Epistles from Pap: Letters from the man known as 'The Will Rogers of Indiana' Part 30

"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 sh.o.r.e.

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 a.s.sault.

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. n.o.body 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 pa.s.sed government buildings, government tile-roofed homes for ca.n.a.l 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 sc.r.a.p 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 amba.s.sador 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, s.p.a.ced 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 b.u.t.tons, 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