There were few guests. The beach was as bare

as our dry lots after a year of feeding. One motor "put-putted"

out on the lake--30 miles long--but the occupants looked like

they'd prefer being somewhere where steam heat was on. It is true

that the season was just begun--hardly that.

We all four had had enough. We started back to Temuco over that

same road. The day was cold with very poor visibility. Some of

the volcanoes were no doubt smoking like they had for hundreds of

years. We couldn't see them.

Something keeps telling me the weather south of Chile will have

to change to make that hotel a good go. I want none of its stock.

I'd rather have mine in Russellville Bank, and the Lord knows

some of the stock holders think that is bad enough.

TREE FENCES AND OX CARTS

But we did see sights I never knew existed. I'll tell you how

they built fences 50 to 75 years ago. The country was full of big

timber. They wanted less timber and more fences. They cut the

trees into 9 to 10 foot lengths, split the timber into 9 inches

to a foot for thickness, squared the sides, dug long trenches

three to four feet deep, and set these timbers side by side,

close and tight, and then filled in and there was your fence,

horse high, bull strong and pig, yes, chicken-tight, unless they

flew. There are thousands of miles of that kind of fence still

down there, old and moss-covered but still pretty sound and

serviceable. Think of the work and loss of timber that involved.

Another big sight is the oxen and their carts. On this trip most

of them were hauling timber of one sort or another, logs or sawed

stuff. We saw hundreds of oxcarts and oxen. Some carts had

spokes, steel tires, steel axles and metal fellers, or whatever

it is the axles fit into. Many of them had wheels made of round

logs with no metal tires or other metal about them. The axles ran

through holes in the bare wood. They were the primitive kind, but

there were hundreds of them.

WORLDS OF CASTE

All the time we were passing huasos in their mantas astride their

horses--hundreds of them. There were so many they almost got

monotonous. Never was a "hello" said, or an arm lifted in

salutation. We were in a car, and that was enough. Worlds of

caste separated them from us.

The back track to Temuco was about the same. We missed a few of

our original boulders but made up for it with new ones. To be

sure, much of the little stuff, say from four inches down, we had

shot from under the tires out into the wheat fields and pastures,

so it was out of our way, but that was only a fraction of the

available material.

We headed west from Temuco toward the Pacific. The road was to be

about like it had been for some 55 kilometers and then get

"rather bad at times from there on." The "bad roads" turned out

to be dirt roads with big chuck holes.

We entered the Mapucha Indian country. They live in thatched

shanties and lean-tos, some in sort of caves they had dug in

steep banks along the roadside. There were plenty of dogs and

children. Once, at some distance, I saw a lot of smoke coming out

all over a roof. I thought the place was on fire, but our host,

by way of our interpreter, Aura May, said roofs are made to let

out smoke. An Indian builds his fire on the floor in the middle

of the house. I suppose the rain comes in the same way the smoke

goes out.

A WHALE OF A FUNDO

The big moment came: We were at the home of our host and hostess.

The big white house sits on a round natural knoll, the top of

which is about 100 feet above the surrounding ground. Flower

gardens practically surround the house and are about as well kept

and beautiful as any you will see anywhere; some mighty tall

eucalyptus trees; a fine cement tennis court with a judge's stand

and seats all around for spectators; double garage; a long,

turning, bowered walk leading from the base of the hill up to the

front door, the bower made of trimmed and trained small sycamore

trees.

A fundo in Chile corresponds to an Argentinean estancia--a big

farm to a whale of a big farm. This fundo has some 3,000 acres.

He has another down the road back toward Temuco. Fundo No. 1 has

a big Delco lighting system, so you know what that means--three

or four all time men.

I shall not try to account for the army of men and women this

"fundoist" (let's just coin another new word) employs, but I'll

give you a rough idea. He pays off through a window of his office

in the house. From about one or two p.m. to five o'clock that

Saturday, when he and his overseer knocked off for tea, they had

paid 62 men and women. After tea they went back at it and then

again after dinner. I was never told the full count.

He always has a long list of potential employees. He is good pay.

And yet I know a smallish man back home who gets exactly 10 times

the money that this man pays his overseer per month. Now maybe

you can begin to account for those beautiful gardens, those

precision trimmed hedges, that spick and span house, those neat

walks, weedless lawn, splendidly cooked meals faultlessly served,

and so ad infinituma seeming inexhaustible supply of fabulously

cheap man and woman power by our standards. Not so much down here

by Chilean standards, in Chilean money, made in Chile.

Our room in the Carrera Hotel in Santiago with twin beds, tub and

shower, service galore, large, airy and well-appointed in every

way, on the 14th floor with French windows and magnificent view--

a splendid room in probably the biggest and best hotel in town--

cost us 606 pesos per day, sales tax and tips included. In our

money, as we exchanged it, that means $6.06. Even a Durham

wouldn't kick on that.

We will get back to the fundo and go out the front door, make a

right angle and have a look. Below and directly in front are the

barns, barn lots, drives, pens, slaughterhouse, enormous two

story wheat granary, potato houses, stables, sheds, blacksmith

shop, lumber room and sawmill pretty well equipped to make any

wooden thing a farm needs, the Delco building, the flour mill,

the cheese factory and probably a lot of other "small stuff' like

that.

He had six riding horses in one stable when I looked in. Two of

them were thoroughbred Chilean horses he seemed rather proud of,

although he is extremely modest about what he owns. Aura May went

riding to the nearby Indian town and back on the big hills,

taking a look at the Pacific Ocean off there to the west about

two miles.

Beyond the aforementioned barns and so forth is the highway, and

beyond that is near 2,000 acres of about the finest bottom land

in all Chile. It is supreme. It extends over a mile to the river

and almost three miles up and down, to a very small town,

Nehuentue, his post office. The river is rather narrow, but deep

and navigable--salt water up past him, and with a small tide, say

two feet. He has his own private dock on the river where he loads

his wheat, potatoes, cattle, sheep and whatever else he may want

to ship.

He appears to think his livestock is a small part of the fundo.

And yet, when he got the idea I thought a good deal of cattle, he

took Sugar Foot and me into a pasture of an excellent sort of

strange grass where he had 50 or 60 grassers he expected to weigh

1,000 pounds by cold weather--next July or August. They were of

all colors and duo colors, but good boned, uniform, and in good

flesh--the best I had seen. I saw perhaps another 300 animals, 40

or 50 good-sized hogs and a good many sheep. And still, he isn't

in the livestock business--much.

THE MISSING PURSE

Early Christmas Day afternoon, we started to Temuco to catch the

train back to Santiago. We had one of the four compartments on

that long steam locomotived train, which arrived in Santiago the

next morning at 10 a.m.

We stepped jauntily into a well worn taxi and started for the

Carrera Hotel when Aura May jumped straight up. Where was her

purse, her passport, over $300 in U.S. currency, about 3,000

pesos in Chilean money, the ship tickets to Panama, the flying

machine tickets to Los Angeles, her hair tinware and other

feminine goods and wares too numerous to mention? We got the

driver turned around and back. The train was still standing in

the shed. I had to watch the baggage to save what we had left.

Aura May took off like a teal at Le Pas, Manitoba, five days

after opening day. She flew past the gate man like he wasn't

there. Gate men seem to know when women mean business. The last I

saw, she was headed down the right platform.

To me a long time elapsed. . . Then here she came--with the

purse, shoulder sling and all, intact except for a few hundred

pesos she, in her gratitude, had scattered to whomsoever would

take them.

The porter had promptly taken the purse to his superior. . . If

you ever again hear me speak ill of Chilean porters, call my

attention to this item of my experience.

SHIPBOARD TO LIMA

The train ride to Valpariso, first down the valley, then over and

through mountains took something over three hours. We arrived

shortly after 11 a.m. Grace Line representatives at Santiago had

assured us our ship, the Santa Cecilia, would not sail until 2

p.m. or later. On arrival . . . at the accommodation ladder,

three coated officers said the ship sails at noon. We sailed

almost immediately, headed for Callao, port city of Lima. We were

first going south to San Antonio to pick up some copper, 44 tons

(not gallons) of whiskey and 8 tons of brandy.

I knew we were to spend New Year's day on shipboard, but didn't

think it would take that much.

This ship accommodates only 50 passengers approximately, and is

more of a cargo ship than a passenger. Her length is just about

450 feet. The accommodations are excellent.

That evening at dinner found us again safely ensconced at the

captain's table, only this time it is a table for four, whereas

the Del Mar accommodates six. Capt. Tierney of San Francisco and

New York presides.

We headed back north. Our first stop was Antofagasta, Chile,

north of Valpariso. We arrived in the early morning. We were to

take on 1,900 tons of Anaconda 99+ percent copper for New York.

It would take all day. We were to sail at 6 p.m. New Year's eve.

We were free for the day.

TOO MUCH MONEY

By miscalculation of some sort we were hundreds of pesos too

much. Here was our last chance to get rid of them. Sugar Foot and

I footed it around to the main part of town to buy most anything

worthwhile, small and light, and to mail some letters.

The mailing of letters, with reasonable assurance of their

arrival at destination, is a real chore. You must go to the post

office. So far as I know, post offices are always crowded down

here. In the confusion of a foreign language you must first

select the correct windows in the correct order, especially if

you want to register and air mail your letters. If you send by

regular mail, the addressees will be confined to wheel chairs ere

the arrival of such mail.

We looked and looked to spend all those extra pesos. She saw

nothing whatsoever. We did buy the Dec. 26th Latin-American

edition of Time in English for 35 pesos, but that didn't make a

dent in our sheaves of Chilean money.

Then she had a brilliant idea. "Tonight is New Year's Eve. Let's

buy some Chilean champagne and burgundy for the table tonight. We

still have three more nights on shipboard to use any surplus."

Two fairly heavy packages and two boys to carry them about solved

our peso problem.

Well, about 9 p.m. it was announced--just like that--the captain

was giving a dance and New Year's party.

New Year's Day, 1950, our first and only stop was Ilo, Peru,

where we took on 47 tons of canned tuna fish. Some five miles

out, going to Ilo, I saw drove after drove of . . . guano birds.

I had seen the snowlike tops of the rocks on shore in the

distance. Guano is a fertilizer and big business down here. If it

hadn't been for the guano birds there would have been no Grace

Lines, now 100 years old.

Most of the west coast of South America is a desolate place.

Mountains of brown bare earth and rock rise and stretch inland,

parallel to the coast. It just never rains. The cold Humboldt

stream sees to that. The sun shines hot, but the air is cold,

even in mid-day. The towns and cities look dusty and worn, like

the dry sections of the U.S. Lots of adobe-looking buildings. The

whole country is drier than a rambo apple.

WHERE INQUISITION 'RELIEVED' THE RICH

We docked at Callao about 6 a.m. Jan 2 for a week's stay in Lima.

The Tagle Torre must have been a sort of Foreign Ministry. It was

built about 1735, as it had tile of that date in the walls. There

is a lot of brown spindled wood in its make-up, both inside and

outside. All about are tremendously large heavy gold leaf

mirrors. A big oil painting of Pizarro, conqueror of Peru, hangs

on the wall. Just inside the patio is a monster reared-up lion's

head with a beam at the top. From this beam scales were suspended

to weigh gold and silver they took from the Indians, or the

subjects, or both, to send to Spain. Anyway, every thing of value

that was loose or could be pried loose, went to Spain.

The next stop was the Palacio de la Inquisicion. Here is where

they held the inquisitions. The idea was to "inquisite" rich men,

the richer the better, and the more the "take" would be. They

never let facts or the truth interfere in the least. Not in the

slightest degree. And so they fabricated charges out of thin air

and without element of truth whatsoever, against any man,

provided he was rich. . . Cut off his head, confiscate his lands,

sell off the Herefords and the old mule team, take their 10

percent "cut" and send the balance to Spain. They never fooled

with poor people. They were like Robin Hood, only far more so.

A VISIT TO THE INCA RUINS

The city has a museum of Inca civilization and it is a honey.

Many original big long pointed stones with their carvings have

been removed from in front of the temples, brought down and set

up here. Big and little stones of very hard structure were worked

into human heads, dogs, cats and so forth. Mummies, burial sacks,

elaborate and fine fabrics of wearing apparel are everywhere.

There are thousands of square feet of pottery of every shape, and

still showing the original delicate colors. It would take weeks

to even take a rather hurried look at the things that museum

contains. Incas were a great and cultured people.

The closest ruins to Lima are the Pachacamac ruins, 32 kilometers

away. We drove there one afternoon. High up was what was left of

the Temple to the Sun. They are always on the highest ground as

the sun cut more of a figure with the Incas than anything else. .

. We drove through the narrow streets of the town, with the stone

walls of the stores or houses rising high above us on either side

as far as cars were permitted, or could go, almost to the walls.

There was our temple in a pretty bad condition of decay. These

ruins had long been sacked. Part of the findings was in the

museum I told you about. The crumbling walls and stairways and

moats(?) were of stone carefully and symmetrically made and laid.

The main stairway would allow five or six to go abreast. It had

sharp angles every so often, and high walls, the better to

protect and defend in case of attack, probably. Higher up it had

no walls, just steps after steps and paths always leading higher.

We got to the top-acres of it. Sand and ruins.

Over toward "town," and to one side and much lower were the ruins

of the Temple to the Moon. It is being restored. . .You can see

the original round wooden poles in perfect preservation. It never

rains. But there is so much restoration there is little original

left. Inside the temple is the original square bath(?) made good

and tight of shaped stone. It holds muddy water with fish

flopping now and then.

I suggested driving to the big Inca ruins--about like I'd suggest

driving to Shawnee Mound near Wingate--but it is considerably

over 1,000 kilometers from here, eight or nine thousand feet up

in the mountains toward Bolivia. You either take a train, which

is a very hard ride, or go by plane. In any event, it takes about

a week if you want to see any considerable part of the ruins--

there is something about plane schedules that interferes. And so,

I shall never get to see the great big Inca ruins.

We were introduced to a young lady who was born right at the big

Inca ruins. This young lady, who has lived here since she was

seven, has a father who manufactures some kind of the finest of

all fine wools, I think up there at the ruins. Anyway, he goes

back and forth about every 15 days. Our young lady herself has

found some minor pieces of Inca stuff. Her father has found many.

And her grandpa got pretty well off finding and peddling Inca

stuff, like Mutiny's Grandpa Wells did making and peddling wheat

fans at black market prices.

STREET NOISES AND GAMES

Our "fleet" of rooms is the noisiest place in town. And that is

saying something. One night long after midnight I sat at one of

these windows in my sleeping outfit looking at the crowd (yes, a

crowd), thinking and trying to count the different noises. I was

also thinking about my creditors, and how I was now getting

closer and closer to them, and sooner or later, I'd have to face

them. Well, what I have remaining in money value is getting

pretty low. As to the noises, I got up to 14 but there are lots

more than that. The honks, street cars and newsboys drown out the

culls and low grade noises.

As Aura May has disappeared more and more from her father's side,

he has ventured more and more in the marts of trade and commerce.

About the first venture here was into the banana situation. I had

seen push carts of fruit everywhere. Close observation, at a

discreet distance, disclosed customers bought, peeled and ate the

fruit and then dropped the peels in a receptacle on the cart. I

could do that. I did.

Lightning calculation disclosed I was paying about two cents

American each for the biggest ones. A young Indian had preceded

me. I offered him one. He accepted. Word got over the grape vine.

My clientele increased, and there we stood blithely peeling and

eating and aiming at the waste basket. Aura May would have been

ashamed for me. When a client missed, I cut him off the list.

They caught onto that easily although no English was spoken

except by me. The adventure cost me a full 90 cents. Try having

fun buying 90 cents worth of bananas back home.

FALSE CROSSES ABOUND

The Grace Line decided to sail the Santa Margarita a day early

(Jan. 9). That can be accounted for in that these ships are for

cargo first, and secondarily for passengers. We sailed at 8 p.m.

promptly. No, my friends. We are not at the captain's table, but

we are doing our level best.

In my opinion to date, the Southern Cross is among the most

overestimated sights down this way. Counting all three ships, I

have been shown four or five Southern Crosses, all different, and

at least a pair of False Crosses. From our patio outside the

French doors of the hotel in Buenos Aires, I had picked out what

I thought was the real thing, and was pretty well satisfied. Now

I'm not so sure.

Last night, for instance, I was out alone and had selected my

Southern Cross for the evening. . . Along came one of the seamen

and I asked him to show me the Southern Cross. He said, "It is

below the horizon now. It might be visible just before daylight."

Today the sea was calm and it is that way tonight. Today, by Act

of Providence I won a shuffleboard game from the steward. That is

about the first since the man with heart trouble who voted for

Garfield defaulted to me off Brazil somewhere.

We arrived at Paita, Peru, Jan. 11, and anchored off shore about

a half mile in 160 feet of water. We began loading from a sizable

ship bearing the U.S. flag, named Washington Star, 40 tons of

decapitated frozen tuna, weighing 20 to 60 pounds each, and

cotton from the interior. Around us are row boats peddling

bananas, mangos, alligator pears, wool blankets, silverware,

leather boots, and "authentic Inca relics made down the coast,"

the owner of the Washington Star tells me. Some of the "art"

figures are not to be found in D.A.R. collections. Two New Jersey

doctors bought out the entire stock.

SHIP'S WHISTLE MARKS CROSSING OF EQUATOR

At Sea

January 13, 1950

We are just now crossing the Equator northbound. One long blast

announced our crossing. The temperature of the sea water is 78

degrees.

The 40-mile trip "up the river" to Guayaquil, principal port of

Ecuador, was made in a Grace Line yacht, Santa Rosita, formerly a

submarine chaser powered by a General Motors diesel capable of 27

knots. She is fast. She has to be. The Guayas River is not only

fast but seems to cover about all outdoors hereabout. It takes

power to buck the river's current. And when the tide is running

out it takes still more power.

Guayaquil is a pretty rusty looking city to me. The population is

about 250,000. The rain had stopped before our arrival. The day

was cloudy, but it was very, very hot and humid nonetheless. The

town was full of pushcart and sidewalk salesmen, all sorts of

outdoor food sales and the ever-present Coca Cola. Our hats are

off to the Coca Cola people. Perhaps in only one or two places in

far south Chile were we without the jurisdiction of a "refreshing

pause."

Here were bananas and pineapples galore. A vendor would take an

18 to 20-inch pineapple by the stalk, pare off the outer shell

quite deftly, slice it crosswise, and sell it by the slice at the

end of a long sharp butcher knife. I don't know the price,

probably two slices for a cent. Foreigners are told to lay off

food here on the streets.

Practically all shops and stores are open air affairs. You just

walk in and there you are among the dry goods. All have more or

less useless trinkets. The small rooms are crowded to

suffocation, with no room to turn around in. Panama hats are a

staple. . . On the other hand, all shopkeepers and salesmen were

courteous, attentive and tried to help. No high pressure

salesmanship anywhere as you and I know it.

In one shop, a woman was carefully watching me. I thought it was

to keep me from filching one or more articles. But no. She

finally had the audacity to touch me lightly where the old wallet

should be, and the proprietor spoke up, "My wife wants to know if

the senor will tell us where he got his suit of clothes, and how

much he paid for it?" Seeing my chance to try to repay Haspel,

the maker, who had gone to the trouble to send several different

styles to the store across the street from the Roosevelt Hotel in

New Orleans, I peeled off my coat and wrote down everything in

the label except the number of the patent. And so, Messrs. Haspel

up there in New Orleans, if a prepaid order comes from Guayaquil

at the retail price of $22.50, please remember I am your

"drummer" without portfolio and that I am not adverse to an

unreasonable commission.

Coming back down the river to the ship, the passengers got into a

general discussion of what they had seen and what they enjoyed.

Some liked one thing and some another. But the consensus seemed

to center on the beautiful, graceful and elaborate marble

tombstones and mausoleums at the cemetery. So next time when in

Guayaquil, go out and have a look at its No. 1 attraction.

Of the present passenger list, one of the most interesting to me

is a piano playing timber buyer, or let us say, a timber buying

piano player. I have seen a great many piano players and lots of

timber buyers in my time, but this, I think, is the first

combination of the two professions in any one man I have had the

good fortune to encounter. The load he carries must be Herculean.

At one time I was a piano player. That was after father and I

decided the life of a pool expert was not the life for me. At the

zenith of my interpretation and rending of the masters I was also

enrolled in college, but even my best friends on the faculty were

unanimous in agreeing I was not both a student and a piano

player.

My new friend buys balsa by the ship load and sends it to the

U.S. and England. We talked about walnut, oak, mahogany and then

some Brazil and South American heavy woods. He got red oak mixed

up with California redwood. We got that straightened out. Some

enterprising Californians had inveigled him into buying some big

red oak (redwood) wine casks and selling them to Chilean

vintners. He got run out of Chile for that. "Baad taazt. No

goot."

I finally worked out his pedigree. He was a Czech. A real

pianist, he had played in Prague, Zurich, Vienna and all around.

When World War II started, he started looking for a new home. He

became a refugee and finally wound up in Guayaquil, where he

expected to teach piano. That was optimism supreme.

COFFEE BY THE TON, NOT CUPFUL

Buenaventura, Colombia

Jan. 14, 15, 16, 1950

We have gone into the coffee business in a rather big way. We are

to take on 43,000 bags, about 150 pounds to the bag. That makes

over 3,200 tons, or more than enough to run Margaret and Frances

over Labor Day.

This town has perhaps 30,000 population. Some tell me it has

65,000, some as low as 10,000. You guess. I went around into

town. It is about like Guayaquil on a smaller scale. A native who

is employed by Grace Line told me he was half Indian--his mother

a full-blooded Indian--I don't know what the other half is.

Colombia, according to him, is 60 percent Negro and 10 percent

white. Spanish is the language.

It happened here in Buenaventura, of all places, and on

shipboard. Something was said about Greencastle, Ind. A young

Mrs. Burt and her husband were returning to the states after six

years with the Kennicott Copper Co. in Chile. Mrs. Burt heard the

remark and said her father and mother were both born in or near

Greencastle. His name was Jack Reeves. He taught in the grade

school in Greencastle. His mother was a Schafer. We knew her

uncle, Frank Schafer.

We are tardy. We were to have sailed last evening (Sunday) at 6,

then 9 p.m., then 6 a.m. today, then 9 a.m. The reason for the

delay was too much coffee to load--and rain. I am told it rains

here every day and that the annual rainfall is 360 odd inches.

We got away at 10 a.m. We are now on the high seas headed for

where the Pacific discovered Balboa.

HOT TIMES IN THE CANAL ZONE

Canal Zone Jan. 18-21, 1950

To The Graphic,

Greencastle, Ind.

The ride to the Canal Zone was uneventful. Enroute, the question

arose whether to stay with the ship and ride through the locks

and canal to the east side to Cristobal, or to get off at Balboa

and hunt our way to the Tivoli Hotel, as originally planned.

Two New Jersey doctors and their wives, the timber buying piano

player and his wife and some of the ship's officers advised

staying with the ship and then coming back here by train or bus,

as suited best. Mr. and Mrs. Burt (nee Reeves) were also for

sticking with the ship. All the women were going shopping on the

Atlantic side for linens, ivory and oriental silks, etc. "at

wonderful prices" (and they were--Tiffany prices). Then after

dinner everybody was to go to a night club the two doctors' wives

knew about. The ship's officers were ignored as to sailing time

and matters of other unimportance to Grace Line stockholders.

We reversed ourselves and stayed with the ship.

TO THE ATLANTIC BY SHIP

I shall not try to describe the feats of engineering the building

of the Panama Canal involved: Ridding the place of mosquitoes and

malaria; damming the outlet of a river so the mean level of the

new, partly man-made lake would be about 87 feet above the

Atlantic and Pacific Oceans; making cuts of 100 feet or more in

solid rock; dredging the channel so our ship drawing almost 30

feet could steam through.

Three giant locks on the Pacific side lifted us almost 30 feet

per lock, so at the third lock we could sail out into first a

winding canal and then into that tremendous lake whose new level

left thousands of islands of its former jungle hill tops in size

all the way from a few square feet to hundreds and probably

thousands of acres. Studded all along were thousands of dead bare

tree trunks and forks still sticking up out of the water, and

some of those trees went by us not any too far off.

Entering an approach to the first lock, six electric "mules"

(three on each side) would take hold of us by heavy wire cables,

get us midway from the sides of the giant cement walls. We would

creep along into the lock proper. There we were, way down there

below the surface of the lock, with a monster set of double steel

doors ahead barring our further progress. Another pair of steel

doors would close behind us. No way to get out. Then the water

below started bubbling and we started rising.

The way that lock filled with water was a marvel. All the

Baptists in the Southern jurisdiction pumping simultaneously

wouldn't have raised us the first foot in an hour. A young fellow

standing at the rail with me said it took eight or 10 minutes

and, after a rapid mental calculation, three million cubic feet

of water. I made it 20 minutes and three billion cubic feet of

water. The young man said he worked at the locks. Let's give him

the benefit. So when I get home don't come bringing me a lot of

authentic figures.

We got out into the canal and on into the lake and to the

Atlantic locks, where the process was reversed and we were

lowered about 87 feet. We docked after 7 p.m. We had started in

about 9:30 a.m.

Now, for my advice. Go through it once by all means. Then never

repeat. It becomes very monotonous and very hot. At times we only

crept. The high temperature yesterday was 89. The low last night

77.

We went down the gang plank alone and unattended and into the

early night and the arms of customs. He slapped on five blobs of

glue, five stickers at the few remaining places for stickers and

added five banker's initials and pronounced us pure and

undefiled.

A Grace Line representative called and made a reservation for us

at the Washington Hotel. An eager taxi cab driver loaded us and

off we went.

All along I had been amazed at the size of the linen in South

American hotel rooms. Some bath towels were as long as I was. At

the Washington Hotel we got out of the 5x6 foot bath towel area.

The cotton manufacturers hereabouts must have lost control over

the Legislature.

We hied ourselves to the shopping rendezvous, with Aura May in

the lead. With true feminine instinct and bird dog accuracy she

never faltered a step as we hotfooted it down to the "shopping

district" of a strange town. She said, "They should be right

along about here." And sure enough, there, three doors on down,

they were--every one of them--the two doctors' wives buried under

the two biggest tablecloths. . .

Trading slowed down. The ship's passengers went back to stow

packages and get ready to night club. They were to come to the

Washington and pick up A.M. Nothing was said about me. They never

came. The Santa Margarita, faithful to the winds of commerce,

sailed at midnight.

The night before we had been put to sleep by the gentle roll of

the Pacific. That night we went to sleep with the Atlantic

beating at the foundations of our hotel--almost.

TO THE PACIFIC BY RAIL

I knew the general manager of the Panama Railway. Met him through

a college friend. . . The railroad people gave us passes. They

would send the railroad "jitney" to our hotel to pick up the

baggage and us to catch the 12 o'clock train for Balboa. They

would have a van at Balboa to take us to the Tivoli hotel.

The train ride of 30 miles took about one and a quarter hours--

diesel power. We came first class. The right-of-way was bound by

wild banana, reed and semi-jungle. The road had a good many

bridges, cuts, curves, considerable grade and evidently cost a

good deal of money. No featherbedding, I was told, like our roads

unfortunately have.

We stepped off the train at Balboa and into a car chauffeured by

a cap with three letters on it; drove four or five blocks and

when we got out at the Hotel Tivoli we were in Ancon. And right

down there a block at the foot of the hill is Panama City--the

relatively new Panama.

Where oh where have our two-letter corporation guardians gone?

Those alleged evaders of the anti-trust laws, who have so

faithfully shepherded us these thousands of miles through the

mazes of Portuguese and Spanish gyrations and possible

malefactions?

We registered and A.M. asked for mail. There was none.

"Are you sure."

"Yes!"

"Haven't we had a reservation here for two months?"

"No."

"Sure?"

"Yes!"

Later I came down and went through the same procedure with

another man, with the same results. Not satisfied, I tackled

another clerk. He went through the books. Yes, we had had a

reservation, but hadn't shown up the proper day. "Any mail?" He

rummaged around and threw out a handful, all but one for A.M., .

. . also a card noting we had not arrived as per schedule and if

we should arrive later to call a certain number.

We did. He was the faithful manager of one of our two faithful

conservators. He came around and took us sight-seeing: Through

the slums, good residential sections, up and down narrow crowded

one-way streets and the Broadway of Panama (Fifth Avenue) past

the Oriental stores.

RUINS OF OLD PANAMA

He took us out to the ruins of old Panama--the original Panama.

It is on a bluff seven or eight miles up the Pacific to the left

of present Panama. The monks who laid it out had an eye to

safety. Up there the Pacific deepens very slowly from the shore.

The bottom is mud and a sort of quicksand. You can drag one leg

after another out nearly a half mile before you get over your

head. Invasion ships would have to anchor a long way out, and

that would give the town more time to get ready for the assault.

On each side and in back was impenetrable jungle.

In about 1560 they built a wooden church. It burned down. They

built another and it burned. Then they really built a church--of

stone. The walls of one part of that church still stand, say 60

feet high. Then a convent. Things were really going good. The

town prospered and everybody was safe.

In 100 years or so here comes Henry Morgan. He really knew how to

set a fire. He pillaged, killed, sacked and burned things--

completely. He did such a complete job the monks lost heart and

came to the present Panama and set out building again.

Old Panama is a shambles. Pieces of stone wall stand out

everywhere, as do crumbled stone pillars of foundations. All is

desolation. The ruins, I am told, extend far back into the

present jungle. Nobody seems to care to preserve what is left. We

drove the car into the convent. There were the square holes where

floor supports of wooden beams used to enter.

We don't particularly like this hotel. It is a mammoth sort of a

wooden building. Big rooms, high ceiling, big doors, big windows,

big halls, big slow elevator, big bathrooms, all of wood and

everything could stand painting. Somehow I feel if the termites

would let go hands, the place would crumble. We are on the third

floor and I hope no Henry Morgan comes along.

Sightseeing, we passed government buildings, government

tile-roofed homes for canal workers and PXs. Whenever you see

government property you see order and paint. You fellers up there

are paying for it.

We went to the San Jose Church, one of the oldest in Panama. It

contains the gold altar the priests painted black on the occasion

of an invasion. The invaders thought it had no value and left it

alone. It looked to me like it had a lot of gold leaf somebody

had overlooked intentionally.

We went to where "Congress" was in session. Senators in white

suits had their heads stuck out windows and were conversing in

low important tones. Inside, one Senator was gesticulating and

yelling at the top of his voice how he had saved and now was

again saving the glorious country of Panama from bankruptcy and

ruin. Our host, who knew heated Spanish, said the oratory had

something to do with another sizable raise in salary.

HUNTING FOR SHOE LACES

Our last day, A.M. decided to do some shopping on foot and by

herself. I made final preparations for our flight early in the

morning to Mexico City. This done, I also went out on my own but

not for the same purpose.

I had the National City Bank of New York branch bank in mind as

one of my objectives; a bowl of Yardley's shaving soap as

another; a shoe shine and a pair of shoe laces as two others. It

is remarkable how many stores you can get into with good grace

with that combination, if you are always careful to ask for the

thing you feel sure they don't have. That opens the way

gracefully for a pleasant conversation.

I gained friendly entrance to a world of places looking for the

shaving soap, before I unexpectedly found it. That left the bank

and the shoe laces to attain. The bank was a certainty, but in

due time I actually became worried about brown shoe laces. I had

asked in vain at too many places. Then all of a sudden my

troubles were over--on ahead half a block was a sign, Florsheim

Shoes.

I went to about where I thought shoe laces were located and asked

the man for a pair of brown shoe laces. He answered he had none.

He had black and white laces, but no browns. Brown shoes were

outdated and always had been outdated. They were a thing a man of

today was not using. The truth, so help me.

Shortly thereafter, still shoelaceless, I came to the National

City branch, went in, introduced myself as a banker representing

a bank that had had an account with the parent bank for over 50

years. The manager, a Mr. Cramer, was originally from Vermont,

and therefore a hard man to crack, but the 50 years and the brown

shoe lace trouble did the trick. He took me to lunch at the Union

Club, a pretty nifty club quite near his bank and right against

the Pacific Ocean. When we arrived the tide was out and the

city's big cement sewer tiles were exposed for a quarter of a

mile out. After lunch, which was delayed by three or four

different kinds of rum, the rum or something had pulled the tide

in and all the tiles were covered with water.

We got the brown shoe laces at a cobbler's shop, but they did

have to dig under a big pile of old scrap leather and shoe shop

saw dust to get them.

THE OLD SPANISH TRAIL

In late mid-afternoon our big corporation host and his wife came

to take us to one of the nearby jungles about 20 miles out. Not

big like the Brazilian jungles, but thick as a new bride's potato

peelings. The new highway now crosses the old Spanish Trail,

which is in a part of that jungle. The Trail was laid out to

cross the isthmus to get to the Atlantic. And there it was, round

rocks and all. Not in good repair, of course, but a trace of what

it once was.

The Trail was made for a purpose. The Spaniards would go down to

Peru and rob the Incas. Then they would make slaves of some of

them and bring them and the gold and other loot by ship to

Panama. Then make the slaves carry the booty over that Trail to

Puerto Bello on the Atlantic side, where the king's

representatives would take their "cut". The balance went to

Spain, as I have heretofore told you.

Our host wanted us to try some coconut water when we got back to

town. The proprietor took two green coconuts out of the box, cut

the ends off of each with a hatchet, reamed out a core into the

hollow inside where the water is, set the nuts on the table and

stuck soda water straws in the holes. The rest was up to us. . .

It isn't particularly bad. There isn't much taste to it. Sort of

insipid, like water in southwest Kansas in summer.

WEST POINT CONNECTION

Our host took us to his home. I knew all along there was a good

deal to this young fellow. His conversation was too bright and

keen. His wit was too original, and to the point. . . But the

house! Holy Nellie, what a house!! I presume it was his father's.

However that may be, our host and his wife also lived there.

Wrought iron grillwork, tile floors, furniture, rugs, silver and

china tableware, oil paintings.

I shall try to describe just one item--a heavy, closely and

beautifully woven wool rug that hung on one of the big walls. It

had to be about 20x14 or 16 feet, and perhaps two inches thick.

It was a reproduction of the Seal of West Point--eagle, arrows,

colors and all. The names of the father and three boys were woven

in the rug. It was made by Ecuador Indians who had only a post

card to guide them, together with dimensions supplied by the

father. Those Indians could not read and were otherwise as

primitive as could be. But they knew how to weave and they knew

their colors and keen eyes gave them the proportions.

Let me give you a part of the fellow's pedigree, verified by a

banker of good repute--if the latter is possible. He, his two

brothers and his father are all graduates of West Point. His

father was ambassador to the United States from Ecuador. And his

paternal grandfather was a former president of the Republic of

Ecuador.

THE HAZARDS OF FLIGHT

Yesterday (Jan. 21) we flew from Panama City. It took all day.

The going was bad enough all along, but over high ridges and

mountains or deep valleys it overdid things way too far. Somebody

said wind currents caused it.

Then too, I saw what I thought were three loose screws sticking

up on the wing on my side. I watched them closely, what time I

wasn't getting things back level or watching that infernal

electric sign up ahead that advised, "Tighten seat belt." It was

the only honest thing about the ship--it never overstated.

The loose screws worried me considerably, so I went over and

looked at the other wing, but they had them over there too. All

looked of the same size, spaced alike, and equally rusted, so I

didn't move over. One side was as good as the other.

GUM FOR THE EARS

Going up and coming down they gave us gum to chew. In a place

such as I was, I always obeyed the stewardess or anybody in a

blue suit and white cap. Chewing gum would, along with yawning,

keep our ears from stopping up--maybe. Something went wrong. All

of a sudden it came to me that everything had become absolutely

quiet, like walking around in new snow. I listened for the roar

of the motors. They had stopped. We were in a pickle. I turned to

Aura May and said something, but I couldn't hear what I said.

It took a lot of gum chewing, yawning and calisthenics at the

next stop to get partially unstopped. And my jaws are tired and

sore. I'm not a regular gum-chewer.

We got off the ground early in the morning, circled over Panama

City and the ocean, then back over land and a densely forested

area. The tree tops looked like closely packed mushroom buttons,

only the colors were varying shades of green. I couldn't see a

field, road or house, and only rarely a stream.

Our first stop was at Managua, capital of Nicaragua. We went over

Lake Nicaragua, a big lake.

We set down next at San Salvador. We approached it over

comparatively level terrain. Thatched houses and cultivated

fields were thick. The airport was as neat and nice as I have

seen. It served coffee and shoeshines free. But I almost got

caught.

Alligator bags are the vogue there. Aura May rather liked one.

Just to test the man I asked the price. To my amazement he said

$18. I said too much. He said, "What you give?" I said, $10.

Before it was over, he was down to $12.50 and I was getting

panicky. He was too close. I shook my head. He shook his. I left

without looking back and never did go around that part of the

building thereafter.

PALACE AND MARKET

We next set down at Guatemala, with a two and a half hour wait.

We hired a taxi and went to town. Enroute we passed two small

coffee plantations. The driver told us Guatemala coffee was the

finest in the world. They said the same thing at Santos and

everywhere else, particularly Buenaventura and its mocha coffee.

We went to the presidential palace and got in. It's a fine place

for the size and wealth of the country. Particularly the tile and

stained glass murals depicting historical scenes of Guatemala.

Splendid features were enormous glass chandeliers with prismatic

glass tassels, and mahogany woodwork and floors of the banquet

and reception rooms. The outside walls and windows had

considerable bullet marks depicting the various revolutions the

country had undergone. Also something to see is the one-piece

table-top, sides, lower shelf and legs, with its intricate

carvings, behind which the dictator of the day presides,

listening to the wham of bullets outside.

The hillside Indian market took my eye. I yelled, "Whoa," and

jumped out and got right in among them--kids, dogs, squatting

women, tied-up hens, herbs, overripe bananas and other fruits,

baskets, blankets, dolls, piles of yams, some pretty bony meats

and a world of other things. To progress, you had to step over,

through or around whatever was in front of you. I was making fair

progress when our wild-eyed driver caught up and told me it was

no place for me to be. My English caught the ear of a nearby

fellow who had lost his wife and kid somewhere in the market. He

was a House of God missionary from near Abilene, Texas, and had

been down almost a month. We hit it up fine. The driver shrugged

his shoulders and followed along. For my part, I had a pretty

good time. The trip cost me five dimes and three nickels. I kept

the quarter, had a good following, and everybody was on my side

except the driver.

JUST SIGN ON THE LINE

At the airport I ran into more trouble. The manager was paging me

in an accent I never heard before. Aura May caught it. He told me

a bottle of whiskey had broken in one of our bags and had leaked

all over everything near. They didn't know what damage had been

done or how I had broken the bottle.

"How I had broken the bottle?" I said. "Besides, I had no whiskey

in any bag. Are you sure it was whiskey? Where is the bag?"

"It smells like whiskey," he said. "The bag has been transferred

to the Mexico City plane. It is about time to leave. We admit the

liability. We have made out the form. Just sign here."

"What amount did you fill in for the damage?" I asked.

"We left that blank to fill in later. We will do that for you."

We finally agreed he would radio their representative in Mexico

City, and when we go through customs there we could all have a

look.

Up from Guatemala we ran into higher and higher mountains and

rougher and rougher land below. In time, Mt. Popocatepetl,

17,500-odd feet high, loomed in the distance, as did Mt.

Ixtaccihuatl, a trifle lower. Now, you don't pass old Popo like

you do an unattended traffic light on a bright Sunday morning.

She stays in sight for a long time.

We grounded just before dark. In customs we opened up for all to

see and smell. People would go by, catch a whiff and raise their

eyes just like they were experiencing a sensation of "My Sin"

toilet water. It was a broken bottle of Chilean wine some

stranger had put in the wrong bag--maybe.

Years ago, I learned something. Our railroads never kill anything

except thoroughbred stock. That bottle of wine was nestled inside

my brand new tuxedo, next to my brown suit and one of the Haspel

tropicals and two or three of Aura May's dresses. Kindly tell

Central Insurance Agency.

BACK TO "COLD" WEATHER

Saturday, we flew say 1,500 miles here from intense heat to

comparative cold. We are 7,500 feet up. This room in the Geneva

Hotel is none too hot. It has heat of course, but they don't turn

it on enough. Electricity is rationed or something.

Today, Sunday, Aura May went to see the people she lived with

when in school here three or four years ago, and they had quite a

reunion. These Mexicans are that way if they like you.

I hunted up another native market and had another good time. Two

or three blocks of sidewalk have been partly boxed in with old

corrugated metal roofing and partly left open to walk along. Hot

tamales, fruits of all kinds, women cooking rather dirty looking

meats and foods over rusted, greasy home made charcoal burners. I

saw sheep heads with the wool on at one place and stood around to

learn what disposition of them was being made, but no customers

came along.

We had been warned to drink no water or milk and to eat nothing

like lettuce or strawberries, in fact to eat nothing that does

not have a peeling on it. Anything out of a corked bottle is all

right.

INSIDER TOUR OF MEXICO CITY

To The Graphic,

Greencastle, Ind.

In Mexico City, we thought our string of rare good fortune had at

last run out. But no. On Monday morning the manager of one of

those heartwarming two corporations called to say he had just

returned to town, and that a car and driver were at our disposal

day and night for the one-week period of our stay.

That was the third time I had heard the combination "day and

night" inserted in the conversation. It made me wonder whether

some of my predecessors--old buzzards in their late 30s like me--

had come down and vainly attempted to rejuvenate their youth with

a pop gun burst of night life activity, or whether it was just a

Latin American way of expressing an all out attitude toward

guests. I found them a good deal that way as I went along.

DRIVER KNOWS HIS WAY AROUND

That afternoon our driver showed up--capless and uniformless--but

whatever he may have lacked in uniform, he made up for in

ability, knowledge and intelligence. He was a wonder. He seemed

to know everybody and what their weaknesses were--custodians,

policemen, lottery ticket vendors, car watchers and parking place

attendants. Known and liked by everybody, he probably hadn't a

single enemy in town.

For instance, the cap of my shoe and the rest of the shoe had

parted company. Did he know where a shoe sewing machine could be

found? That may sound trite to you as we were in a city of 3

million people, but in Mexico City machines are as rare as bad

women in Greencastle. Everything is hand work. All he said was,

"We go." We did, a mile or two. The price was 50 centavos--a

trifle over five cents in our money.

10% OFF ON 60 ROOSTERS

We looked around a big jewelry store. I happened to see a little

sterling silver fork, the sort of thing you use to spear out

olives and cherries or jab into canapes. The thing that caught my

eye was that on the end of the handle was a rooster--good old

Democratic stuff. It seems that a rooster in Mexico means

something national--at least not political as we know it. I asked

the saleswoman the price. She told me. I asked how much by the

dozen. She multiplied by 12. Six dozen? She multiplied the last

figure by six. I said, "Thank you," and turned to go.

Back at the car, we were talking about the forks and the design

on them. Our trusty driver evidently caught the drift, because he

said, "I think I know silver factory, Cheaper. We go?"

We did. How could I pass up a silver factory? There they were by

the hundreds--roosters and all. Our driver went in with us. The

price? It was considerably less for one than the other place. How

much for a dozen? It was some less than 12 times the price of

one. How much for five dozen? Some less than five times the dozen

price. Fortunately, some people from Evansville came along just

at the right time and I moved off.

In due time our faithful driver sidled up and said, "I get you

10% off your price."

My main idea had been to see a silver factory, but there is

always a time to quit bluffing, even though you started out more

or less in fun. I said, "Go buy them."

And so, I have 60 roosters. Even so, they're much cheaper than 60

roosters on the hoof.

Enrique is the name of our driver. He is a Colombian. Where and

how and when he acquired his knowledge and information is

probably a mystery even to his employers. Enrique is a

philosopher too. His hobbies are art, fine homes and buying

lottery tickets.

CHURCHES AND PYRAMIDS

Enrique is thoroughly up on his churches, and there are lots of

them in Mexico as well as all South America. He said the Basilica

of Guadelupe was the richest in the New World, and one of the

oldest. It is in the old part of town. We arrived during Mass.

Hundreds were attending that afternoon. The altar is a massive

structure, and evidently of tremendous value. In back is a mural

the Pope gave the church for its success in extending the faith.

Enrique got hold of a boy who unlocked the doors of a big wall

case and showed us the gold service of the church.

We had parked the car at the side. When we left, Enrique gave

some money to a man, not exactly a policeman, but somehow

connected. I asked what it was for. He shrugged and said, "Graft.

If I had not given him money he would have spotted the car and

the next time he would have damaged it in some way. These fellows

are bad that way."

We drove next day to the pyramids--quite a distance from town.

The temple or shrine to the snake gods is something to see. Made

entirely of stone masonry, the outside is adorned with those

famous protruding gargoyles, still in a reasonably good state of

preservation. The masonry is excellent. On top was a sacrificial

altar where Enrique told us thousands of human beings, mostly

women, were beheaded from time to time to appease the snakes.

Troughs led down and to each side, where two sizable wells at

last stopped and held the flow of blood.

The high stone walls of the fort enclosed an area of a good many

acres. The walls are more or less hollow because the priests

lived inside and thought up new and more vicious ways and means

of torturing a simple people.

No one seems to know who built the pyramids, or when. They were

erected prior to the advent of the Aztecs, 1,500 to 3,000 years

ago. The Pyramid of the Sun is 200 feet high and big around in

proportion. Its building entailed millions of man hours. The

Temple to the Moon is much lower and smaller, but at that was no

after school hours chore.

THIEVES MARKET, PRIVATE SERENADE

One afternoon Enrique suggested he show us some fine homes, but I

suggested we go out among the Indians and the poorer peoples'

markets.

He said, "Maybe you like to go to the Thieves Market, where they

sell stolen goods and pick your pockets." . . . We could drive

slowly, and stop now and then, and see from the car. . .

The street was crowded. Everything that wasn't old was shoddy. If

all that stuff had been stolen goods, it would have taken the

entire population months to have actually stolen the articles,

and when they got done the value of the whole thing would have

been in the low thousands of dollars. No the Thieves Market in my

opinion is a part of the "dress" of Mexico City. The words sound

mysterious and dangerous, and give the tourists a shot in the

arm. Still I was glad I had taken Enrique's advice and kept to

the car. Six or eight dirty hands in my pocket could have left

enough germs to have contaminated everybody west of Stilesville.

We also encountered a singer and serenader and his band who

assembled around our car and played for us for five pesos (less

than 60 cents) a song. We had five fiddles, one cornet, three

whopping big guitars, two regular size guitars and one mandolin.

I was asked what I wanted. I suggested "The Fire Scene" from

Wagner or Lilly Pon's latest song, but they didn't know those so

I told them anything purely Mexican. . . It was what I would call

a big Carnegie Hall success. We left amid profuse thanks.

TREASURED HOMES

I thought a change might not be a bad idea. We drove into what he

said was the finest residential district--very fine and elaborate

homes. The proportion will not equal that of any American city.

The proportion of poor and poverty stricken people is high here.

The most striking feature of these homes to me is the extravagant

use of wrought iron grillwork in the openings in the walls

surrounding the premises and the framing of all windows and

gates. The designs are intricate. These homes are built with the

idea of exclusion. It is hard to see the grounds unless a gate or

doors are left open. Enrique would stop very candidly where there

was an opening. What we saw was always immaculately kept. Labor

is cheap.

Enrique saved "the three finest homes in Mexico" for last. They

were really fine homes. And they were big of course. One was

built by a rich Spanish merchant, the other two by politicians,

both of whom at one time or another had been connected with the

Treasury of Mexico. Quite a coincidence I thought--best two out

of three.

End of:

Title: Epistles from Pap: Letters from the man known as 'The Will

Rogers of Indiana'

Author: Andrew E. Durham. Compiled by J. Frank Durham, Edited by

Douglas Hay. Copyright 1997. Permission granted to Project

Gutenberg to publish as a copyrighted etext April 10, 2000 by

JFD. Guild Press of Indiana, Carmel, Indiana, 1997.