LOS-ANGELES - MEXICO - GUATEMALA -
SALVADOR - TEGUCIGALPA

The Road South

Never judge a book by its cover

In Long Beach, California, I buy a gorgeous Buick Electra convertible with a 375 horsepower engine, planning to drive south to Tierra del Fuego. I'll be travelling first class all the way. The Buick has every gadget under the sun, including an electric roof (which never works), a bar and, if I remember correctly, even a drain. The perfect vehicle for a journey south of the border.

The first few miles, where the highway runs along the Pacific shore, are breathtaking. The sunset is spectacular; the scent of the desert and the sea combine in an intoxicating perfume. The highway is so wide it looks like a runway. I hit the gas to see what the Buick can do. The wind blows in my ear so hard I feel as if I'm being shot forward by a jet engine. Suddenly, an enormous shadow obscures the idyllic scene. I look up and see a helicopter hovering above me, adjusting its speed to mine, which must be close to 200 kilometers an hour (125 mph). A pistol-wielding arm signals me to pull over. I comply. The copter lands and two cowboys hop out of the cabin, eject me from mine, and slap handcuffs on me. Off to the police station we go.

- The speed limit is 70 (110 kilometers an hour) around here. What do you have to say for yourself?

- But, Officer, I thought that was the minimum speed. Everything here moves so fast!

- A smartass, the sheriff exclaims. Throw him in the slammer!

In a way a prison is a good place to learn what a country is like.

- If I promise not to play too fast, can I keep my guitar?

- All right.

I begin to play Fernando Sor's melancholic study in B minor. The melody quickly fills the corridors. Nothing provides better acoustics than a jail. There are no rugs, curtains, or furniture to interfere with the reverberation of the crystal-clear notes. The music soon has an effect. Within minutes a marshal calls the sheriff. Their faces are no longer quite as hostile. They release me. What better fate for a sorry musician?

Of course, I was on my best behavior afterwards, not because I was afraid of the police but out of a desire to respect the customs of the country. "Love it or leave it," as they say. It's not a question of etiquette, but of ethics.

*******

My tank is waiting for me in front of the jail but refuses to start. It was in an American repair shop that I began my newest and strangest adventure. The pyramids of Atitlan? Not bad. But what’s going on inside the transmission? In the museum in Mexico, I observe my broken rear axle reflected in zoomorphic objects mounted on bearings. I’ll never forget the scene of my engine’s self-immolation in the middle of the Mexicali desert, before the small statue of Huehueteotl, the god of fire. The statue of Chalchiutlicue, the goddess of water, stirs up memories of my empty radiator. But in this skull of Coatlicuc I see nothing but bad omens.

However, "the show must go on." My audience is highly knowledgeable, since learning to play the guitar is mandatory in most of the schools here. The mix of different cultures, which is the real source of wealth in this country, has improved my repertory.

A mechanic introduces me to the wonders of mescaline, a hallucinogen whose effects are far less spectacular than those later described by Ernst Jünger.

In Guatemala and El Salvador, my audiences consist mostly of the land-owning elite. Their privileges are so great and their numbers so few, that it immediately becomes clear to me that, sooner or later, something has to give. I hear rumors of the first general uprisings... in repair shops, naturally.

*******

In Tegucigalpa, the capital of Honduras, I stop at a gas station on the way to Somoza's capital, Managua, where I'm supposed to be tomorrow, and fill the tank: 100 liters (26 gallons). For once the engine starts on the first try and the car takes off. In reverse, unfortunately. A minor setback compared to what I've been through so far. I make an impromptu about-face and proceed, still in reverse, along the high road leading to the Pan-American highway. However, after several kilometers of steep hills, the brakes start showing signs of fatigue. Obviously, they're not used to working backwards.

I had been planning to cover the entire 500 kilometers (300 miles) in reverse. There comes a time, however, when a man has to face facts and admit defeat. The car has made up its mind not to take me to South America. Maybe it wanted to go to Alaska instead. Or just someplace cool. Stranded in the middle of nowhere, I abandon my vessel on the side of the road, with a full tank of gas. Coatlicuc’s prophecy!

Completely drained and demoralized, I take an airplane back to the United States, having decided to postpone my South American trip for the time being.