[Illustration: “_Many of the mountain passes were so narrow ... that we
were forced to run with one wheel on a sloping side wall and the other on
the crest of the deepest rut._”
SEE PAGE 78.]
EL TORO
A MOTOR CAR STORY
OF INTERIOR CUBA
BY
E. RALPH ESTEP
DETROIT
PACKARD MOTOR CAR COMPANY
1909
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Copyright, 1909
BY PACKARD MOTOR CAR COMPANY
Printed by
THE MATTHEWS-NORTHRUP WORKS
Buffalo
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
“Many of the mountain passes were so narrow ... that we were
forced to run with one wheel on a sloping side wall and
the other on the crest of the deepest rut,” FRONTISPIECE
“Once in awhile a good sort of winding dirt road gave promise
of speed,” 10
“Insular urchins, partly curious and partly fearful, were
half-hidden in the doorways,” 22
“Everywhere was stone.... Each mile was gained by defiant effort,” 22
“A hill like a natural stairway of great, rough limestone steps,” 28
“The clearance of an ox cart is thirty-eight to forty-eight inches,” 32
“At Jaruca, the whole town joined us at luncheon,” 32
“Through the clear rippling water of this first river the car shot
with a great splurge,” 36
“We drove under the everlasting palms and among boulders half-hidden
in the luxuriant grass,” 44
“On these ruts we tore tires off the wheels at two miles an hour,” 56
“We enjoyed the rare experience of ‘beating it,’” 56
“Palm trees by the thousand, and, scattered among them, small ponds
made by heavy rainfall,” 62
“The car looked like some big black beast, wallowing along in
boundless marsh,” 62
“The valley became muddier and muddier,” 68
“The sun’s farewell glance spread a woven gold mantilla on the
naked shoulders of a grim, forbidding world and the motor car
sank, helpless, into the mud as if, also, its day was done,” 68
“A river would be reached by following down a tortuous pass,” 74
“We had to ford ... a fast flowing torrent set down in a gorge
... which had no path leading to a crossing of any kind,” 82
“Digging to obtain a footing for the wheels in the roughest ravines,” 90
“At last we found the promised highway,” 100
“The oldest cathedral in Cuba, weatherbeaten, but proudly rising
over the low tiled houses of the town,” 100
PREFACE
Occasionally business has experiences which are interesting on their own
account. To set them down in words is an agreeable task and entirely
different from the making of business literature of the familiar kinds.
This narrative is just the relation of what happened, when, on other
business bent, we strayed into the unknown and stayed to have a motoring
experience, which was far enough from the conventional to deserve a place
in the realm of adventure. The tale is here recounted in the hope that it
will possess for others a degree of the interest which, for ourselves,
has made it a substantial part of our recollections. Most of all, ye
unworthy scribe hopes that the narration will be acceptable to those
who made it possible—to Sidney D. Waldon, father of the great idea and
leading spirit of the enterprise resulting therefrom, Edwin S. George,
Fred Crebbin and Rogelio Gaarken.
E. R. E.
Detroit, April, 1909.
[Illustration: “_Once in a while a good sort of winding dirt road gave
promise of speed._”
SEE PAGE 20.]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I
_Direct not him, whose way himself will choose;_
_’Tis breath thou lack’st, and that breath wilt thou lose._
—Richard II.
[Illustration]
Red and vivid against the dense night, a camp fire of palm bark flared,
fluttered, and went out. Its momentary glare illumined one of those
strange scenes, occasioned by strange people being marooned in a strange
place. The rest of the world, which seemed very far away, was shut out,
on the one side, by a reef of palm trees sharply silhouetted against the
somber sky and, on the other, by a barrier of hills.
“Are we up against it?” Crebbin spoke.
“If you mean by ‘it’ that hill yonder, we are.” Waldon answered.
Three jaded men sat around the fire. Like the fire, their conversation
had flamed and gone out. They gazed into the darkening embers, mused on
the strangeness of some things and speculated on the final solution of
the problem which was theirs by reason of their present whereabouts. A
palm tree, which had never before enjoyed the company of a four-wheeled
vehicle, stood sentinel over an automobile, from whose tonneau protruded
the feet of a folded and, presumably, sleeping figure. On a bed of
brush slumbered the only one of the party who was native to the country
and thereby accustomed to its lack of things comfortable. The others
had abandoned this bed on which they could not sleep, had scoured the
unfamiliar woods for fuel and had amused themselves by keeping an
unnecessary fire ablaze, for the mere companionship of its warmth and for
its light, which drove away the trepidation of loneliness. There was no
noise, except the strange sounds from the underbrush and palm forests.
The strangers were ourselves. The native was our interpreter.
We were thirty miles from Havana, Cuba. In our sleepy thoughts, Cuba was
a mighty big place, Havana far away and our own homes as distant and
chimerical as the moon. The moon did not shine on that part of Cuba that
night. We were a discouraged bunch, with only a few stars on which to
hang our sense of location. Our hopes were in cold storage. We marveled
at the wildness of a land that was figuratively but a few steps from the
gay and careless Havana. We laughed hysterically at the recollection of
our day’s performance in bringing the car over the roadless country whose
stone trails are followed only by ox carts and ponies.
Remembering we were bound across the island to one of the oldest of its
very old towns, we realized that, when dawn should raise the curtain
on the scene night had shut out, we would be almost up against the
impossible. However, we did not seek to pry into the future. We simply
tried to neglect it. We were not sure where we were and we did not care
very much, because it made no difference. It was just about as hard to
get into and out of one place as another. We had learned much about Cuba
in a few hours.
We imitated sleep with apathy. Occasionally, we tried to bring the real
world back to us, by noisily gathering more fallen palm bark for the
fire. Palm bark makes a poor fire for the cheering of lonely spirits. It
is a fickle stimulant, the effect being great while it lasts, but it does
not last long enough to give any real comfort. The dead, dark, cold night
was depressing.
We were startled like children when the thundering of near-by hoofs awoke
us to the fact that we were no longer alone. The insurgents were busy in
Cuba just then and we had not been there long enough to learn that Cuba
and insurgents are not bad, but just naughty. The disturbers were as
surprised as we. One was a country doctor who was riding miles to visit a
stricken “spiggotie” in some distant hut.
A spiggotie is any kind of a provincial Cuban, when mentioned by an
outsider. He is one of that species of uncertain race which populates
the Spanish-American countries and makes it difficult for a visitor to
draw a color line between negro and Castillian blood. I have also met
spiggoties who were a charming mixture of Spanish, negro, and Chinese.
The doctor looked down from his pony at us in wonder. His servant on
the other pony was alarmed. Presumably, he never had seen an automobile
before. Having lived in the midst of three or four puny wars and one
real one, he showed the common spiggotie attitude of being suspicious
of everything that was not Cuban and regular. The doctor gave us the
customary “que hay,” and we awakened the interpreter to say it back to
him.
A Cuban does not say much, but he uses a lot of words on the job and is
willing to put a highly dramatic touch to the most trivial question or
remark. Our interpreter was fully impressed with the honor of being a
part of the first automobile expedition across the rough provinces of
Cuba. The rattle of Spanish was like two kettle drums in action together.
Evidently, the doctor asked all that could be asked and the interpreter
told him more about us than we could have told him. We tried to break
into the conversation, but the interpreter was disposed to consider our
assistance as a hindrance. We pried one unconsoling fact out of him.
The doctor thought we were more than right in supposing we might be up
against it. He named about a hundred rivers and a thousand hills which
were impassable. He explained that the trail we were following did not
lead anywhere, that there was no trail which led anywhere and that there
was no road which could be followed. He said that we would have to go
back. Then he said that we could not go back. That we had come this far
seemed only to impress him with the fact that we must have dropped out of
a cloud or come in an airship. It was certainly impossible to make him
believe we had driven an automobile from Havana.
Thirty miles is a short distance for an automobile in some places.
Between Philadelphia and New York it is a matter of thirty minutes. It
had been a matter of five or six hours with us, there in Cuba. We were
glad to have the doctor go on his way, for we had heard enough about deep
rivers, steep hills, walls of rock, and crooked gullies. We wanted to
think about something else until daylight. At least we had rather think
about what had been than what was to come. It seemed strange that so much
could have happened in the last twenty-four hours.
There was an element of humor in our plight, but we were not in a
humorous mood. There was great beauty in the wild, dark night for those
who were used to the quiet, homespun nights of Wayne County, Michigan. We
knew that we were missing the enchantment of the hour, but we were not in
the mood to mind missing anything.
We were the victims of our own imagination rather than the victims of
circumstances. We had imagined that Cuba was a sort of national park with
an immense system of boulevards. There is one magnificent highway in
Cuba, fifty-two miles long, which reaches from Havana to San Cristobal.
In publicity it reaches around the world. It has been the course of
automobile road races. Automobile writers, attending said automobile
races, wrote columns about the beautiful Cubaland, in which the wandering
motorist from the north may drive as fast as he likes, while balmy
breezes blow across the palm-sentineled macadam. The government has
started a road from Havana eastward across the island. Some of this
has been surveyed, a little of it graded and it actually exists for a
half-dozen miles out of Havana. Down in Santiago province, General Wood
has built a road or two. The middle of the island is roadless. There is
no continuous travel by vehicle.
Havana presents a wrong idea of Cuba. It is a tourists’ town. It has
boulevards and carriages. Cuba has wandering trails and ox carts. No
four-wheeled vehicle is used outside the towns. Probably no vehicle of
any kind, unless in time of war, ever has made a continuous journey
across the island. The ox carts are for local travel. Cross country
travel is on foot or on ponies.
Yesterday, on the little coast steamer which carried us across the gulf,
we had discussed with eager expectance the fascinations of touring in
Cuba, as presented in the steamship company’s alluring pamphlets. We had
come south with a Packard car to run it fast and furiously for thousands
and thousands of miles under hot weather conditions. A Cuban on the
steamer listened while we recounted our plans for this great trying out
of the speed and endurance of our motor car. He asked us:
“Have you ever been in Cuba?” and, upon our negative reply:
“Do you really think you can drive an automobile through the interior of
Cuba?”
We assured him that we could drive one anywhere, but he merely laughed
and sauntered away to tell the other passengers what seemed to him to
be a funny story. Other Cubans talked to us. They were all iconoclasts
and some of them were plain “knockers.” At first we were insulted and
then our peace of mind was destroyed. Slowly, but surely, we approached
the truth. Everywhere we turned for a reassuring opinion concerning the
suppositious highways, we got the same answer:
“There are no roads; you can’t do it.”
They all explained the impossibility of traversing its valley lands and
mountain regions, of making even a most laborious way across the arroyos,
through the bridgeless rivers, over the barren stone, and in the wide
swamps. There are roads on the map. The maps were originally made by
Spaniards with a greater regard for neat drafting than the truth. It
is hard to find those roads on the earth. Their course occasionally is
marked by washouts.
We slept on the information but gained nothing. This day we had left our
cabins early, to catch the first morning glimpse of the beautiful harbor
of Havana. As we looked upon its blue shores, under the bluer sky, and
felt the charm of early southern morn, it seemed impossible that such a
most excellent place to come to could be without roads leading from one
beauty spot to another.
The original Cuban came along with a parting slam at our hopes. We were
saved from developing a streak of yellow by being carried to a close
view of the sunken “Maine.” While our little ship was at anchor, waiting
for the tender to land its passengers, we surveyed that unprecedented
monument resting in the middle of Havana harbor and our American blood
created a stubborn desire to conquer Cuba, roads or no roads, if it took
all the gasoline in the world and all the tires in Akron, Ohio.
We were whisked from dreamland into the confusion of the custom-house.
Meekly as possible, we suffered the high-handed tactics of the revenue
officers. These new Cuban officials, who used to be flunkeys in the
household of Spain, with their new freedom and their new uniforms, are
arrogant. Some day, if he has not already done so, an American chap, with
more valor than discretion, is going to jail for hitting one of them.
It is a land of mañana, these being the headquarters. You can do anything
to-morrow. All you can do to-day is to fume and go up to the Prado, where
there is a good street eating store, and get acquainted with café con
leche. Every addition to our list of Cuban acquaintances added further
proof of the impassability of the Cuban interior. It is easy to be bold
before the battle. We felt as bold as Moro Castle looked across the
bay, when we drove around the beautiful shore drive toward Camp Columbia
and for a wild, hilarious rush out on the wonderful San Cristobal road.
We rushed back again to Havana because we were eager to tackle the
impossible.
Two native sugar planters, who had grown white haired in middle Cuba,
were introduced to us at the Hotel Pasaje, as conclusive evidence that we
were venturing on a dangerous and incredible journey. We listened to them
while we changed our northern garb for clothes more suitable to the task
ahead of us. At the local garage, we engaged an interpreter, commonly
known as “Cuba.” He had had some experience as a chauffeur and was the
only person we could find who seemed to think there might be a chance
of getting beyond the eastern limits of the city. The proprietor of the
garage cheerfully assured us that we would never reach Matanzas.
So we left Havana.
Driving on the boulevard which sweeps around the harbor, it was
incredible that the ending should be a great desert of broken rock. We
did not speculate on the future, but were satisfied to rush over the
undulating macadam, rolling up an immense funnel of white dust which
spread clear to the tops of the regal palms along the roadside.
Our future was hidden by the hills in front of us. We did not care. It
was enough, just to dash at racing speed past little scarlet Edens among
the bright flambollan flowers, where the silver-tongued moscareta warbled
his southern song behind the leaves of the spreading laurel and the
merry tomequin answered from the majestic ceiba. It was enough, just to
fly past palm-thatched huts and wave at the insular urchins who, partly
curious and partly fearful, were half-hidden in the doorways. It was
enough, just to watch the little speck on the far hillside become a bold,
commanding block-house as we raced toward it. Block-houses are still
popular in Cuba. One meets up with a block-house on almost any hillside,
whether or not there is any apparent habitation in the region.
A few miles and it all ended. The boulevard became merely a long stretch
of rough white stones—a new generation of road in the making—level and
almost straight, but with no surface over the jagged rocks and no bridges
over the many streams. So we drove, part of the time over the rocks and
part of the time in the rut-worn gully below. It was hard going, but not
impossible. Anyway, it did not last long because this particular road
ceased entirely. We were in the middle of Cuba.
A mere path straggled over and among the hills and was lost in the
great patches of native rock. We began to take the country seriously.
Trepidation mingled with curiosity. Once in a while a good sort of
winding dirt road gave promise of speed, only to change, like a
dissolving lantern slide, to a staggering trail over the rocks or between
them. The stones increased in number and in size. Each occasional break
in the bumping, swaying, swinging, car-racking, tire-tearing progress
became shorter. We forgot the stately palms, the queer huts, and the
beautiful red flowers. We did not even hear the evening song of the many
birds.
[Illustration: “_Insular urchins, partly curious and partly fearful, were
half-hidden in the doorways._”
SEE PAGE 20.]
[Illustration: “_Everywhere was stone.... Each mile was gained by defiant
effort._”
SEE PAGE 23.]
Everywhere was stone. Even the rough fields were so littered with loose
rock that cultivation had not been tried. Each mile was gained by defiant
effort. We began to worry over the fact that, not only were the prophets
vindicated, but their prophecies had foretold worse conditions the
farther we went eastward. We thumped along to a deep valley from whose
bottom the sun had already fled and on whose far side a great bluff of
solid rock arose to dispute our way.
Night does not settle in Cuba as it does in New England. It snaps, or,
rather, day snaps into night. Twilight is not long enough to deserve
the name. The task of getting to the opposite crown of the valley was
too great for the few minutes of remaining daylight; so we camped. We
were not prepared for camping, because we had anticipated spending our
nights in villages or towns. We had learned a lot that afternoon and were
still growing in wisdom. We made particular note of the point that when
one is traveling through that country in a motor car his night stop is
invariably just exactly where he happens to be when the sun sets.
That was a wonderful night. It was dark when three of us, including the
interpreter, struck into the region of awesome shadows and shivering
noises, seeking habitation and food. We could see nothing. We simply
wandered and yelled to attract attention. Every time we sent a loud “que
hay” reverberating among the hills, we jumped at our own temerity. At
last a hound bayed in answer and a feeble light flickered far off, up in
the sky. We trudged up another hill toward it.
A gaunt, scraggy Cuban met us. We watched his long machete with
fascinated eyes, while the loquacious “Cuba” gave him a detailed account
of ourselves, in Spanish. The Cuban welcomed us to his home, a hut of
palm slabs roofed with thatch and floored with dirt. By the sinister rays
of a small oil torch, mother and children ate a meal of pottage. The
children cried and we gave them a few Spanish coins. Charity is cheap in
a country of depreciated silver.
We asked for water, and it was drawn from a pigskin. We asked for food,
and were told that on the next hill-top dwelt a Great Señor—one Govin,
owner of the big newspaper in Havana and who could speak English. We
matched coins to see who would venture back alone to the somewhat distant
camp with a bucket of water. Crebbin lost and trundled off into the
darkness, seeking the light of the bonfire, which furnished our only clue
to the whereabouts of headquarters.
Under the talkative guidance of our still wonder-struck Cuban friend,
we found the other house. The owner was brought out of bed to hear our
reason for being there. He was much interested and much surprised. He was
glad to give us food but he refused to be in a hurry. Also Señora, before
she started to the kitchen to get us guinea hen and yams, insisted that
the strange tale be repeated to her.
The house of Govin was high above the surrounding country, but there was
nothing to see in the darkness and nothing to hear except the barking of
dogs and the echoing sounds from distant woods.
Across the front of the low, board house ran a long porch. So closely
framed it was in shrubbery, and so dense was the night packed around
it, that there was almost the privacy of a room. The master, in his
half-attire of white linen, kept up a running fire of conversation,
partly in Spanish through and to the interpreter, and partly in English.
Highly interested, but, for the most part, quiet, were the several
laborers who shared the hospitality of the porch. Occasionally they
interjected rapid exclamations and questions in Spanish. It was hard to
concentrate upon Señor Govin and our conversation.
The curiousness of the situation had unraveled my nerves. Never before
had it seemed possible that a person could be so comparatively close to
accustomed things and yet be so isolated. The whole scheme was like a
bunch of dramatics grabbed from a play or torn from a copyrighted novel.
Persons who are not used to prowling about the back yards and blind
alleys of the world find it hard to adjust themselves to strange society,
except in the broad light of day.
Probably the two at the roadside camp a mile away, and the one struggling
along the hilly trail with a bucketful of water, felt the impressiveness
of the night as much, or more, than we who sat on the Govin porch and
talked with the Govin family.
It was a romantic situation until Govin, innocently desiring to please,
cracked the grandeur of the night and pierced the helpless heavens by
turning on the rusty voice of a battered ten-dollar phonograph.
Finally, we ate our delayed supper at our own fireside. We were not yet
sleepy. The food and warmth cheered us, for although the days be hot in
Cuba, the nights are cold. Twenty-four hours had not acclimated us to a
change of fifty degrees in the temperature with the setting of the sun.
Then began our vigil.
Thirty miles back of us lay Havana with its gay opera, its bright cafés,
and its dirty hotels, swarming with tourists. Thirty miles back lay a
world’s city, known to the world, close to the rest of the world, and
familiar to the world as any other capital. Thirty miles back lay our
expectations, our fancies, and our nerve. Thirty miles back lay the
things we knew. This was unknown wilderness.
Havana to Camp Solitude—thirty miles.
[Illustration: “_A hill like a natural stairway of great, rough limestone
steps._”
SEE PAGE 30.]
[Illustration]