TWENTY
THE FORK IN THE ROAD
By 1929 the days of barnstorming were drawing to a close. Flying could still earn one a good living, but success required skill, ingenuity, and sometimes, a willingness to skirt legal restraints. One such pilot was Edward DeLarm, a status Indian who flew routes from Florida to California and Mexico. Born at Pryor Creek reserve, Oklahoma, on October 12, 1888, DeLarm was the son of a French-Canadian father and an Arapaho mother.1 He first worked as an auto mechanic and race driver until a high-speed accident left him hanging from the branches of an elm tree. The experience soured him on professional driving but did little to diminish his thirst for thrills. He took up flying and in 1919 earned the eighty-fifth licence issued by the Aero Club of America. His licence was signed by Orville Wright, a fact that so impressed DeLarm that he legally adopted Orville as his middle name and carried his original licence in his billfold for the rest of his life.
Like Walter Wanderwell, DeLarm hated smoking, enjoyed chasing women (though he professed to being unusually slow since he only ever caught two), and loved crossing borders — especially if he earned money in the process. By 1929 DeLarm was living and working in Los Angeles, flying gold, alcohol, weapons and people for well-to-do clients, including newspaper-publishing magnate William Randolph Hearst. DeLarm’s life history bore great similarity to Walter’s and Aloha’s, and he would soon have an enormous impact on their lives.
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Aloha and company arrived to sunny skies and fair temperatures in New York on November 7, 1929, three years after they’d left for Cape Town. While the ship began unloading at New York’s Chelsea Piers, American authorities offered Walter their traditional welcome and detained him for questioning. He and the cars were eventually permitted entry, although he needed to supply his New York address. As an extra precaution, Walter immediately filed a Declaration of Intention for US citizenship — the fourth declaration he had made since 1917.
With immigration cleared and the cars finally unloaded, Aloha and Walter drove the crew and children to their hotel. Aloha was amazed by changes in the city. It was still recognizably New York — the forty-four-year-old Statue of Liberty held her torch over New York Harbor, the sixteen-year-old Grand Central Terminal was bustling — but there were dozens of new buildings, including a monstrous project under construction on Fifth Avenue. Most noticeable of all, though, were the cars. By 1929 there were more than sixty makes of automobile being manufactured in the United States, and all of them were on display in New York. Next to these cars, with their glossy, rounded shapes, chrome spokes, and thundering motors, the Wanderwell cars seemed merely grubby.
The wealth apparent on New York streets was impressive but misleading. Since the stock market crash, a mood of uncertainty had swept America. Bank stocks had recovered substantially from their initial lows but were slipping again. Walter was rattled. For the moment, the Wanderwells’ savings were secure, but from now on he would carry several hundred dollars in cash at all times.
British Board of Censors “show card” would be placed at the beginning of all of the expedition’s films, showing they were “appropriate” for family viewing.
Within three days, articles appeared in newspapers across the country announcing that Miss Aloha Wanderwell was nearing the end of her seven-year world tour and was en route to Detroit, where she would donate her car to Henry Ford’s museum.2 An article in the Oakland Tribune — the same paper that had mocked Walter and Aloha on their arrival in San Francisco — announced, “Miss Aloha Wanderwell, born Gilvis Hall, is nearing the end of her rainbow and the pot of gold. But to reach it she has had to travel five [sic] times around the world, visiting 43 countries on four continents during a journey lasting eight years.”3 The New York Times confirmed that a globe-circling car would be donated to Ford and marvelled at its many trials and adventures, including Africa where it had been kept running on “crushed bananas for grease and elephant fat for oil.”4 The Wanderwells stayed on in New York to play theatres and sell pamphlets, although leaving might have been the better option.
A portion of the Wanderwell compound with tents and outbuildings along the Miami River, Miami, Florida, 1928.
On December 17, in its section entitled “Screen Notes and New Films,” the New York Times announced the debut of the travel film With Car and Camera Around the World produced by twenty-three-year-old Aloha Wanderwell at the Fifth Avenue Playhouse. That announcement was followed two days later by what must have been a shocking assessment.
With Car and Camera Around the World walks through half a dozen reels of this film [sic]. The travel part of the expedition may have been Miss Wanderwell’s mileage in pacing from one side of the screen to the other. True, there are views of the Taj Mahal, African huts and Venetian canals, but they all seem to be obstructed by this well-traveled girl . . . At the conclusion of this photoplay one feels that Miss Wanderwell is an essential part of any landscape, here or abroad.5
The reviewer went on to suggest that the story may not be true, complaining, for example, that the safari “fantastically jumps from two to five cars, one of which is armored. Then this last disappears and a motorcycle magically takes its place.” The reviewer concluded by dismissing the film as “exactly what a majority of tourists would take with a motion picture camera.”
Aloha claimed not to care what newspapers said, but the ferocity of the Times review must have stung.
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After all the talk of heading for Detroit, Aloha and Walter had realized that winter was not the time to donate Unit No II to Ford’s museum. In the summer they could organize outdoor events and sell souvenir pamphlets. But drawing crowds in the snow would be next to impossible. A better idea was to head south for the winter.
By mid-January, Aloha and crew were back at WAWEC’s Miami headquarters. The property bore little resemblance to its pre-hurricane self, but it still felt like home. Two small buildings had been erected and the area cleared of trees. While the kids gambolled around the property, the Wanderwells planned another trip to Cuba. Money was tight and they could not afford bureaucratic delays, so they decided to send just one person ahead to prepare the way. Days later, quiet Olga boarded a flight to Cuba with the newly formed Pan American Airways, and by February 17 articles appeared in Havana’s El Pais-Excelsior announcing the arrival of the “Precursors of the International Police.”6 By the time Aloha arrived, shows were booked and tickets were selling briskly.
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The fifteenth census of the United States took place in 1930. The enumerator for Miami’s 36th precinct, Mr. A.M. Ziegler, was extraordinarily fortunate to find the Wanderwells at home on April 7 and must have wondered at the scene he found. Unit No II was in the midst of being repainted and repacked, and a motley assortment of tarps, canvas bags, automotive tools, printing supplies, and fuel canisters were spread across the grounds. Three olive drab tents had been pitched alongside the houses, including a military-style mess where C.W. Nicholson worked in his Wanderwell uniform supplemented by a frilled cooking apron. Valri, a deadpan four-year-old with long, blond, curly hair patrolled the property dressed in her own version of the Wanderwell uniform, complete with mini aviator goggles. And then there was little Nile, who preferred to lounge naked and spent most of his time on the porch swing or watching boats on the water.
When Mr. Ziegler had identified who actually owned and resided at the property, he listed Walter as head of the household, the value of his buildings as $4,500, and his profession as lecturer for a travelling film company. Aloha’s profession was the same. Two children were recorded, ages 3 ½ and 4 ½, while 47-year-old C.W. Nicholson was listed as both “servant” and “secretary for traveling film company.” The Seybold property, where Aloha and family had sought refuge during the Miami hurricane, was valued at $20,000 — the second most expensive property in the district.7
By the time the census taker arrived, Justine Tibesar and the members of WAWEC Unit No III were already well on their way to San Antonio, Texas. And shortly after the census taker’s visit, Aloha was behind the wheel of Unit No II, piloting the Tin Lizzie on her final voyage, not to Detroit, but to Chicago.
Since Africa, Aloha had continued her correspondence with Art Goebel. His most recent letter said that he’d entered the cross-country air derby at this year’s National Air Races, to be held from August 23 to September 1 in Chicago. In 1928 Goebel had entered the same event, flying from New York to Los Angeles. That year, none of the eleven starters had finished, although Art had flown further than anyone else, getting as far as Prescott, Arizona, in his Lockheed Vega.8 This time he would be sure to finish, and hopefully win. After the races, he planned to stay in Chicago for a spell, giving flying lessons as part of a publicity event. Perhaps Aloha would like to learn to fly? She didn’t need to be asked twice.
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By July the expedition had left Florida and was in Detroit, suffering through sweltering temperatures and a city government in meltdown. The worldwide economic downturn had hit Detroit especially hard, but the newly elected and corrupt mayor Charles Bowles had filed his nails while the city was overrun by speakeasies, gambling dens, and mafia murders. Activists, however, had organized a recall vote, and by the time Aloha and company arrived, the city was about to go to the polls.
This new mood of hope may have contributed to the warm reception the Wanderwells received in the Motor City. Although there were no ticker tape parades this time, newspapers and radio stations ran flattering stories about the expedition’s accomplishments and played up the promotional angle that Walter had painted on the side of Unit No II: “Only a Ford Could Have Done It!” One Detroit Free Press photo shows an elated Walter standing behind the car and extending the US flag, as in days of old. Inside, Nile and Valri are peeking over the side of the car. The caption describes how the car had been given an “Honor Place” in the Ford museum after being presented to Henry Ford.
Walter behind the battered Unit No II as it was presented to Henry Ford at the Ford headquarters, Dearborn, Michigan, 1930. Valri and Nile are inside the car.
After dozens of countries, thousands of miles, and countless close calls, the car that had carried Aloha around the world had roared its last. Aloha would often think about her “Princess of Serendip,” with its horsehair seats, gun scabbards, and auto club tattoos. It was her first home on wheels and she would later wonder what had become of it.
To replace Unit II, Walter had negotiated a reduced price on a Model A chassis and, thanks to Olga, had received a “Phaeton body for the Ford Chassis for an expedition to be made to South America, gratis” from the Briggs Manufacturing Company.9 The completed car closely resembled the stately 1930 Deluxe Phaeton, except that the trunk was rebuilt to Walter’s patented Speed Slope design, allowing it to fold out and serve as a workbench or table. Decades later, a vintage car magazine would describe how the unique trunk “stored cine cameras, film, spare petrol, tent, sleeping bags, etc. Hardly any spares were carried . . . However, one special gadget was included: a very light-weight windlass and winch which, with a length of fine cable, three steel pegs and chains, helped to extract the car from many an impassable condition encountered on hills, gullies, mud and streams.”10 Their new supercar was again called Unit No II.
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Over 1,800 miles away, aviator Eddie DeLarm and his mechanic Reid Smith were arrested in Chile and charged with conspiring to overthrow the government.11 Chile’s resource-based economy had been devastated by the fallout from the 1929 crash, and the authoritarian government of Carlos Ibáñez del Campo was deeply unpopular. DeLarm had been in South America working for Ford as a test pilot and courier, flying his trusty Ford Trimotor plane throughout Brazil and the central continent, but he had recently signed on with the New York, Rio & Buenos Aires Air Lines. According to the New York Times, “they worked for the NYRBA until Sept. 13, when the airline officially ceased to function and was absorbed by the Pan-American.” Ten days later, DeLarm and Reid flew with five other men to Concepción, Chile, where they were greeted, almost on landing, by a retinue of carefully aimed rifles. Someone had been tipped off.
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With the Detroit festivities over and a new vehicle to break in, Walter drove Miki, who had arrived to share in the celebration, back to Qualicum Beach with Valri and Nile.’ Aloha went on to the Curtis-Reynolds airport in Chicago. She had a photographer’s pass to the National Air Races and, after the recent news coverage, everyone knew who she was.
She spent most of the week watching a sky cluttered with buzzing aircraft: there were autogiro demonstrations, navy aircraft flying in formation, several stunt flyers (including an amazing display of daredevil flying by Commander Richard Atcherley whose biplane flew close over the ground, dragging wingtips, spinning fully sideways, even appearing to fly backwards), and a war demonstration in which aerial gunners actually shot down a manned blimp. The blimp pilot parachuted to safety shortly before his deflated craft plummeted to Earth in an explosion of smoke and flame. There was a real crash, however, that killed Lieutenant P. DeShazo and two spectators. Once the conflagration had burned itself out, the air races continued while officials with metal poles poked through the wreckage, turning over what looked like twisted lengths of tinfoil to search for human remains. None were found.
Like Aloha, famed aviatrix Elinor Smith, “The Flying Flapper,” was at the airshow awaiting Goebel’s arrival — and she, too, had reserved a place in her heart for the dashing aviator. In her autobiography, Smith comments, “Because he had been first aviator to conquer the Pacific, Art Goebel’s fame rivalled Lindbergh’s.”12 She describes Goebel’s arrival:
The crowds were keyed up by the announcement that Art Goebel should be landing any minute. He was competing for first place in the nonstop race from Los Angeles to Chicago. So far Wiley Post was the winner, with Lee Schoenhair in second place . . . .
At 5:31 p.m. Art roared across the finish line, nosing out Schoenhair for second place by racking up an elapsed time of nine hours and twenty-one minutes, just twelve minutes behind Wiley, who was now the official winner. Interestingly, every ship in this race was a Lockheed, so the individual scores . . . were directly attributable to piloting skill.13
Two weeks after the air race, Aloha began her flying lessons, writing Miki that “the flying is going great, eight hours dual control now and learning to land the ship, that’s the hardest part of all. We have several small shows (thank heavens) the end of the week so will have to thin out the lessons.”14 Olga was also in Chicago and may have been taking lessons too, though it seems that she had already learned to fly in Europe.
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On November 16, 1930, the New York Times carried an article describing how an American aviator named “Orville DeLarm” had used a hacksaw blade to file the hinges off his cell door in a Chilean prison. Once free, DeLarm had “walked all night, avoiding highways until he had gained the comparative safety of the open country where he bought a horse,” the start of a treacherous 500-mile journey to Argentina, through sleet, snow, and across rugged mountain terrain, often going hungry and eventually wearing out four horses.15 The article concluded by saying that his mechanic, still in prison, had not known the real reason for their trip to Chile and that DeLarm was planning to return to the United States soon. That part, at least, was not entirely true.
Valri, age four, and Nile, age three, at the Wanderwell compound, 1930.
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Aloha spent the remaining months of 1930 preparing for the trip to South America. Now twenty-four, she would, at long last, be able to incorporate aircraft into her films and travelogues. She had been disqualified from earning her pilot’s licence because of a defect in her left eye, but the ban extended only to US airspace, leaving her free to fly in South America. Officially, however, Olga was the expedition pilot.
December found Aloha and her “girl world travelers” headlining the Newcomb Theatre in New Orleans, Louisiana, while Walter placed ads in the Times-Picayune newspaper, seeking “four persons to share part expenses motoring with me around the world. Covering South America, Australia, Asia and Europe in special Car . . . $100 month required.”16 The hundred-dollar stipulation meant that no one from the economically depressed South could afford to join the expedition, and when they finally departed on January 20, 1931, aboard the Mississippi Shipping Company’s SS Afel, ship manifests would list only Aloha, Walter, and Olga.17
Shortly before their departure, Walter had contacted the Brazilian government requesting permission to enter the wild Mato Grosso region — the same area where English explorer Percy Fawcett had disappeared six years earlier. A response to his request arrived from a Brazilian colonel named Rondon. The government was interested in Walter’s proposal and looked forward to meeting with him to negotiate the details of the expedition, including aircraft and support crew. It was a promising start.
