Pan-Am

The following are passages from a book I read recently, Road Fever by Tim Cahill. The book, published in '91, chronicles two mens attempt to break a world record for a 15,000 mile north-south drive from Tierra del Fuego, Argentina to Prudhoe Bay, Alaska. I Thought some of his observations of the highway systems while driving through Latin America to be interesting and informative. I've added a bit of my own to clarify what I have seen, the particular peculiarities of the El Salvadoran road system.

In South and Central America, there are still (road less) areas, or places where a cross-country road is nothing more than a path scraped out of the jungle.

There are good drivers on the Pan-American (Highway), and there are bad ones. The rules of the road are informal, and it is assumed that a certain amount of blood will flow...

Everyone has access to the roads. Businesses, rushing to take advantage of traffic on the Pan-American, literally line the road. Patrons in bars and cantinas could stumble out the front door and onto the Pan-American in a matter of steps...

Theres really not that much in the way of side-streets or developed suburban areas. The only places for significant exchange of commerce away from city centers and their subsequent marketplaces are the roads, the only other place where there is an appreciable level of human traffic.

People walk along the (shoulder-less) road because the jungle was thick in places, and , even on foot, the highway often (was) the fastest way to go. Sometimes the road was the only clearing, the only flat spot, and if there was little traffic- for instance, on the alternate route over the Mountain of Death out of San Jose, Costa Rica- people might use the road to work, to slaughter sheep, for instance.

Actually, the roads are often used during harvest seasons for drying crops, corn husks and cobs, coffee bean or frijoles for example. Sheep aren't very common here, but its certainly not uncommon to see livestock ferried between ranges across the roads, usually cows, and distances between ranges can sometimes extend for miles. Slaughtering of animals, though not frequently seen on the roadside, is not unheard of. And roads serve as a major thoroughfare for pedestrians as well, simply because it is the most simple means of conveyance for many who are traveling small distances. The ground is flat and clear, full of others to run into, and for those living in roadside communities, right outside their doors.

The Pan-American was a form of entertainment. Whole families- men, women, toddlers- stood on the side of the road, watching semis howl by two feet from their faces. Lovers walked hand in hand under the trees, on the pavement, in the darkness. Children dodged traffic for fun and kicked soccer balls to one another across the Pan-American.

Late evenings, sections of road have been known to become almost entirely pedestrian. People come out to the road to congregate, for easter marches or funeral procession, for the Salvi's version of a block-party, or simply as the community meeting center in absence of a local town hall or church.

In (Garry's) opinion, drivers on the Pan-American were very good indeed, and he thought that most of them possessed better skills than the typical North American driver.

Joe and I objected to this. Drivers would consistently pull out to pass in the face of an oncoming car or tuck. Sometimes both vehicles pulled back into their own lanes simultaneously, inches away from death. Bumpers missed bumpers by feet, sometimes inches.

"People grew up driving like this," Garry shouted... "It's what they know," he bellowed, "this kind of driving is all they know, and their good at it. North American rules don't apply. They've got people driving vehicles at twenty miles an hour here, and if they pass safely- what we'd call safely- they'd never get anywhere. So everyone passes everyone, at any time. That bus back there? When we were coming at each other? He saw that I needed more room than he did and feathered back on the throttle. He was good. Different rules here, and if you know the rules, you can see how good the drivers are."

Garry, I could see, was in a kind of ecstasy, his teeth bared against the sting of rain on his face.

"Yeah," I shouted, "but how do you know that someone isn't drunk, a crazy macho, or suicidal?"

"Well," Garry screamed, "you usually have about ten seconds to decide."

Through the inch or so of moving water on the glass (of the windshield) in front of me I could see the looming grill of a large truck as it peeled off into its own lane.

"These people," Garry howled, " are either good drivers or they are dead."

What seems to many foreigners as utter chaos, is in fact a complicated and integrated system under which functions without many laws and virtually no oversight. Perhaps not as safely or as efficiently as it could, but functional all the same. In fact, the system of driving seems often to produce better drivers than most in the states. Driving is a luxury here, most are unable to afford it, and for many of that minority who do, its their job. More importantly, however, is that this is all they know , very much like their spoken language. In short, the roads are an adventure to travel, and they have their own confounding language to intemperate.