Life Aboard The Monkey Bus

LIFE ABOARD THE MONKEY BUS

            On February 14, 1943, my U.S. Army Unit arrived at Salinas, Ecuador, South America, an Early Warning Station for the Panama Canal Defense Command.  Near 2:00 o’clock AM, while still at sea, an earthquake devastated Ecuador and there was fear of a tidal wave. Fortunately for us and the Ecuadorians, the tidal wave did not happen.  Salinas is a fishing village located near the end of an arid peninsula approximately eight feet above sea-level extending seventeen miles East to the town of Liberatad at the foot of the Andes Mountains.

            The  bay of Salinas was too shallow to harbor even small ships, so it was necessary for the USS Johnson to anchor approximately three miles at sea..  Men and freight were loaded upon barges, which were towed to shore by tug boats.  The only tall building in the village was a shabbily constructed   cathedral made of wood and painted red..  A  hotel, a restaurant, and a small one-story flat roofed brick bank building were the only other substantial structures in the village.. Most of the other business area buildings were made of adobe. All residences were squalled shacks made of drift-wood, crates, and sheets of  tin.  The only paved street was the main road inside the Army Camp.  Since rain fell on average once every four years, the sand roads throughout Salinas and to Liberatad  were sufficient for the burro traffic and the few light trucks being used. The earthquake caused only minor damage at Salinas.

            Most of my fellow soldiers and I were fresh out of ’boot camp’ and had never had any leave time, so after approximately three months at our new station, two of my friends and I were granted a three-day pass to Guayaquil, the nation’s second largest city and only major harbor approximately ninety miles south of Salinas.  We made the short flight to Guayaquil aboard a Pan-American Grace Lines plane and landed at the municipal airport surrounded by dense jungles several miles from the city.  Heavy damage to poorly constructed buildings was evident everywhere along the route into the city.  We soldiers, therefore, were glad that we had confirmed reservations at the Roxy Hotel.

            At this time, I make it perfectly clear that living through an earth-quake could not have been more frightening than was our wild high-speed taxi ride with a maniac cab driver  from the airport to our hotel.  I have been told that when faced with almost certain death, a person’s entire life experience passes before his eyes.  That may be true, but what I was experiencing at that moment  was the raw terror of being hurled through the Ecuadorian jungle like a human cannon-ball in contemplation of a short life.  I could not believe that I was paying good money for that.  That driver could have fully qualified as a Japanese Kamikaz pilot.

            We soldiers did not know ten words of Spanish between us, but that driver must have understood our pronunciation of Guayaquil, because he immediately launched that missile in which we sat and randomly aimed it toward the city in a tire-squalling roar.  Wi