198 ALBACORA 



peared, climbed into the back of the station wagon and 

 curled up amid the luggage. 



"Who's he?" I said to Carlos. 



"Cousin," Carlos said. 



"No you don't," said Lou. "No relatives and no 

 free rides." 



Carlos spoke quickly in Spanish. We understood 

 nothing except that his friend in the back had to stay. 

 "No him," Carlos said, pointing, "no trip." 



We started again and reached the camino to Salango 

 at three-thirty. For an hour we rode down a pleasant 

 two-lane country road, hemmed in by tropical trees and 

 underbrush. It was hot and humid, but we might have 

 been riding down a road in the United States. Then 

 we reached the boundary of a different province. Carlos 

 twisted the wheel hard and we swerved off the highway 

 onto a twisting dirt alley lined with a series of deep 

 ruts. The station wagon bumped ahead. The highway 

 disappeared behind. 



"Something wrong with the camino?'' I asked. 



"No, Senora," Carlos said. 



"When do we get back on the road?" 



"No back. Este es el camino,'' 



"Lou," I said, "he's kidding." 



"Don't worry," Lou said. "This road gets better. No 

 car could hold together for much of this." 



"What happens when a car comes the other way, 

 Carlos?" I asked. 



