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.
[Illustration:
SHOOTING THE RAPIDS ON THE RIO DAS VELHAS. [_See Page 266._]
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.
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 by gusts 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.
Glad to 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 furious wind, 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 terminus _ad quem_, and
now it was _a 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 the _Eliza_ was 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 the
_Eliza_, 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 the _Eliza_, 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 the _Eliza_.
Suffice it to say, at Varzéa Redonda, a wretched village just before
we came to the Paulo Affonso, I dismantled the _Eliza_ and 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 tremendous scene. 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 gathering clouds 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 returned _viâ_ Rio de Janeiro to
Santos (São Paulo), _alias_ the Wapping of the Far West, and took up
my consular duties once again.
_THROUGH SYRIA TO PALMYRA_
1870
_THROUGH SYRIA TO PALMYRA_
1870