 From the familiar skyline of New York, it is nine days by boat, nine hours by air, and nine seconds by the motion picture camera to the somewhat different skyline of the northern shore of South America. Would it be well perhaps before we go any further to refresh our memory as to just where South American countries are? Let's take a moment to do that. The South American route of the Pan American Highway is in the north twofold, one road coming down from the Panama-Colombia border to Bogotá, capital of Colombia, the other connecting Bogotá with Caracas, capital of Venezuela. Proceeding southward along a coastal route, the highway passes through Quito and Lima and then Brancas. One route proceeds down the west coast through Valparaiso and Santiago, capital of Chile, and then crosses the Andes and reaches Buenos Aires, capital of Argentina. The other branch goes eastward to La Paz, capital of Bolivia, and then turns crossing into Argentina to join the other route at Buenos Aires. A spur projects northward to Asuncion, capital of Paraguay. At Parana, Argentina, another spur strikes eastward and at Porte Alegre, Brazil meets that important part of the highway which, beginning at Buenos Aires, proceeds through Montevideo, capital of Uruguay, and then along the Atlantic coastal route to Rio de Janeiro, capital of Brazil. Our landing is in Venezuela at La Guaira, the gateway to the capital Caracas. This little coastal city, crowded between the mountains and the sea, is one of the busiest of the Caribbean ports. An important member of the fall price-febric-length expedition, our expedition, goes ashore for this tour is to be by automobile, this automobile. The old town's deep slopes and wealth of color make La Guaira a good foretaste of South American picturesque. Houses, boats, beach, sea, mountains and skies, all abound in color. Now for the first stage of our tour, across Venezuela with a side trip to the oil fields. On leaving the Caribbean coast at La Guaira and setting off across country, you find yourself climbing abruptly into rugged country. The great slopes and mountainous masses which come close to the coast here are really a lateral range of the mighty Andes. From the sea to Caracas is only eight miles in a straight line, but to get there you must travel 23 miles over a route full of sweeping curves and rich in broad panoramas of mountain and valley, sea and sky. One striking thing about Caracas is its fabulously picturesque setting in a valley of the coastal range at an elevation of 3,000 feet. Another is the agreeable climate. For December, January and February it may make you envious to hear, have an average temperature of about 48 degrees Fahrenheit. Two interesting details, the streets have known a number of places but the corners have, and Caracas will have its 400th birthday in 1967. A detour to the eastward of Caracas before we head toward the Colombian border reveals engaging glimpses of the Venezuelan backcountry. A good deal of expert road building has been going on in eastern Venezuela. Good pavements traverse the countryside, ready for the transport of oil and agricultural products to the Caribbean port. Before we in North America can have our coconut custard pie, somebody has to deal with the original coconuts in this fashion. Not all coconuts attain the distinction of coconut custard pie. Some of them wind up in candles or margarine. We're well to the west of Caracas now, and bound for the famous oil fields of Maracaibo. The roads, part of the Pan-American highway system, are excellent in this region. It is chiefly Maracaibo that enables Venezuela to rank next to the United States and Russia in petroleum production. Some of the best wells tap the lake bottom with Derrick's right out over the water, and we see one of Maracaibo's famous sunset. We strike westward, ready now to climb into the Andes and to begin our approach to the Colombian border. The mountain scenery becomes increasingly impressive, but here and there we note farmhouses perched on the slopes, and the stone walls would remind the New Englander of home. The Indian farmer folk here about have a method of threshing that is new to us. They drive their horses round and round over the newly cut grain, then they toss the trampled wheat into the air and let the keen breezes of these uplands blow away the chaff. The mountain towns tucked away in the Andes at elevations of 5,000 feet and more are friendly charming places, bits of old Spain put here centuries ago and still almost unchanged. Our route in Colombia. Huge plaza and the old cathedral are still pretty much as they were in colonial day. The road to Bogota, these Colombian highways are good all-weather roads, though paved only when entering cities. Bogota is on a lofty broad plain up in the eastern range of the Andes. Let no one think of this handsome, highly civilized capital as a tropical city. Its elevation is 8,500 feet, and if in Caracas you go outdoors to find the cooling breeze, here in Bogota you go out in the sun to keep warm. Bogota is old too. Before the Spaniards came, the capital Indian Empire was here. West of Market Day at Supecán, one of the mountain villages. The side trip to the north at an end, we return to the route of the Pan-American highway and again head south, a small town scene worth recording, the oxen in the square at La Union and a fine old church. Just before crossing into Ecuador, we find the town of Ipiales full of color and activity, for luckily we are passing through on Saturday, Market Day. Most of the buyers and sellers are Indians who come here whole families of them and many from considerable distances. The Indians love their markets. They have a grand time. Now for our trip through Ecuador. In many of these mountain villages, the admirably simple and sufficient economic life of the Indians is open for all to see. They spin and weave, they raise their crops, they go to market, sell what they can and pay what they need. Their way of life is sent old and it seems a pretty good one. Sheep on the way to the market we have just left and they're very busy shepherds. This monument at San Antonio sits squarely on the equator. Here, according to one small boy, a menagerie lion runs around the earth, dividing it in half. This is a pretty good one. Sheep on the way to the market we have just left and they're very busy shepherds. This monument at San Antonio sits squarely on the equator. Here, according to one small boy, a menagerie lion runs around the earth, dividing it in half. Keto, Ecuador's capital, is perched more than 9,000 feet up in the mountain and the climate is delightful. Keto was rich in history, for here was an Inca city before the Spaniards came. It is rich in churches too, fine old structures dating from colonial days. At the Tuna River, our traveler's way was blocked. You can't drive a car over this fragile narrow bridge, so just to prove that he can get across anyway, Mr. Lanks takes to walking and sends the car on a detour. On the little native farms, the juice of the sugarcane is extracted by oxen power. The juice is afterwards boiled down and poured into molds for native consumption. This method hardly provides a part of Ecuador's export crop. The Pan-American highway traverses many fertile ways, which grow sugar, cotton, coffee, rubber, and an unending variety of agricultural products. The highway is becoming an economic lifeline to hundreds of communities, releasing surplus commodities to outside markets. Along our route to the south, we are always encountering interesting bits of native life, such as these busy women. They're digging potatoes. The technique is primitive, but the potatoes are excellent. Did you know that the potato originated in South America? Well, it did. Yama, donkeys, and sheep in one large, dusty, amiable ensemble all on their way to market. The Yama is pack animal number one in these parts within what he considers reasonable limits. Put one more ounce on him than he considers fair practice, and he just calmly sits down until the excess burden is removed. On Market Day, Rio Bamba is a maze of highly colored activity. All the plazas are crowded with stalls where everything the Indians need, from buttons, needles, and pins to hand-woven punches and blankets, are theirs to buy, sell, and market. This is one of the most famous of all the many South American native markets. Our last place of call in this lovely country of Ecuador is Guayaquil, the country's chief seaport. Guayaquil is charming, even if it is as hot as Quito is cold. The route in Peru is in general along the coast. It doesn't happen often, but once in a while there are freak-heavy rains in the desert of northern Peru with sad results to the roadway. For the road for miles and miles runs close to the sea. In the northern countries it was mountains and more mountains. Here in Peru, the desert and the sea are our companions. Lima, cultures and civilizations may come and go, empires disappear and Republican factions quarrel, but one thing goes on forever in Peru, their agriculture. It is one of the basic industries of the country and will someday be even more vital. For now only 12% of the arable land is under cultivation. The most important export crops are cotton and sugar. Well, here we are meeting some more of them. There are many colors, black, white, fawn, reddish, and a various unpredictable combination. The llama knows that his wool is a valuable crop and has never been able to figure out why he should be asked to be the Indian's only beast of virtue. This makes him suspicious of everything. For instance, he won't eat at night. He wants good strong daylight on his food so he can see what he's eating. And being really a sort of camel, he spends a good deal of time sadly wondering why he isn't more like other camels. Now begins one of the greatest adventures of the entire trip, up to and over the 16,000-foot Anticona Pass, right over the top of the Andes. We are now approaching the pass which will lead us to the highest road in the world, a thousand miles long, thus in Bolivia, highest of South American capitals, 12,000 feet up in the mountains. Now we have reached Anticona Pass itself. The snow-strewn heights are bathed in brilliant sunshine, and the beauty of the scene is unforgettably awe-inspiring. Over the Montauro River, we find a good example of the typically South American swinging bridge. In pre-Inca days, the Indians built many a bridge of this type across these swift Andean streams, using twisted vines instead of steel cables and huge boulders where modern engineers use stone and concrete anchorages. Along our way, we have the luck to see the Indian festival called Tumbarel Monthly. The participants arrived by bus, a luxury unknown to the primitive originators of this old ceremony. This festival is a yearly affair, celebrated some days before the beginning of Lent. The Indians put on their gayest clothes, and according to them, they add to their glamour by generous splotches of talcum powder which they have thrown over each other. The ceremony is called Tumbarel Monte, or Felling of the Tree, for reasons which will be evident when the party reaches its climax. To the strains of their native instruments, with some outrageously non-native brass horns added, they circle about a young growing tree. If the dance doesn't seem exactly lively and graceful, it is well to remember that each Indian heart is nevertheless swelling with joy. At intervals, one of the dancers pauses to take a cut at the tree with an extremely modern act. They all manage to take a turn at doing this. Finally, the tree is felled, and that is the end of the ceremony. Ayakucho is a mountain town, and the site of one of the decisive battles of the revolution. It marks about the halfway post on our journey from the coast to Kusco, the old Inca capital. Ayakucho is agreeably installed at an altitude... Off again toward Kusco. It is well to remember that here we are not on the main town American highway, but off on a side trip to the Inca capital. Indian herders with slings keeping their cattle and horses together by a method peculiar to this part of the world. By hurling skillfully aimed small bits of stone near the feet of any wandering animal, they do their herding standing still. The sling is probably a good deal like the weapons the Incas tried to use against the invading Spaniards. Crossing the eastern range of the Andes by this route, one meets delays here and there. One kind is caused by the ever recurring temptation to stop and photograph a bit of scenic splendor. Another source of delay is the not infrequent landslides, which bring boulders down onto the narrow roadway. On this occasion, an opportune meeting with road workers saves us hours of labor. And then Kusco. The great plaza reveals Spanish colonial architecture in its perfection. But here in Kusco, the mine goes back to a past far more remote than the Spanish conquest. For here was the capital of the empire of the Incas. Many fine massive walls built by the ancient inhabitants centuries before the Spaniards came still stand in Kusco. By any standard ancient or modern, they are magnificent examples of the stone mason skill. Outside Kusco is Saxa Fama, mighty and indestructible fortress built no one knows how long ago. Some of the huge irregular stones, shaped without the aid of metal tools and precisely fitted together without mortar, weigh as much as 20 tons. At Machu Picchu, about 50 miles from Kusco, is another stupendous ruin disclosed to modern eyes only in 1912. Here on the summit of a lofty ridge, lying between still loftier peaks, the Incas had a fine city and an impregnable stronghold. The thatched roof you see here is modern, but just like those the Incas use. The Inca thatching and wooden roof beams of course disappeared ages ago, but the ancient masonry stands century after century. The gabled house was well known to the Incas and throughout Machu Picchu is that unbelievable perfection of the ancient masonry. An interesting variation is this round building and note the tremendous depth of the valley which nearly surrounds this fabulous mountain city. Down a street of the old city and into a house, that's just how it was many a time long ago, centuries ago, long, long before Europe knew there was such a place as America. The highest point of Machu Picchu and the site of the sundial, sacred to the greatest Inca god, the sun. The temple of the three windows, rich in Inca legend, finally behold the terraces on which the dwellers of Machu Picchu raised their crops. The Incas were the only early Americans who understood the use of fertilizers. Believe it or not, you are looking at an Inca farm. After a drive full of difficulties over narrow mountain roads, our reward is the first glimpse of Lake Titicaca. Here is a sea 4,000 square miles in area, navigable to big steamers, and yet it is more than 12,500 feet up in the air. It was on the shore of beautiful amazing Lake Titicaca that we encountered the most colorful of native dances. The women's costumes are remarkable for an elaborate stratification of wool and skirts and an incongruous sort of flat derby hat. The men carry cylindrical bunches of colored yarn. The dance itself is far more animated than many other dances of South American Indians, with a lot of emphasis on gyration and the movement of everybody in a large circle. This goes on with brief rests for hours. Originally, this ceremony was a harvest festival called for a dash into Bolivia and a look at La Paz. Suddenly revealed in a great mountain bowl is La Paz, the Bolivian capital. Here is the highest of all the great South American city, 12,000 feet above sea level. The Spanish influence is far less evident than in Caracas, Bogotá, Quito or Lima. There is much new building in the modern manner, and there is the constant impression that very little of the city is on level ground. The snow-capped mountain of Illumani is a near neighbor and a mighty impressive one. This time, instead of skirting the lake, we cross it, or rather a bit of it at the southern tip. The ferries are peculiar affairs, each of them looking like half of a good-sized sailboat. The sail power is reinforced by the muscles of fawny Indians. For the two-mile sail, the fare is only 10 bolivianos, about 18 cents in United States money. We are still in Bolivia. Along the way, we see Indian farmers plowing by hand, the men turning the clods, the women smashing them, the survival of a truly primitive method. The route is again briefly through Peru, the southern tip of it. In Arequipa, you will find at an elevation of 7,600 feet a number of pleasant things, a fine climate, genuine Spanish colonial atmosphere, cleanliness, quiet and order. This is Peru's second city, but many rank it in charm and interest unquestionably first, and so much for Peru. In Chile, we shall follow the coast to beyond Santiago and then cross into Argentina. The route along the coast of Chile, in other words, this part of the San American highway, is generally straight and level over the desert. Occasionally, however, we encounter a great declivity such as this, with something of an oasis at the bottom of the valley. But so dry is this country that the attempts at agriculture are carried on only by means of irrigation. Tiles of the road cross Chile's famous nitrates bed, one of the country's most valuable resources until artificial nitrates were developed. On these dry coasts too, you get an intimate first-hand acquaintance with what a South American roadway can do in the way of dust. Occasionally, the road comes right down to the sea, a welcome change after so much motoring over barren coastal table land. For the most part, this Chilean coastal roadway is merely the desert surface cleared of rougher material. Like all desert country, however, it has its own individuality and queer fascination. As you approach the latitude of Santiago, the shore towns become increasingly handsome. They are obviously the summer headquarters of the well-to-do people from the capital. We turn away from the Pacific and head for Santiago, over one of the best parts of the Pan-American highway. Santiago is another of those South American capitals, blessed with a perfect combination of altitude and latitude. It has a lovely climate, and it has a charming identity all its own. As one sees very well from one of the finest parts in the world, on Santa Lucia Hill, Santiago is a beautiful place in a fine natural setting. Besides being the center of Chile's industry and government, Santiago is notable for its good food, its good-looking women, and its good books. A fine place, this Santiago. Another side trip now to Locte Uspalaca Pass, and the famous statue of Christ on the Chilean-Argentine boundary. The approach to the pass is a complex system of curves and hairpin turns. Purely incidental, also it seems to us purely picturesque. Now we are approaching the pass. We are in the neighborhood of the highest of all the peaks in the Andes, and that means the highest in this hemisphere. This route is not the simplest motoring in the world. You have miles of climbing and twisting. Now we are actually at the Cristo Pass. It crosses the Andes at an elevation of 15,000 feet. Dominating the scene is mighty Acuncagua, 23,081 feet, the highest peak in all America, South or North. For sheer magnificence, this is the supreme moment of our whole trip. This is where Argentina and Chile meet, and here, modeled in bronze, melted down from cannon, is the great Cristo Redento statue. It bears the inscription, sooner shall these mountains crumble into dust, than the peoples of Argentina and Chile break the peace which at the feet of Christ the Redeemer they have sworn to maintain. Instead of proceeding to Buenos Aires by the Pan-American highway, we shall now turn south for our visit to the tip of the continent. The further south one goes in Chile, the more it becomes like the eastern part of the United States. Topography, climate, vegetation and people are all much like those at home. The final Chilean episode was a lengthy introduction to about 12,000 Argentine sheep on their way to Santiago. Even before entering Argentina, we were ready to believe in a great sheep country. Our route in Argentina down to the Cape and back to Buenos Aires. Our road south in Argentina is by the westernmost route we can find. Often this is picturesque, Chile farming country, and most certainly it is lake country. We are now on the shore of one of those lovely lakes of Argentina, Lake Gutierrez. It may be a surprise to you, as it certainly was to us, to learn that down here in the southern part of South America, there is the lake country which rivals that of Minnesota, or Wisconsin, or the Outer Andes. In Patagonia, the road is merely the gravelly surface of the pompom. Someday maybe an extension of the Pan-American highway may reach way down here, as it is the road workers do what they can. To the old sheep herders, this is all a great waste of time. What good are roads to him? After the desolate Pampas and once getting thoroughly lost, it's a great relief to reach Magallanes, the point furthest south accessible by car. It is about as far south of the equator as Hudson Bay is north of it. We have come 10,000 miles, the first continuous automobile trip from the Caribbean to the Strait of Magellan. Now we head north. We are in Argentina remembering with an effort that Buenos Aires is 2,000 miles away. Road building further north on a detour near the coast. Maribel Plata. The recipe for this famous resort would seem to be to take a bit of the best of the French and Italian Riviera, Miami, Palm Beach, and the California shore places, and mingle them into one beautiful and luxurious home. On to BA, over 249 miles of concrete, the longest, straightest, and safest invitation to speeding in South America. And what is BA? It's Buenos Aires on the shore of the Rio de la Plata, Argentina's capital and her chief seaport. Buenos Aires has a general air of spacious elegance which reminds one of Paris. There are two and a third million people living here, one-sixth of Argentina's entire population. It is the financial and cultural heart of the country, as well as the seat of the government. You can see the traffic cop, but you can't see what's under him, namely the best-looking, cleanest, quietest of all subways. Buenos Aires has an amazing underground parking service, too. Buenos Aires is our point of departure for Uruguay, a water voyage across the La Plata. Another frontier crossed, and now we shall traverse Uruguay. If you follow us on this journey, have $15 handy at this point to pay for having your car ferried across. At Montevideo, the Germans not long ago installed an object of interest, for this is the graveyard of La Grafche Bay. Montevideo is a city of charm, and it also has a certain building. This is a skyscraper apartment hotel dominating the entire city, and one of the words to describe its architecture is, Alas, there are 42 miles between Castelios and the Brazilian border, which are not so good. In fact, they're like this. But that was nothing. Nearer the border, things have come to this pretty path. The Battle of the Mud goes on for several terrible days. Sometimes we are proudly but nervously under our own power, but more often we gladly accept whatever help is at hand. The final leg of our trip now lies before us, from the Uruguay-Brazil border up to Rio de Janeiro. Here we are at the comfortable little city of Rio Grande. Cotton has taken on a large importance in Brazil for the crop is plentiful and good, and has an important place in the world market. While rolling up to Rio, we find a good many of the oddly shaped Paraná pine. Maybe the tree is as new to you as it was to us. We are traveling toward the equator now, and the country becomes more tropical. The road that takes us north to Rio de Janeiro is the last section of the Pan-American highway, and beyond Rio, road building is difficult. So after 13,000 miles, much of it on splendid roads and much of it through jungles, mountain passes, deserts, and desolate pompous, this journey of ours is about to end at the remarkable city of Rio de Janeiro. Rio de Janeiro is usually approached by sea, but we have come by highway from the west. This is us proved, at least to us, how such a man-made thing as good roads can help to consolidate many people, help to make them real neighbors. It is still better to think that the great figure on Corcovallo represents in some fundamental way the good neighborliness for which many of us are striving in this distressed world.