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while in the evening to see a bit of the town, which is like a typical Argentine provincial city, but with more new cars.
    Convincing the driver that we should pay less, the next day we took the bus to Tumbes and got there as night was falling. Among other towns, the journey took us through Talara, a rather picturesque oil port.
    I didn’t get to see Tumbes either because of asthma, and we continued our journey to the border at Aguas Verdes, crossingover to Huaquillas, 11 but not without suffering at the hands of the gangs who organize transport from one side of the bridge to the other. A lost day in terms of travel, which Calica used to scrounge a few beers.
    The next day we set out for Santa Marta, where a boat took us on the river as far as Puerto Bolívar, and after an all-night crossing we arrived the next morning in Guayaquil, me, still with asthma.
    There we met “Fatty” Rojo, no longer alone but with three friends from law school, who took us to their boarding house. 12
    We were six in total and with our last rounds of mate we formed a tight student circle. The consul was unreceptive when we tried to hit him for some mate leaves.
Ecuador
    Guayaquil, like all these ports, is an excuse for a city that barely has its own life. It revolves around the daily succession of ships arriving and departing.
    I wasn’t able to see much, because the guys leaving for Guatemala told travelers’ tales that were far too absorbing; one of them included Fatty Rojo. Later, I met a young guy, Maldonado, 13 who introduced me to some medical people, including Dr. Safadi, 14 a psychiatrist and a “bolshie” [Bolshevik] like his friend Maldonado. They put me in touch with another leprosy specialist.
    They have a closed colony with 13 people in fairly bad condition, for whom there is little specific treatment.
    At least the hospitals are clean and not all that bad.
    My favorite way to pass the time is playing chess with people at the boarding house. My asthma is a bit better. We’re thinking of staying for a couple more days, and trying to track down Velasco Ibarra. 15
    Plans made and unmade, financial worries and Guayaquilian phobias, all the result of a passing joke García made saying, “Hey, guys, why don’t you come with us to Guatemala?” 16 The idea had already been in my head, waiting only for this prompt. Calica followed. These are now days of a feverish search. We’ve almost certainly been granted the visas, but for an estimated $200. The shortfall of $120.80 will be hard to find but we hope to do it with some luck and by trying to sell our stuff. The trip to Panama will be free, apart from $2 each a day, making it $32 for the four of us. This is all we have talked about, although, we can always cancel. Some hard times await us in Panama.
    The interview with Velasco Ibarra was a miserable failure. The master of ceremonies, a Sr. Anderson, answered our pathetic pleas for help by commenting on the ups and downs of life, suggesting that we are currently experiencing a low, but that a high will come, etc.
    On Sunday I discovered some coastal areas similar to river floodplains, but it was the company of Dr. Fortunato Safadi and his friend, an insurance salesman, who made the trip really interesting. Later in the day, he said that hard times await us in Panama, but the question is whether Panama itself awaits us…
    After collecting the Guatemalan visa without any trouble, we went—still without the Panamanian visa—to buy boat tickets. An argument ensued because the company representative flatly refused to sell us tickets without first wiring the Colón PanamáCompany. The answer came back the following evening and was a firm negative. That was Saturday. The Guayos , a small boat due to leave on Sunday, has postponed its departure until Wednesday.
    Calica got a lift to Quito in a private truck.
    We tried again on Monday, this time with a $35 money transfer in my and