The pampero, dreaded on shore as well as at sea, blows with tremendous
force across this region.
There is not a cloud in the sky. The night may be perfectly calm.
Mosquitoes in vast numbers are busy with their sharp stings. Suddenly a
rustling in the woods may be heard afar off. The noise increases into a
dull roar. Clouds appear above the horizon. Still all is calm. The
mosquitoes vanish. The dogs are howling in anticipation of danger. As
if by magic, dark masses of clouds cover the heavens like a curtain.
They are rent asunder, thunder roars, lightning flashes, and the wind,
like an army of wild beasts, rushes on. Down comes the rain in
torrents, beating furiously against the hapless traveller exposed to its
fury, or on the deck of the ship. Flash succeeds flash; the lightning
in forked streaks darting through the air. In an hour, perhaps, the
heaviest part of the storm may be over, but still the wind blows
furiously; till at length it ceases, the clouds disappear, and the air
becomes delightfully fresh and cool.
The craft on the rivers are, however, often caught in these pamperos,
and driven into the bush, or upset, when the swift current carries down
the best of swimmers to a watery grave.
Houses, also, are frequently unroofed, orange groves stripped of their
golden fruit, and trees uprooted and hurled to the ground.