It was quite a novelty to drive fast over the smooth macadam. We had almost forgotten that we ever had been in any other country or that we ever had driven an automobile fast enough to roll up dust. Passing a beautiful cemetery with a magnificent wall and gateway, the interpreter explained that it was possible for a Cuban town to maintain a beautiful cemetery because it leases the lots instead of selling them, and the income from the dead is fairly permanent. Edwin made a real joke, by asking what they did with the dead beats who did not pay the rent. An astonished rural guard, on the outskirts of Matanzas, was glad to drop his duties and accompany us in the car to the center of town. He guided us to the Grand Hotel Paris. That word “grand,” as applied to the Cuban hotels, is a great deal like the word “best,” as applied to automobiles in American advertising. There are so many Grand Hotels at which one would not stop, except out of necessity, that the word has lost its meaning. This one, however, was fairly deserving of the title and we were immediately charmed with the clerk. Rogelio Gaarken was his name, and he was the first Cuban we had met who did more thinking than jabbering. “Cuba,” our original interpreter, was to go back to Havana from here, so we shanghaied Rogelio, much to the disgust of the proprietor, because this was the tourist season and Rogelio was needed to bring down Havana’s overflow of sightseers at eleven dollars per, guide to the Yumuri Valley and dinner, with a thirty-cent bottle of wine, thrown in. It was nine o’clock when we reached Matanzas and two o’clock when we left. The visiting fever had struck us and we loitered away the hours seeing some of the most convenient sights and adding to our stingy supplies. We put in some groceries and road building hardware, including a mattock. A mattock is worth two dollars in Spanish money, but in usefulness it is worth twelve shovels, six crowbars and three hatchets. The pick end is the best mechanical substitute for dynamite, while the wide blade on the other side can be used for anything from chopping out shale and rock-like clay to peeling sugar cane for luncheon. We also purchased as much gasoline as we could carry, for Matanzas is the only place in Cuba where it is refined. Gasoline is an uncertain quantity down there. We had got beyond being critical about the uncertainty of its quality. The smallest town has kerosene and some of the country stores carry benzine. Gasoline is only found in the larger cities, where the mayor or some other dignitary owns a gasoline stove. The government engineer of the Province of Matanzas gave us a blue print showing the way we should go toward Santa Clara. After he had finished his elaborate directions, he told us that it would be impossible to travel that road. He said that we might go a little way but would soon come to a river fifteen to twenty feet deep and a hundred yards wide. Our only comment was: “Adios.”