Part 16

We left Porto da Lentra for Point Banana at 4.15 on the morning of September 27th. We had exchanged our smaller but fine canoe for a large one, and started with six hands and captain, but had scarcely lost sight of Porto da Lentra when our canoemen went up a creek――they said to get extra clothing. We were detained more than half an hour waiting for them, until probably they had eaten their breakfast and drunk their palm wine. We got them to start with great difficulty; but at the very next creek they stopped again, and would have repeated the dose at other places had we not had recourse to our friends in need, the revolvers.

At the creek one man jumped on shore and we pushed off again; but a few yards down we were hailed by a Missolongi canoe, the river-pirates of this part of the Congo. This third time our canoemen stopped; and we were obliged to face them with cocked revolvers and compel them to go on. Down we glided, assisted more by the current than by our men. Another creek, and the canoemen requested to stop again to eat, which request was positively refused.

The river had been hitherto very calm, but at two o’clock the sea-breeze began to blow hard; the tide was also slightly against us, and this caused a swell in the river which wetted nearly all our things. I was surveying at the time, and, fearing that the instruments might get a soaking with salt water, I ordered the canoemen to put back and return to Point Banana by means of a creek on the right of the river. This appeared to the canoemen to be awfully hard work, although they had only to pull back for about a quarter of a mile. The Congoes are remarkable for their uselessness: they excel in eating, drinking, sleeping, and talking, in a word, in satisfying their sensual comforts, and what little sense they have is used for the purpose of annoying those with whom they come in contact. More than five times they were asked to make sail, and then gave a few strokes with their paddles, and stopped and chatted again, put the canoe broadside on to the billows, let her drift back, and again gave a few more strokes.

In this way nearly an hour passed away, and we never reached the end of the quarter-mile. They began to complain that the way by the creek was too far, whilst just a short time before that they told us the creek was the nearest. They now declared that they could proceed no farther, and pulled the canoe in shore. Seeing that the whole bevy of them, from the captain to the small boy, were all drunk from drinking some rum they had brought with them, we could do nothing but submit to this state of things, anything being preferable to trusting the canoe with a lot of drunken hands, and getting ourselves and gear saturated with salt water.

The crew were permitted to land. They lighted a fire, cooked, ate, drank, quarrelled, and went to sleep. The padron, or captain, took possession of the rum, and drank himself to sleep also; and when the wind abated a little and the water became calmer, we awakened the captain with difficulty, and he with greater difficulty his crew; but the tide had gone down, and the canoe was high and dry on the bank. All efforts to launch her into the water proved unavailing, especially as the rum was still hard at work, and what little sense the Congoes had was perfectly misapplied. In consequence we had to wait until the tide again served, which did not take place till two o’clock the following morning, when we tried again to start our hands, and with great delay and noise managed to reach Point Banana at 4.15 a.m.

At six o’clock all our things were landed and comfortably housed within Monsieur Parrat’s factory. Thank God! we were now at a considerable distance from Yellalla and the triumvirate and avaricioua triple ministers of the Banza Nculu, far away from the Banza Vivi and its king, far away from the quarrelsome, covetous, gin-drinking, noisy, and licentious old Gidi Mavonga, far away from that senseless nincompoop the Prince Sudikil, and――praise be to Allah!――within hail of Her Majesty’s ship _Griffon_.

[7] This MS. consisted mainly of notes roughly jotted down by Burton in a memorandum book. I have thought it best to publish them as they stood, with no alterations except those necessary to make the essay coherent and legible.――W. H. W.

_THE INTERIOR OF BRAZIL_

1867

_THE INTERIOR OF BRAZIL_

1867

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 visit _en route_ the 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 Fora we 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 one forward, 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 and my 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 like leopards 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 embark _en route_ to 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 never saw 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 the _Eliza_ and two pairs of slippers were thrown at my head. Many _vivas_ were 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.

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 the _Eliza_. 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 Santa Lusia. 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 the abode 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; with masses 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, the _Eliza_ was 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 again and 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.