Life Begins at 30

In the U.S. an owner has to be queer for old cars to hold on to one, but in much of Latin America, the economies run on the uncertain wheels of old jalopies.

With its necklace of colored lights and blinking neon signs, Argentina's only outdoor used-car lot (the "Automart"), in suburban Buenos Aires, looks like its ubiquitous U.S. counterpart run by "Madman Mike" or "Giveaway Gus." Even the sales pitch is the same: "Good Runner!" says a sign plastered to a windshield. But there the similarity ends. Precious few '58s, '59s and '60s shine forth at the Automart. A 1925 T-model Ford is price-tagged at $500; beside it stands a 1930 Dodge at $875; next comes a 1936 British Lagonda for $2,000. If a prospect looks under an ancient hood, he may find a tin can packed with metal shavings in place of an air cleaner; salesmen rush up with warnings not to touch engines for fear of disturbing the precarious equilibrium developed over years of makeshift repairs.

Strong Like a Tank. Aside from Brazil, which boasts an impressive home-grown Detroit, most Latin American countries must import cars entire or most of the parts. Over the decades, to save their dollar supply, they have clamped such stiff import restrictions and duties on cars that only big companies, big bureaucrats and big spenders can afford new ones. Result: autos, like antiques, go from hand to hand, losing little in value as they grow older.

Argentina has the stiffest import duties (a 1960 Chevrolet Bel Air costs $21,691) and an average auto age of 20. It is probably the only nation in the world which had more cars per capita in 1928 than it does now. Many a Buenos Aires taxi is over 30. Taxis chug along, doors tied shut with string, bodies rocking precariously on chassis, drivers flailing their arms to compensate for 180DEG of steering-wheel play. In Chile, where the buyer of a $2,000 U.S. car must post an import-discouraging $20,000 bond for three months, some 60% of the country's 54,429 cars are pre-World War II vintage. "They are strong like a tank and high like a horse," says Farmer Mario Herrera, who gets around the fields in a 1929 Dodge bought by his father. A 1928 Dodge taxi plies Santiago's red-light district in the wee hours, bearing witness to its driver's boast that even "drunks can't destroy it."

In Peru, which imposes 300% customs duties on new U.S. cars, the most notable rolling relics are colectivos, taxibuses plying regular routes from Lima's working-class slums to market. Driver Andres Barreto says he was lucky to have bought his six-cylinder 1929 Packard Diplomat. "I just happened to be in the Tacora junkyard when a fellow drove up in this car. I tell you I got a bargain. That was eleven years ago, and this car makes at least $7.25 a day for me. I carry as many as twelve passengers and bags of potatoes, green corn, fish, small pigs and goats, live chickens. Sometimes when the car is full I carry the chickens on my lap." Adds Driver Felix Bernaola, who runs a durable 1928 Ford sedan: "I average 150 miles daily, and in 14 hours I use about 15 gallons of gas and about a quart of oil. The motor is in fairly good shape, only in winter I have to heat it with a blowtorch for about 15 minutes to get it started."

Something for Survivors. To keep the veterans running, a special breed of geriatric mechanics has grown up in Latin America. They prowl every big city's junkyards (Santiago has ten sprawling "dismounting parks"), searching with a collector's eye for hard-to-find spark adjusters and planetary gears for their pet patients. Last week Jose Quiroz stood in the doorway of his Santiago garage and watched a 1930 Essex roll up. "There are no more made," he said, "but it's always possible to do a little something for the survivors." One handy Santiago cabbie took an iron bar and a three-cornered file and proceeded to whittle a gearshift for his 1935 Hudson; that was a year ago, and the shift still works perfectly.

Among the few Latin places where the auto population has not reached mature old age are Bolivia and Colombia. In the rarefied air of La Paz, the 11,900-ft. high capital of Bolivia, even the strongest auto passes on after a mere 15 years or so. And in Colombia most cars are likewise postwar models. Very few cars were imported in the 1920s and 1930s, because in those days Colombia had scarcely any paved roads.

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