THE INTERIOR OF BRAZIL1867
THE INTERIOR OF BRAZIL1867I HAD been in Brazil nearly two years, vegetating between Santos and São Paulo, varied by an occasional expedition afield or a trip to Rio de Janeiro, when I determined to put into action my long-cherished plan of prospecting the great and wealthy province of Minas Gerães in the interior, and then to go down the São Francisco, which is the Brazilian Mississippi, from Sabará to the sea, and to visiten routethe Paulo Affonso rapids, the Niagara of Brazil. As my wife was very anxious to go, I took her with me.We left Rio on June 12th, 1867, and sailed across the incomparable Bay, and then ascended to Petropolis. From Petropolis we made our real start in a large char-à-banc, which held eight, in two and two, and which was drawn by four mules. The mules started off in fine style; being fresh and frisky they simply galloped along the mountain side. It is not necessary for me to describe the first part of the journey, which, for a few days, travelled along a well-known road, through a splendid district of wooded mountains, broad rivers, and boulders of rock; the vegetation was especially fine, even tropical. At Juiz de Forawe abandoned our char-à-banc for the coach, whereby we travelled to Barbacena, and here again we left the coach for the saddle, and followed the bridle-road, if indeed it could be called a road.I should weary if I were to describe the places we passed through until we came to Logão Duroda, where the railway was in process of making, and where they were just laying the first chain for the exploration of the mountains and for the prolongation of the Dom Pedro Secunda Railway. There was an inauguration ceremony, and my wife had the honour of giving the first blow to the stock and breaking a bottle of wine over it. After that we had a convivial gathering, and wound up with a dinner in the good old English fashion. Next day we started off again, and still riding through beautiful scenery, up and down mountains, through shallow rivers and bits of virgin forests, from day to day, we eventually arrived at Morro Velho, where we were most hospitably received by the superintendent of the São Goa d’el Rey Mining Company and Mrs. Gordon, and we spent some days in their most comfortable home. Morro Velho is the queen of the Minas Gerães mines, and a most interesting place, but, as we were going back to it, we determined to press on to Ouro Preto, which is the capital of the province, a most hilly town, for walking up and down the streets was as difficult as climbing up ladders. We stayed here two days, and then returned to Morro Velho. We had a long, muddy, rainy journey on the way back, slipping backward two steps for every oneforward, but at last we arrived at the Gordons’ house again, and were warmly welcomed as before. Here we tarried for a fortnight, and thoroughly explored everything.Among other things we explored the mine, which had the reputation of being the largest, deepest, and richest gold-mine in Brazil. My wife determined to go with me, and Mrs. Gordon, who had never before ventured under grass, kindly consented to accompany her. Mr. Gordon and I went down first in a bucket, or kibble, which was suspended over the abyss. We found in it a rough wooden seat, comfortable enough. We were advised by the pitman not to look downwards, as the glimmer of the sparks and lights below was apt to cause giddiness and seasickness. I did look down and felt none the worse. We touched and tilted half over once against a cableway drum, but that was our only contretemps. I could not but wonder at the mighty timbering which met my eyes as it dilated in the darkness;—timber everywhere, all of the best and hardest wood. The mighty mass, it might hardly be said, was not without flaws, very palpable at second look. We made an easy descent down the shaft, and a bunch of lighted tow, tied to the bucket chain, showed us all its features. There was no “rattle his bones over the stones,” and the drop lasted fifteen minutes. At the bottom the kibble, or bucket, stood still, began to reel like a boat, and descended perpendicularly until we stepped out. Presently Mrs. Gordon andmy wife, habited in brown holland trousers, belted blouses, and miners’ caps, came down, delighted with the kibble travelling. The men did everything to banish the ladies’ alarm, and spoke and cheered us as we passed. The mine was utterly new to me, and most unlike the dirty labyrinth of little clefts and filthy galleries down which I have often crawled like a low reptile; the height suggested a cavern or a huge stone-quarry.Candle burning, the usual test, detected nothing abnormal in the atmosphere; the ventilation was excellent. Of course, our feet were wiped, and, physically speaking, they wanted wiping; the floor was wet, the mud was slippery, and locomotion somewhat like an ascent of the Pyramids, although the ground was pretty level.It was a huge palace of darkness; the walls were either black as the grave, or reflected in the slender rays of light a watery surface, or were broken into monstrous projections, half revealing and half concealing cavernous recesses. Despite the lamps, the night pressed upon us, as it were, with a weight, and the only measure of distance was a spark here and there, glimmering like a single star. Distinctly nerve-testing was the gulf between the huge mountain sides, apparently threatening every moment to fall. Through this Inferno gnomes glided about in a ghostly fashion, half-naked figures enveloped by the mist. Here dark bodies hung by chains in what seemed frightful positions; there they swung likeleopards from place to place; there they swarmed up loose ropes like troglodytes; there they moved over scaffolding, which even to look up at would make a nervous temperament dizzy.Our visit to the mine amply repaid us; it was a placeWhere thoughts were many, and words were few.But the fact will remain on our mental retina as long as our brains will do their duty.After a fortnight at Morro Velho I prepared to go to Sabará, there to embarken routeto the coast. With a peculiar cat-like feeling I bade adieu to the Gordons, with whom we had found an English home in the Highlands of Brazil. My excellent compatriots, however, accompanied me to break the shock of departure; my wife also, though, as she had sprained her ankle badly, she was to return to Rio.It was a long ride from Morro Velho and a tiring one, and we were glad to enter the picturesque city of Sabará, where we found tolerable lodgings. Here I completed my preparations for descending the Rio das Velhas, and had to seek the aid of a store-keeper, who turned out to be an extortioner. That, perhaps, was only to be expected; but I may justly complain when, in addition to his extortionate charges, he sent me down the river, a river like the Mississippi, in a raft whose starboard canoe had a leak scarcely stopped up with Sabará clay.The next day we all walked down to the upper landing-place, where the ajojo, or raft, lay. I neversaw such an old Noah’s ark, with its standing awning, a floating gipsy “pal,” some seven feet high and twenty-two long, and pitched like a tent upon two hollowed logs. The river, I thought, must indeed be safe if this article can get down without an accident.All the notables of the place witnessed the process of embarkation. A young English lady broke a bottle of wine with all possible grace upon the bows, and duly christened the craft theElizaand two pairs of slippers were thrown at my head. Manyvivaswere given and returned, and all my party embarked for a trial trip of a couple of miles.When the fifteen souls came on board, they sank the raft some three palms, and deluged the upper platform, making the headman, or pilot, very nervous; already he began to predict swamping, “going down in a jiffey,” and being dashed to pieces by the rapids. We shot past a dangerous rock in mid-stream, and in a short time arrived at the little village of Santo Antonio da Roça Grande, where animals were waiting to carry home the non-voyagers, my wife included. They landed here, but stood as the setting sun sank behind the mountains and waved their farewells as they watched the raft turn the last corner and float off into the far mysterious unknown. I confess to having felt an unusual sense of loneliness as the kindly faces faded away in the distance, and, by way of distraction, I applied myself to a careful examination of my raft.Illustration: Shooting the Rapids[See Page 266.SHOOTING THE RAPIDS ON THE RIO DAS VELHAS.The ajojo, or, as it is called in other places, the “balsa,” here represents the flat boat of the Mississippi. On the Rio das Velhas, however, it had not yet become an institution, and at that time I was the only traveller who had yet passed down by it from Sabará to the rapids of Paulo Affonso. I need not describe it in detail; I will only say that, though not of the safest description, it behaved itself, under all the circumstances, well.My crew numbered three—old Vieira and his sons. Two stood in the bows with poles, which they preferred as being easier to use than paddles. The paddles used in deep waters vary in shape every few hundred miles. The men were mere landlubbers; they felt, or affected to feel, nervous at every obstacle. They had been rowing all their lives, and yet they knew not how to back water; curious to say, this was everywhere the case down stream. They pulled with all their might for a few minutes when the river was rapid, so as to incur possible risks, and when the water was almost dead, they lay upon their oars and lazily allowed themselves to be floated down. Thus, during the working day, between 7 a.m. and 5 p.m., very little way was made. They had no system, nor would they learn any. The only thing energetic about them was the way they performed upon the cow-horn, and with this they announced arrival, saluted those on the banks, and generally enjoyed the noise.My first stage was between Sabará and Santa Lusia. The stream was deeply encased; the reaches were short,and we seemed to run at the bluffs, where high ribs came down to the bed and cut the bottom into very small bends. The most troublesome feature was the shallow places where the bed broadened; we grounded with unpleasant regularity. This part also abounded in snags. The tortuous bed, never showing a mile ahead, prevented anything like waves, though the wind was in our teeth. At this time of year we saw the Old Squaw’s River at its worst; there was a minimum of water and a maximum of contrary wind. On the other hand, it was the “moon of flowers”; the poor second growth teemed with bunches of purple beauty, and the hill-tops were feathered by palms.At Jaguára the people cried, “You’ll never reach Trahiras,” deriding theEliza. Indeed, we seemed likely to waste much time. However, we crept on surely, if slowly. As evening approached the weather waxed cool and clear, and the excessive evaporation gave the idea of great dryness; my books curled up, it was hardly possible to write, and it reminded me of the Persian Gulf, where water-colours cannot be used because the moisture is absorbed from the brush.The first view of Santa Lusia was very pleasing; a tall ridge about a mile from the stream was capped with two double-towered churches, divided by fine, large, whitewashed houses and rich vegetation, with palms straggling down to the water. Here I landed and made my way to the hotel, which was a most tumble-down hole, and after supper inspected SantaLusia. It was formerly a centre of the gold diggings, but at this time possessed nothing of interest.The next morning was delicious, and the face of Nature was as calm as if it could show no other expression. The sword-like rays of the sun, radiating from the unseen centre before it arose in its splendour, soon dispersed the thin mists that slept tranquilly upon the cool river-bed. We shot the Ponte Grande de Santa Lusia to Cruvello and the backwoods. The bridge was the usual long, crooked affair, with twelve trusses, or trestles, in the water and many outside, showing that the floods are here extensive. The girders are rarely raised high enough, and an exceptional inundation sweeps them away, leaving bare poles bristling in the bed and dangerous piles under water.About two miles below Santa Lusia the water became deeper and the country changed. The right, or eastern, side was rough and hilly, with heights hugging the bed. Near the other bank the land was more level, and the soil showed a better complexion, by which both sugar-cane and timber profited. In another hour we sighted the first cotton plantation, and right well it looked. There was indeed a mine of neglected wealth in cotton and fish along, and in, this river, and the more I saw of it the richer I found it. The hills were clothed with thin brown-grey grass, looking in places as if they were frosty with hoar, and always profusely tasselled.Presently another bend showed certain white lines between the river-fringe of trees, and this was theabode of the friaresses. We made fast to a gap in the clay bank and landed. At first I was refused even coffee, and there was no inn. I therefore sent my card and letter to the reverend vicar, and he at once called upon me, ordered dinner, and took me off to see the lions, of which the most interesting was the sisterhood, or infirmary, of the friaresses before named. The reverend mother, rather a pretty person, received us at the door, kissed the padre’s hand, and led the way to the little college chapel, white and gold with frescoed ceiling. We visited the dormitories; the galleries were long, the room was large and airy. The infirmary contained one sister and four invalid girls. The thirty-six reverend women were dressed in white veils and petticoats, with black scapulars in front, and over all a blue cloak. I spent the night at this place on the raft; the moon and stars were unusually bright, and the night was delightfully clear and cool.We set out next morning at seven o’clock, and proceeded without much adventure all that day and night, finally arriving at Jaguára, at which hospitable place I spent pleasant days, whilst another crew was engaged and arrangments for my reaching Diamantina were being completed.After a week at Jaguára I embarked again. There was very little to record day by day of the voyage from Jaguára to Diamantina. The river was ever changing: sometimes we passed picturesque cliffs; sometimes we went through gorgeous forests; withmasses of vegetation rolling and bulging down the bank; sometimes the currents changed into rapids, and the bed of the river was studded with islets of calcareous stone, dangerous during half-flood.The most dangerous experience was when we shot the rapids at Cachoeira Grande. People crowded down to the yellow bank to stare and to frighten us about them, and the dialogue was somewhat in this style:--“Do you know the rapids?” we inquired.“We know them!”“Will you pilot us?”“We will not pilot you!”“For money?”“Not for money!”“And why?”“Because we are afraid of them!”This was spoken as the juniors ran along the bank like ostriches or the natives of Ugogo.Luckily for us, for the Cachoeira Grande was no joke, we found, just before we came to the rapids, on the right bank a small crowd keeping holiday. The men carried guns in their hands, and wore pistols and daggers under their open jackets; the women were in full dress, brilliant as rainbows, with blood-red flowers in their glossy, crows’-wing hair. Of the dozen, not one was fairly white. Here we picked up a pilot or two who came on board. They were men of few words; they saluted us civilly and pushed off.The beginning of the end was the little rapid of the Saco Grande, or “Big Bend,” where the river bed, turning sharply from south-east to north-west, made parallel reaches. To avoid the rock-pier on the left we floated stern foremost down along the right bank, and managed the rapid with some difficulty. Presently we turned to the east-south-west, and faced the dreaded Cachoeira Grande, which is formed by another sharp bend in the bed, winding to the north-east. The obstacles were six very flat projections of dark stone on the right bank and four on the left, and cunning is required to spiral down between them. We began by passing the port of No. 1, then we made straight for No. 2 to the left; here, by pushing furiously up stream, theElizawas forced over to the right, was swung round by main force of arm, and was allowed to descend, well in hand, to within a few feet of No. 4, which rises right in the front. Finally, leaving this wrecker to starboard, we hit the usual triangle-head, with plenty of water breaking off both arms. The descent occupied sixteen minutes.After many congratulations our friends the pilots made a show of taking leave to do some important business, which proved on inquiry to mean “doing compliments.” As the dangers were not yet over, I produced a keg of restilo; it was tasted, and pronounced very hot in the mouth, and the Major—that is, myself—became so irresistible that they all swore they would accompany me to the Rio de São Francisco, or anywhere. The poles were twirled againand wielded with a will. We left to port broken water and an ugly stone, a hogsback; then we crossed to scrape acquaintance with a sunken mass in front.The end was the Cachoeira das Gallinhas, to which we presently came. We gave a wide berth to a rock well on the right bank and stuck to the left side. Here was a narrow gate, formed by two rock-piers projecting from the shores, and in such places “cordelling” was advisable. The men sprang into the water with loud cries, and pulled at the hawser till the current had put us in proper position. They then pushed off and sprang on board before we could make much way. The “Rapid of the Hens” occupied us nine minutes.A second dram of the “wild stuff” was then given and our friends the pilots blessed us fervently; they prayed for us, and unintelligibly invoked for us the protection of the Virgin and all the saints. They landed with abundant tripping and stumbling, carrying with them many dollars and a bottle of the much-prized restilo. I had every reason to be grateful to them, for they saved me an immense amount of trouble; but, shortly afterwards, reports of certain “little deaths,” in which they had been actively concerned, showed me that they were not exactly lambs.After this we proceeded easily down the river to Bom Successo, from which point I intended to visit Diamantina City. I had to land here and make my way to Diamantina on mule-back, not an easy journey, involving, as it did, a day and a night. Diamantina,or the Diamond City, was peculiarly situated, almost precipitous to the east and south-west, while the northern part was a continuation of the broken prairie-land. I stayed here as the guest of Sr. João Ribeiro, a diamond merchant, and wealthy and hospitable. I spent at this place three days and thoroughly inspected it. The impression left upon me was most agreeable; the men were the frankest, and the women the prettiest and most amiable, of any it had been my fortune to meet in Brazil; nothing could exceed their hospitality. I will not describe my visit to the diamond diggings, as I have done so fully elsewhere, and this brief sketch must be mainly devoted to my voyage down the river. I will only say that I found it most interesting, and, so far from the diamonds being exhausted, it seemed to me that they were only at the beginning of a supply which might be described as inexhaustible.On the eleventh day I returned to Bom Successo with great regret, and at 9.30 a.m. on September 7th I dismissed my trooper and his mules, and pushed out of the creek down the river towards Coroa do Gallo. I met with several small troubles, such as low sandbanks, snags, and stones, but managed to push through to the Coroa do Gallo, where I spent the night. The previous day had been burning hot, but when we set forth the weather had become temperate, and, indeed, on all this journey there was nothing much to complain of on account of the climate. We drifted on day after day through a soft and balmy atmosphere, disturbed ever and anon bygusts of wind and vapours; sometimes distant sheet lightning flashed from the mists massing around the horizon, the smoke of the prairie fires rose in columns, and they might have been mistaken for the fumes of a steamer by night. Those that were near glowed like live coals, whilst the more distant gleamed blue.I landed and stayed a day or two at Guaicuhy, but there was nothing very important to record. I was strongly advised to visit the rapids of the Pirapora, which are said to be, after the Casca d’Anta at the beginning and the Paulo Affonso at the end, the important feature upon the Rio de São Francisco. The word means a “fish leap,” and is applied to places on more than one Brazilian river. With a flush of joy I found myself upon this glorious stream of the future, whose dimensions here measure seven hundred feet. I had seen nothing to compare with it since my visit to the African Congo.Two new men were hired to guide us in the “tender” canoe, as we wished to shoot the rapids. We eyed curiously the contrasts of the new stream with that which we had lately left. Here the water was of a transparent green; the river seemed to break even from the stiff clay, which was in places caving in. After nine hours of hard work we doubled a wooded projection from the left bank, and sighted the Cachoeira of the Pirapora. The Pirapora differed from anything I had yet viewed; it was, in fact, partly a true fall, divided into two sections, and we trembled to think what the Paulo Affonso might be. Gladto stretch our cramped limbs, we landed on the right bank, and proceeded to inspect the rapids from above. The upper rapid, six feet high, seemed more formidable than the lower of about seven feet. Near the right bank these form true falls; they are also garnished by little ladders, miniature cascades rushing furiously down small, narrow, tortuous, channels, between the teeth of jagged stone-saws, and tumbling over dwarf buttresses. Thus the total height between the upper and the lower “smooths” is thirteen feet. Above the break the stream narrows to 1,800 feet, whilst below it broadens to 3,500 feet. During the dry weather the fair-way, if it may be so called, is a thin sheet of water near the western bank: no raft, however, can pass; canoes must be unladen and towed up. Without a good pilot there is imminent risk.A storm was gathering, and as we began the descent lightning flashed from the east and south, and from all the horizon, followed by low rumblings of thunder. Presently our cranky canoe was struck by the gale, one of the especial dangers of the São Francisco. The east wind was heard roaring from afar, and as it came down upon the stream, white waves rose after a few minutes, subsiding as easily when the gale had blown itself out. My men preferred the leeward bank, upon which the blast broke, leaving the water below comparatively dead, and thus they escaped the risk of falling trees. The surface of the central channel being now blocked by the furiouswind, a backwater during our ascent bore us swiftly down. It was very dark at 7.30, when we landed and climbed the steep and slippery bank. The thunder growled angrily and heavy rain fell, fortunately upon a tight roof. This was the first wet weather that I had experienced since July 21st.The Pirapora had been on the São Francisco my terminusad quem, and now it wasa quo, the rest of the voyage being down stream. When we started in the morning the weather was still surly from the effects of last night’s scolding, but the air was transparent and clear; the books no longer curled with drought, and a dose from the quinine bottle was judged advisable. We were evidently at the break of the rainy season. It was noon before theElizawas poled off from the bank of the Guaicuhy, and turned head downwards into the great stream. We drifted on from day to day until we arrived at São Romao, a God-forgotten place, which I explored; but it was not particularly hospitable, so I returned at evening and spent the night on theEliza, lighted the fire, drew down the awning, and kept out as much of the drifting rain and cold, shifting wind as possible. It was not easy to sleep for the babel of sounds, for the Romanenses were decidedly ill-behaved and uncivilised, and made night hideous with their orgies.We set out again next day, furling the awning, through the drenching rain. We had a day of wind and water, and then another of very hot sun,and so we went on to Januaria, where I met with frank and ready hospitality. After staying here a night, we took the water again, and proceeded through a small hurricane to Carunhanha, where also I was well received, but had to sleep on board the raft—another night of devilry. Cold wind from the north rushed through the hot air, precipitating a deluge in embryo; then the gale chopped round to the south, and produced another, and fiercer, down-pour. A treacherous lull, and all began again, the wind howling and screaming from the east. The thunder roared and the lightning flashed in all directions; the stream rose in wavelets, which washed over theEliza, and shook her by the bumping of the “tender” canoe. We did not get much sleep that night.I will not further describe my voyage day after day in theEliza. Suffice it to say, at Varzéa Redonda, a wretched village just before we came to the Paulo Affonso, I dismantled theElizaand paid off the crew. I was asked to stay on land, but, as I wished to see everything settled, I slept on board, and regretted my resolution. The night was furious, and the wind raised waves that nearly beat the old raft to pieces. My men, having reached the end of their work, had the usual boatman’s spree—hard drinking, extensive boasting, trials of strength, and quarrelling, intermixed with singing, shouting, extemporising verses, and ending in the snores and snorts of Bacchic sleep. I found them very troublesome;but the next morning they shed tears of contrition. I saw them disappear without regret; the only face, indeed, that I was sorry to part from was that of the good old pilot.The next step was to procure animals and men to take me to the Great Rapids. I had great difficulty in getting these, and when the party was made up it consisted of the worst men, the worst mules, and the worst equipments I had ever seen in Brazil. In two days and two nights I arrived at Paulo Affonso, the King of the Rapids.I shall never forget my first approach to it. In the distance we heard a deep, hollow sound, soft withal, like the rumbling of a distant storm, but it seemed to come from below the earth, as if we trod upon it. After another mile the ground appeared to tremble at the eternal thunder. A little later we came upon the rapids. Paulo Affonso has well been called the Niagara of Brazil.The quebrada, or gorge, is here two hundred and sixty feet deep; in the narrowest part it is choked to a minimum breadth of fifty-one feet. It is filled with what seems not water but froth and milk, a dashing and dazzling, a whirling and churning surfaceless mass, which gives a wondrous study of fluid in motion. Here the luminous whiteness of the chaotic foam-crests, hurled in billows and breakers against the blackness of the rock, is burst into flakes and spray that leap half-way up the immuring trough. Then the steam boils over and canopies the tremendousscene. In the stilly air of dull, warm grey, the mists surge up, deepening still more the dizzy fall that yawns under our feet.The general effect of the picture, and the same may be said of all great cataracts, is the realised idea of power—of power tremendous, inexorable, irresistible. The eye is spell-bound by the contrast of this impetuous motion, this wrathful, maddened haste to escape, with the frail stedfastness of the bits of rainbow, hovering above, with the “Table Rock,” so solid to the tread, and with the placid, settled stillness of the plain and hillocks, whose eternal homes seem to be here. Magic, I may observe, is in the atmosphere of Paulo Affonso; it is the natural expression of the glory and the majesty, the splendour and the glamour of the scene, which Greece would have peopled with shapes of beauty, and which in Germany would be haunted by choirs of flying sylphs and dancing Undines.I sat over the cataract until convinced it was not possible to become one with the waters; what at first seemed grand and sublime had at last a feeling of awe, too intense to be in any way enjoyable. The rest of the day I spent in camp, where the minor troubles of life soon asserted their power. The sand raised by the strong and steady trade-wind was troublesome, and the surface seething in the sun produced a constant drought. We were now at the head of the funnel, the vast ventilator which guides the gale to the Rio de São Francisco. At night the sky showed a fast-drifting scud, and an angry blast dispersed the gatheringclouds of blood-thirsty mosquitos. Our lullaby was the music of Paulo Affonso.The next day I visited the falls again and explored them thoroughly, going down from the heights above to the base beneath, from which the finest view of the falls was to be obtained. It was a grand climax to my voyage down the São Francisco.My task was done; I won its reward, and my strength passed from me. Two days of tedious mountain riding led to the Porto das Piranhas, and from here I descended the lower Rio de São Francisco more leisurely, and, when that was done, I finally returnedviâRio de Janeiro to Santos (São Paulo),aliasthe Wapping of the Far West, and took up my consular duties once again.
I HAD been in Brazil nearly two years, vegetating between Santos and São Paulo, varied by an occasional expedition afield or a trip to Rio de Janeiro, when I determined to put into action my long-cherished plan of prospecting the great and wealthy province of Minas Gerães in the interior, and then to go down the São Francisco, which is the Brazilian Mississippi, from Sabará to the sea, and to visiten routethe Paulo Affonso rapids, the Niagara of Brazil. As my wife was very anxious to go, I took her with me.
We left Rio on June 12th, 1867, and sailed across the incomparable Bay, and then ascended to Petropolis. From Petropolis we made our real start in a large char-à-banc, which held eight, in two and two, and which was drawn by four mules. The mules started off in fine style; being fresh and frisky they simply galloped along the mountain side. It is not necessary for me to describe the first part of the journey, which, for a few days, travelled along a well-known road, through a splendid district of wooded mountains, broad rivers, and boulders of rock; the vegetation was especially fine, even tropical. At Juiz de Forawe abandoned our char-à-banc for the coach, whereby we travelled to Barbacena, and here again we left the coach for the saddle, and followed the bridle-road, if indeed it could be called a road.
I should weary if I were to describe the places we passed through until we came to Logão Duroda, where the railway was in process of making, and where they were just laying the first chain for the exploration of the mountains and for the prolongation of the Dom Pedro Secunda Railway. There was an inauguration ceremony, and my wife had the honour of giving the first blow to the stock and breaking a bottle of wine over it. After that we had a convivial gathering, and wound up with a dinner in the good old English fashion. Next day we started off again, and still riding through beautiful scenery, up and down mountains, through shallow rivers and bits of virgin forests, from day to day, we eventually arrived at Morro Velho, where we were most hospitably received by the superintendent of the São Goa d’el Rey Mining Company and Mrs. Gordon, and we spent some days in their most comfortable home. Morro Velho is the queen of the Minas Gerães mines, and a most interesting place, but, as we were going back to it, we determined to press on to Ouro Preto, which is the capital of the province, a most hilly town, for walking up and down the streets was as difficult as climbing up ladders. We stayed here two days, and then returned to Morro Velho. We had a long, muddy, rainy journey on the way back, slipping backward two steps for every oneforward, but at last we arrived at the Gordons’ house again, and were warmly welcomed as before. Here we tarried for a fortnight, and thoroughly explored everything.
Among other things we explored the mine, which had the reputation of being the largest, deepest, and richest gold-mine in Brazil. My wife determined to go with me, and Mrs. Gordon, who had never before ventured under grass, kindly consented to accompany her. Mr. Gordon and I went down first in a bucket, or kibble, which was suspended over the abyss. We found in it a rough wooden seat, comfortable enough. We were advised by the pitman not to look downwards, as the glimmer of the sparks and lights below was apt to cause giddiness and seasickness. I did look down and felt none the worse. We touched and tilted half over once against a cableway drum, but that was our only contretemps. I could not but wonder at the mighty timbering which met my eyes as it dilated in the darkness;—timber everywhere, all of the best and hardest wood. The mighty mass, it might hardly be said, was not without flaws, very palpable at second look. We made an easy descent down the shaft, and a bunch of lighted tow, tied to the bucket chain, showed us all its features. There was no “rattle his bones over the stones,” and the drop lasted fifteen minutes. At the bottom the kibble, or bucket, stood still, began to reel like a boat, and descended perpendicularly until we stepped out. Presently Mrs. Gordon andmy wife, habited in brown holland trousers, belted blouses, and miners’ caps, came down, delighted with the kibble travelling. The men did everything to banish the ladies’ alarm, and spoke and cheered us as we passed. The mine was utterly new to me, and most unlike the dirty labyrinth of little clefts and filthy galleries down which I have often crawled like a low reptile; the height suggested a cavern or a huge stone-quarry.
Candle burning, the usual test, detected nothing abnormal in the atmosphere; the ventilation was excellent. Of course, our feet were wiped, and, physically speaking, they wanted wiping; the floor was wet, the mud was slippery, and locomotion somewhat like an ascent of the Pyramids, although the ground was pretty level.
It was a huge palace of darkness; the walls were either black as the grave, or reflected in the slender rays of light a watery surface, or were broken into monstrous projections, half revealing and half concealing cavernous recesses. Despite the lamps, the night pressed upon us, as it were, with a weight, and the only measure of distance was a spark here and there, glimmering like a single star. Distinctly nerve-testing was the gulf between the huge mountain sides, apparently threatening every moment to fall. Through this Inferno gnomes glided about in a ghostly fashion, half-naked figures enveloped by the mist. Here dark bodies hung by chains in what seemed frightful positions; there they swung likeleopards from place to place; there they swarmed up loose ropes like troglodytes; there they moved over scaffolding, which even to look up at would make a nervous temperament dizzy.
Our visit to the mine amply repaid us; it was a place
Where thoughts were many, and words were few.
But the fact will remain on our mental retina as long as our brains will do their duty.
After a fortnight at Morro Velho I prepared to go to Sabará, there to embarken routeto the coast. With a peculiar cat-like feeling I bade adieu to the Gordons, with whom we had found an English home in the Highlands of Brazil. My excellent compatriots, however, accompanied me to break the shock of departure; my wife also, though, as she had sprained her ankle badly, she was to return to Rio.
It was a long ride from Morro Velho and a tiring one, and we were glad to enter the picturesque city of Sabará, where we found tolerable lodgings. Here I completed my preparations for descending the Rio das Velhas, and had to seek the aid of a store-keeper, who turned out to be an extortioner. That, perhaps, was only to be expected; but I may justly complain when, in addition to his extortionate charges, he sent me down the river, a river like the Mississippi, in a raft whose starboard canoe had a leak scarcely stopped up with Sabará clay.
The next day we all walked down to the upper landing-place, where the ajojo, or raft, lay. I neversaw such an old Noah’s ark, with its standing awning, a floating gipsy “pal,” some seven feet high and twenty-two long, and pitched like a tent upon two hollowed logs. The river, I thought, must indeed be safe if this article can get down without an accident.
All the notables of the place witnessed the process of embarkation. A young English lady broke a bottle of wine with all possible grace upon the bows, and duly christened the craft theElizaand two pairs of slippers were thrown at my head. Manyvivaswere given and returned, and all my party embarked for a trial trip of a couple of miles.When the fifteen souls came on board, they sank the raft some three palms, and deluged the upper platform, making the headman, or pilot, very nervous; already he began to predict swamping, “going down in a jiffey,” and being dashed to pieces by the rapids. We shot past a dangerous rock in mid-stream, and in a short time arrived at the little village of Santo Antonio da Roça Grande, where animals were waiting to carry home the non-voyagers, my wife included. They landed here, but stood as the setting sun sank behind the mountains and waved their farewells as they watched the raft turn the last corner and float off into the far mysterious unknown. I confess to having felt an unusual sense of loneliness as the kindly faces faded away in the distance, and, by way of distraction, I applied myself to a careful examination of my raft.
Illustration: Shooting the Rapids[See Page 266.SHOOTING THE RAPIDS ON THE RIO DAS VELHAS.
[See Page 266.
SHOOTING THE RAPIDS ON THE RIO DAS VELHAS.
The ajojo, or, as it is called in other places, the “balsa,” here represents the flat boat of the Mississippi. On the Rio das Velhas, however, it had not yet become an institution, and at that time I was the only traveller who had yet passed down by it from Sabará to the rapids of Paulo Affonso. I need not describe it in detail; I will only say that, though not of the safest description, it behaved itself, under all the circumstances, well.
My crew numbered three—old Vieira and his sons. Two stood in the bows with poles, which they preferred as being easier to use than paddles. The paddles used in deep waters vary in shape every few hundred miles. The men were mere landlubbers; they felt, or affected to feel, nervous at every obstacle. They had been rowing all their lives, and yet they knew not how to back water; curious to say, this was everywhere the case down stream. They pulled with all their might for a few minutes when the river was rapid, so as to incur possible risks, and when the water was almost dead, they lay upon their oars and lazily allowed themselves to be floated down. Thus, during the working day, between 7 a.m. and 5 p.m., very little way was made. They had no system, nor would they learn any. The only thing energetic about them was the way they performed upon the cow-horn, and with this they announced arrival, saluted those on the banks, and generally enjoyed the noise.
My first stage was between Sabará and Santa Lusia. The stream was deeply encased; the reaches were short,and we seemed to run at the bluffs, where high ribs came down to the bed and cut the bottom into very small bends. The most troublesome feature was the shallow places where the bed broadened; we grounded with unpleasant regularity. This part also abounded in snags. The tortuous bed, never showing a mile ahead, prevented anything like waves, though the wind was in our teeth. At this time of year we saw the Old Squaw’s River at its worst; there was a minimum of water and a maximum of contrary wind. On the other hand, it was the “moon of flowers”; the poor second growth teemed with bunches of purple beauty, and the hill-tops were feathered by palms.
At Jaguára the people cried, “You’ll never reach Trahiras,” deriding theEliza. Indeed, we seemed likely to waste much time. However, we crept on surely, if slowly. As evening approached the weather waxed cool and clear, and the excessive evaporation gave the idea of great dryness; my books curled up, it was hardly possible to write, and it reminded me of the Persian Gulf, where water-colours cannot be used because the moisture is absorbed from the brush.
The first view of Santa Lusia was very pleasing; a tall ridge about a mile from the stream was capped with two double-towered churches, divided by fine, large, whitewashed houses and rich vegetation, with palms straggling down to the water. Here I landed and made my way to the hotel, which was a most tumble-down hole, and after supper inspected SantaLusia. It was formerly a centre of the gold diggings, but at this time possessed nothing of interest.
The next morning was delicious, and the face of Nature was as calm as if it could show no other expression. The sword-like rays of the sun, radiating from the unseen centre before it arose in its splendour, soon dispersed the thin mists that slept tranquilly upon the cool river-bed. We shot the Ponte Grande de Santa Lusia to Cruvello and the backwoods. The bridge was the usual long, crooked affair, with twelve trusses, or trestles, in the water and many outside, showing that the floods are here extensive. The girders are rarely raised high enough, and an exceptional inundation sweeps them away, leaving bare poles bristling in the bed and dangerous piles under water.
About two miles below Santa Lusia the water became deeper and the country changed. The right, or eastern, side was rough and hilly, with heights hugging the bed. Near the other bank the land was more level, and the soil showed a better complexion, by which both sugar-cane and timber profited. In another hour we sighted the first cotton plantation, and right well it looked. There was indeed a mine of neglected wealth in cotton and fish along, and in, this river, and the more I saw of it the richer I found it. The hills were clothed with thin brown-grey grass, looking in places as if they were frosty with hoar, and always profusely tasselled.
Presently another bend showed certain white lines between the river-fringe of trees, and this was theabode of the friaresses. We made fast to a gap in the clay bank and landed. At first I was refused even coffee, and there was no inn. I therefore sent my card and letter to the reverend vicar, and he at once called upon me, ordered dinner, and took me off to see the lions, of which the most interesting was the sisterhood, or infirmary, of the friaresses before named. The reverend mother, rather a pretty person, received us at the door, kissed the padre’s hand, and led the way to the little college chapel, white and gold with frescoed ceiling. We visited the dormitories; the galleries were long, the room was large and airy. The infirmary contained one sister and four invalid girls. The thirty-six reverend women were dressed in white veils and petticoats, with black scapulars in front, and over all a blue cloak. I spent the night at this place on the raft; the moon and stars were unusually bright, and the night was delightfully clear and cool.
We set out next morning at seven o’clock, and proceeded without much adventure all that day and night, finally arriving at Jaguára, at which hospitable place I spent pleasant days, whilst another crew was engaged and arrangments for my reaching Diamantina were being completed.
After a week at Jaguára I embarked again. There was very little to record day by day of the voyage from Jaguára to Diamantina. The river was ever changing: sometimes we passed picturesque cliffs; sometimes we went through gorgeous forests; withmasses of vegetation rolling and bulging down the bank; sometimes the currents changed into rapids, and the bed of the river was studded with islets of calcareous stone, dangerous during half-flood.
The most dangerous experience was when we shot the rapids at Cachoeira Grande. People crowded down to the yellow bank to stare and to frighten us about them, and the dialogue was somewhat in this style:--
“Do you know the rapids?” we inquired.
“We know them!”
“Will you pilot us?”
“We will not pilot you!”
“For money?”
“Not for money!”
“And why?”
“Because we are afraid of them!”
This was spoken as the juniors ran along the bank like ostriches or the natives of Ugogo.
Luckily for us, for the Cachoeira Grande was no joke, we found, just before we came to the rapids, on the right bank a small crowd keeping holiday. The men carried guns in their hands, and wore pistols and daggers under their open jackets; the women were in full dress, brilliant as rainbows, with blood-red flowers in their glossy, crows’-wing hair. Of the dozen, not one was fairly white. Here we picked up a pilot or two who came on board. They were men of few words; they saluted us civilly and pushed off.
The beginning of the end was the little rapid of the Saco Grande, or “Big Bend,” where the river bed, turning sharply from south-east to north-west, made parallel reaches. To avoid the rock-pier on the left we floated stern foremost down along the right bank, and managed the rapid with some difficulty. Presently we turned to the east-south-west, and faced the dreaded Cachoeira Grande, which is formed by another sharp bend in the bed, winding to the north-east. The obstacles were six very flat projections of dark stone on the right bank and four on the left, and cunning is required to spiral down between them. We began by passing the port of No. 1, then we made straight for No. 2 to the left; here, by pushing furiously up stream, theElizawas forced over to the right, was swung round by main force of arm, and was allowed to descend, well in hand, to within a few feet of No. 4, which rises right in the front. Finally, leaving this wrecker to starboard, we hit the usual triangle-head, with plenty of water breaking off both arms. The descent occupied sixteen minutes.
After many congratulations our friends the pilots made a show of taking leave to do some important business, which proved on inquiry to mean “doing compliments.” As the dangers were not yet over, I produced a keg of restilo; it was tasted, and pronounced very hot in the mouth, and the Major—that is, myself—became so irresistible that they all swore they would accompany me to the Rio de São Francisco, or anywhere. The poles were twirled againand wielded with a will. We left to port broken water and an ugly stone, a hogsback; then we crossed to scrape acquaintance with a sunken mass in front.
The end was the Cachoeira das Gallinhas, to which we presently came. We gave a wide berth to a rock well on the right bank and stuck to the left side. Here was a narrow gate, formed by two rock-piers projecting from the shores, and in such places “cordelling” was advisable. The men sprang into the water with loud cries, and pulled at the hawser till the current had put us in proper position. They then pushed off and sprang on board before we could make much way. The “Rapid of the Hens” occupied us nine minutes.
A second dram of the “wild stuff” was then given and our friends the pilots blessed us fervently; they prayed for us, and unintelligibly invoked for us the protection of the Virgin and all the saints. They landed with abundant tripping and stumbling, carrying with them many dollars and a bottle of the much-prized restilo. I had every reason to be grateful to them, for they saved me an immense amount of trouble; but, shortly afterwards, reports of certain “little deaths,” in which they had been actively concerned, showed me that they were not exactly lambs.
After this we proceeded easily down the river to Bom Successo, from which point I intended to visit Diamantina City. I had to land here and make my way to Diamantina on mule-back, not an easy journey, involving, as it did, a day and a night. Diamantina,or the Diamond City, was peculiarly situated, almost precipitous to the east and south-west, while the northern part was a continuation of the broken prairie-land. I stayed here as the guest of Sr. João Ribeiro, a diamond merchant, and wealthy and hospitable. I spent at this place three days and thoroughly inspected it. The impression left upon me was most agreeable; the men were the frankest, and the women the prettiest and most amiable, of any it had been my fortune to meet in Brazil; nothing could exceed their hospitality. I will not describe my visit to the diamond diggings, as I have done so fully elsewhere, and this brief sketch must be mainly devoted to my voyage down the river. I will only say that I found it most interesting, and, so far from the diamonds being exhausted, it seemed to me that they were only at the beginning of a supply which might be described as inexhaustible.
On the eleventh day I returned to Bom Successo with great regret, and at 9.30 a.m. on September 7th I dismissed my trooper and his mules, and pushed out of the creek down the river towards Coroa do Gallo. I met with several small troubles, such as low sandbanks, snags, and stones, but managed to push through to the Coroa do Gallo, where I spent the night. The previous day had been burning hot, but when we set forth the weather had become temperate, and, indeed, on all this journey there was nothing much to complain of on account of the climate. We drifted on day after day through a soft and balmy atmosphere, disturbed ever and anon bygusts of wind and vapours; sometimes distant sheet lightning flashed from the mists massing around the horizon, the smoke of the prairie fires rose in columns, and they might have been mistaken for the fumes of a steamer by night. Those that were near glowed like live coals, whilst the more distant gleamed blue.
I landed and stayed a day or two at Guaicuhy, but there was nothing very important to record. I was strongly advised to visit the rapids of the Pirapora, which are said to be, after the Casca d’Anta at the beginning and the Paulo Affonso at the end, the important feature upon the Rio de São Francisco. The word means a “fish leap,” and is applied to places on more than one Brazilian river. With a flush of joy I found myself upon this glorious stream of the future, whose dimensions here measure seven hundred feet. I had seen nothing to compare with it since my visit to the African Congo.
Two new men were hired to guide us in the “tender” canoe, as we wished to shoot the rapids. We eyed curiously the contrasts of the new stream with that which we had lately left. Here the water was of a transparent green; the river seemed to break even from the stiff clay, which was in places caving in. After nine hours of hard work we doubled a wooded projection from the left bank, and sighted the Cachoeira of the Pirapora. The Pirapora differed from anything I had yet viewed; it was, in fact, partly a true fall, divided into two sections, and we trembled to think what the Paulo Affonso might be. Gladto stretch our cramped limbs, we landed on the right bank, and proceeded to inspect the rapids from above. The upper rapid, six feet high, seemed more formidable than the lower of about seven feet. Near the right bank these form true falls; they are also garnished by little ladders, miniature cascades rushing furiously down small, narrow, tortuous, channels, between the teeth of jagged stone-saws, and tumbling over dwarf buttresses. Thus the total height between the upper and the lower “smooths” is thirteen feet. Above the break the stream narrows to 1,800 feet, whilst below it broadens to 3,500 feet. During the dry weather the fair-way, if it may be so called, is a thin sheet of water near the western bank: no raft, however, can pass; canoes must be unladen and towed up. Without a good pilot there is imminent risk.
A storm was gathering, and as we began the descent lightning flashed from the east and south, and from all the horizon, followed by low rumblings of thunder. Presently our cranky canoe was struck by the gale, one of the especial dangers of the São Francisco. The east wind was heard roaring from afar, and as it came down upon the stream, white waves rose after a few minutes, subsiding as easily when the gale had blown itself out. My men preferred the leeward bank, upon which the blast broke, leaving the water below comparatively dead, and thus they escaped the risk of falling trees. The surface of the central channel being now blocked by the furiouswind, a backwater during our ascent bore us swiftly down. It was very dark at 7.30, when we landed and climbed the steep and slippery bank. The thunder growled angrily and heavy rain fell, fortunately upon a tight roof. This was the first wet weather that I had experienced since July 21st.
The Pirapora had been on the São Francisco my terminusad quem, and now it wasa quo, the rest of the voyage being down stream. When we started in the morning the weather was still surly from the effects of last night’s scolding, but the air was transparent and clear; the books no longer curled with drought, and a dose from the quinine bottle was judged advisable. We were evidently at the break of the rainy season. It was noon before theElizawas poled off from the bank of the Guaicuhy, and turned head downwards into the great stream. We drifted on from day to day until we arrived at São Romao, a God-forgotten place, which I explored; but it was not particularly hospitable, so I returned at evening and spent the night on theEliza, lighted the fire, drew down the awning, and kept out as much of the drifting rain and cold, shifting wind as possible. It was not easy to sleep for the babel of sounds, for the Romanenses were decidedly ill-behaved and uncivilised, and made night hideous with their orgies.
We set out again next day, furling the awning, through the drenching rain. We had a day of wind and water, and then another of very hot sun,and so we went on to Januaria, where I met with frank and ready hospitality. After staying here a night, we took the water again, and proceeded through a small hurricane to Carunhanha, where also I was well received, but had to sleep on board the raft—another night of devilry. Cold wind from the north rushed through the hot air, precipitating a deluge in embryo; then the gale chopped round to the south, and produced another, and fiercer, down-pour. A treacherous lull, and all began again, the wind howling and screaming from the east. The thunder roared and the lightning flashed in all directions; the stream rose in wavelets, which washed over theEliza, and shook her by the bumping of the “tender” canoe. We did not get much sleep that night.
I will not further describe my voyage day after day in theEliza. Suffice it to say, at Varzéa Redonda, a wretched village just before we came to the Paulo Affonso, I dismantled theElizaand paid off the crew. I was asked to stay on land, but, as I wished to see everything settled, I slept on board, and regretted my resolution. The night was furious, and the wind raised waves that nearly beat the old raft to pieces. My men, having reached the end of their work, had the usual boatman’s spree—hard drinking, extensive boasting, trials of strength, and quarrelling, intermixed with singing, shouting, extemporising verses, and ending in the snores and snorts of Bacchic sleep. I found them very troublesome;but the next morning they shed tears of contrition. I saw them disappear without regret; the only face, indeed, that I was sorry to part from was that of the good old pilot.
The next step was to procure animals and men to take me to the Great Rapids. I had great difficulty in getting these, and when the party was made up it consisted of the worst men, the worst mules, and the worst equipments I had ever seen in Brazil. In two days and two nights I arrived at Paulo Affonso, the King of the Rapids.
I shall never forget my first approach to it. In the distance we heard a deep, hollow sound, soft withal, like the rumbling of a distant storm, but it seemed to come from below the earth, as if we trod upon it. After another mile the ground appeared to tremble at the eternal thunder. A little later we came upon the rapids. Paulo Affonso has well been called the Niagara of Brazil.
The quebrada, or gorge, is here two hundred and sixty feet deep; in the narrowest part it is choked to a minimum breadth of fifty-one feet. It is filled with what seems not water but froth and milk, a dashing and dazzling, a whirling and churning surfaceless mass, which gives a wondrous study of fluid in motion. Here the luminous whiteness of the chaotic foam-crests, hurled in billows and breakers against the blackness of the rock, is burst into flakes and spray that leap half-way up the immuring trough. Then the steam boils over and canopies the tremendousscene. In the stilly air of dull, warm grey, the mists surge up, deepening still more the dizzy fall that yawns under our feet.
The general effect of the picture, and the same may be said of all great cataracts, is the realised idea of power—of power tremendous, inexorable, irresistible. The eye is spell-bound by the contrast of this impetuous motion, this wrathful, maddened haste to escape, with the frail stedfastness of the bits of rainbow, hovering above, with the “Table Rock,” so solid to the tread, and with the placid, settled stillness of the plain and hillocks, whose eternal homes seem to be here. Magic, I may observe, is in the atmosphere of Paulo Affonso; it is the natural expression of the glory and the majesty, the splendour and the glamour of the scene, which Greece would have peopled with shapes of beauty, and which in Germany would be haunted by choirs of flying sylphs and dancing Undines.
I sat over the cataract until convinced it was not possible to become one with the waters; what at first seemed grand and sublime had at last a feeling of awe, too intense to be in any way enjoyable. The rest of the day I spent in camp, where the minor troubles of life soon asserted their power. The sand raised by the strong and steady trade-wind was troublesome, and the surface seething in the sun produced a constant drought. We were now at the head of the funnel, the vast ventilator which guides the gale to the Rio de São Francisco. At night the sky showed a fast-drifting scud, and an angry blast dispersed the gatheringclouds of blood-thirsty mosquitos. Our lullaby was the music of Paulo Affonso.
The next day I visited the falls again and explored them thoroughly, going down from the heights above to the base beneath, from which the finest view of the falls was to be obtained. It was a grand climax to my voyage down the São Francisco.
My task was done; I won its reward, and my strength passed from me. Two days of tedious mountain riding led to the Porto das Piranhas, and from here I descended the lower Rio de São Francisco more leisurely, and, when that was done, I finally returnedviâRio de Janeiro to Santos (São Paulo),aliasthe Wapping of the Far West, and took up my consular duties once again.