CHAPTER V
Travelling across Country—A Musical Genius—Valuable Woods—Thermal Springs
At the river were several picturesque two-wheeled carts waiting to be ferried across. Drawn by ten, twenty, and even as many as thirty oxen, these heavy hooded vehicles travelled across country in a most wonderful manner. Naturally they had to be of solid construction to stand the wear and tear demanded of them. Their wheels were heavy solid discs of hard wood encircled by powerful tyres of iron. A primitive system of brake—a mere bar of wood held in position by ropes—retarded the speed of the vehicle down extra-steep declivities. When going up or down hill the friction of the wheels upon their axles produced a continuous shrill whistle, which, when heard from a distance, sounded not unlike the whistle of a locomotive. In the deathly stillness of the Goyaz landscape those whistles could be heard a long way off. The expectant farmers—expectant, because those trading carts conveyed to them a good deal of the food-stuff, salt, and other necessaries of life, as well as the luxuries they could afford—were clever at recognizing the whistles of the various carts, and they identified one special cart or another by what they poetically called the "voice of the wheel" or the "song of Goyaz."
There were some picturesque rapids just above the spot where we crossed the Corumbá River, which flowed in a tortuous channel with a general direction of W.S.W.
To the east of our track, as we proceeded northward, stood a glorious range of hills with magnificent grazing land extending for many miles. In front of us to the north and N.N.E. towered a high plateau, the Serra de Callos, also called, I believe, Serra do Cusuzeiro.
Still travelling up and down and across several streamlets, we reached at sunset the Rio Boccagna (2,230 ft. above the sea level), which, soon after passing the place where we crossed it, entered the large river Bagri, winding its way through a gorgeous forest. We had passed during the day really wonderful grazing land on either side of the track, but principally to the east, between the north bank of the Corumbá River and Camp Mazagan. There were plenty of small streams in the hilly and sometimes slightly wooded valleys.
At seven o'clock, having ridden that day 76 kil., we halted after dark at the moradoria, or farm, of Mazagan (elev. 2,375 ft. above the sea level). We were politely asked to enter the house, and immediately preparations were made to clear out the best room for me. The illumination was not grand: an ancient metal arrangement—not unlike a Pompeian lamp—with a wick soaked in oil profusely smoking. In the dim light I could just distinguish in the background, reclining against the wall, a youth with a guitar, from which two chords—always the same two chords—were strummed. The boy seemed in a trance over this musical composition, and even our appearance had not disturbed his efforts. He had taken no notice whatever of us. Dinner was prepared—it took a long time—the musician all the time delighting his admiring family with the two monotonous chords.
"It is a pity," said his delighted mother to me, "that we cannot send him to school. He is a genius; he would astonish the world."
"Yes," I hastily agreed, "it is a pity you cannot send him ... somewhere!"
"Can you not take him with you?"