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.
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 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