I
I started in haste for Honduras, but haste achieved nothing in these lands.
One of the eccentricities of the average Central-American republic is that the traveler has little difficulty in entering the country, yet having entered, finds his departure balked by countless formalities. Apparently the government is eager to welcome any one, but if it can discover that the visitor is a rapscallion, is determined to add him to the permanent population.
Slipping into Salvador through the back yard, I was not required even to display a passport. On the day preceding my intended departure from the Capital, I learned that I must call upon the Secretary of Foreign Relations, and convince His Excellency of my respectability before I should be permitted to leave.
A pretty señorita in the outer office of the State Department ceased powdering her nose to listen to my plea.
“Cómo no? Why not, señor? If you will kindly return the day after to-morrow—”
She smiled sweetly in dismissal, and having settled the matter in the favorite Latin-American fashion, reopened her vanity case, upon the mirror of which was pasted the photograph of her sweetheart, who seemed even more important than this affair of State. Gringo-like, I persisted.
“How about to-day?”
“Impossible, señor. The Secretary is in conference. And the Sub-secretary has gone home.”
“Where does he live?”
“Quién sabe? Who knows, señor?”
Evidently annoyed at my insistence, she finally discovered a clerk who professed that he did know. He wrote out the address for me: “Numero —, Calle 10 Poniente.” It was only the middle of the morning, but it was already fairly hot in San Salvador. I hiked through sun-blanched streets, only a few of which were numbered. At length I asked a policeman for directions. He glanced at my perspiring forehead, and assured me that I was now at the Tenth Street Poniente.
So I knocked at the proper number, and inquired of a servant whether His Excellency were at home. I learned that he was. A colored gentleman in pajamas rose from a hammock in the patio, and shook hands very cordially. Not to be outdone in politeness, I made an elaborate speech, emphasizing my regret at having to leave his delightful country, and begging that he would do me the favor to grant permission.
“The permission is yours, señor!”
“Do I not require your visé on my passport?”
“Not mine, señor, but that of the Sub-Secretary of Foreign Relations. I am only an humble employee of the street-cleaning department. But muchas gracias for your visit. Always my house is yours, at Numero —, Seventh Street Poniente.”
When I did reach the Tenth Street Poniente, it was to discover that the address given me at the State Department was wrong. His Excellency lived somewhere else. But at last, after four hours of a house-to-house canvass, I found him. Having obtained the necessary visé, I caught the first train to La Unión, on the Gulf of Fonseca, from which one could look across a strip of blue water and see the hills of Honduras itself.
“How soon can I catch a boat?” I inquired.
The citizens of La Unión shrugged their shoulders.
“Perhaps the day after to-morrow, señor, or the day after that. But quién sabe? In the meantime you had better visit the local commandante to secure permission.”