Mistaken Journey

New Zealand Listener, Volume 12, Issue 292, 26 January 1945, Page 16

Mistaken Journey

SOUrNeY Nay ha

ROY

SHEFFIELD

[V.] ORUMBA is not a beautiful town, neither is it an interesting one. Indeed, several people have described it in much less complimentary terms, among them being the late Theodore Roosevelt, who arrived there one. sweltering day on one of his many sporting trips. On that occasion, uncomfortably hot even in riding breeches and an opennecked shirt, he was received by the Best People ceremonially clad in frock coats, stiff collars, hard hats, and all the other absurdities of that garb. To them, his informal attire constituted a serious ‘breach of etiquette, a feeling which aroused Roosevelt’s disgust. "Not only are they crazy enough to live in this God-forsaken furnace of a town," he exclaimed, "but they "have to dress up like a lot of undertakers into the bargain!" Corumba certainly does get hot. In the afternoons the pavements and limestone houses throw back the heat they have been absorbing, and although it is something of an exaggeration to describe the town as a furnace, a more conservative opinion might easily incline towards a baker’s oven. Our Mrs. Grundy would be considered a depraved old harridan in Corumba and the things upon which nowadays even she smiles would cause social ostracism; or probably imprisonment. If I may be pardoned the impertinence of ® criticism, I thought that many of their conventions were artificial and tended to stifle natural impulses. t caiised displeasure by walking abroad in a cricket shirt and grey flannels, a sensible enough attire for most occasions if the weather is hot enough. But not for Corumba. To pay even an inforfnal call without one’s coat is an enormity, even if one is perspiring at every pore. Although out there probably no social call can ever be informal; there are two Many conventions to be considered. The houses have the curtains dfawn back from the front windows revealing the interior of the drawing room, and the interest of the passer-by, far from being resented, is expected and appreciated. Every article of furniture is carefully placed, the room shines with polish and abounds with innumerable ornaments and family photographs. Here the young women of the house receive their suitors and they are wooed in a fashion which would give but little satisfaction to most normal English couples. Long before this stage is reached the young man must have satisfied the girl’s parents as to his credentials, and once their consent is gained the girl’s

"Yes" is taken for granted. But for all that he is very much on his best behaviour and his conduct during his visits must be very, very proper. On these occasions the poor fellow is dressed to kill, and that must make him feel pretty uncomfortable to start with, since South American tailoring shows a distressing tendency to tightness. He is required to sit circumspectly on his chair; the object of his affections, at a respectable distance, sits on her chair: while the chaperon sits primly on her chair. Alwaysthere isthe chaperon, usually a@ younger sister or an aunt, and her presence is as essential to the propriety of the courtship as the stitor’s trousers. A man and woman have. only to be alone together to set- tongues wagging, and the honour of the family is very much at stake on these occasions. In outlying parts of Matta Grosso, the traveller, even though in sore need of assistance, never thinks of dismounting from his horse until the man of the house has invited him to do so. He would be courting a knife thrust or a shooting if he did. While he is there the women keep out of sight, and the guest, if he is wise, praises the food without mentioning the cook. Naturally enough this atmosphere of universal suspicion has the effect of provoking in otherwise innocent encounters that very relationship against which it is directed. But these conventions to a certain axtent are based on personal conceit, or family prestige (which is the same thing on a larger scale), and fed on fear. They are observed because the people are slaves to’ Public Opinion. They wear their best clothes on the slightest provocation, but only to appear as good as their neighbour and in case they should lose caste if they didn't. They parade their virtues to hide their weaknesses, and their immaculate draw-ing-rooms are on show simply because they are immaculate. That chaperon, if they orfly knew it, is the worst possible indictment on their moral character. If her presence is a necessity to ensure a girl’s safety inher own home, then the men folk are an unprincipled pack of scoundrels. If she is there merely to satisfy Public Opinion as to the decency of the courtship, then the public must have a foul mind, and queer things must have happened in the past to make them think that way. But underlying are probably deeper, and more commendable motives. In these distant towns the population is always a very mixed one. At the bottom of the social scale are the Indians, for whom life is fairly easy, inasmuch as they subsist on precious little, and their wants are few. Social backsliding to the level of the tribes would be easy for the other members of the community were it not for the rigid code of

conventions and moral laws which keep them up to scratch. Thus, in a way, that outward show of respectability is something of an essential, rather like a boiled shirt and a monocle among a crowd of naked savages. After a few days, though, my sympathies were all on the side of the savages. * * * The first friends I made in Corumba were the members of the International Mission, and real friends they proved, too. There was an American in charge of the Mission and three young British, two Englishmen and a Welshman, to help him. Corumba is an advanced station where the younger missionaries receive their final training before going out among the tribes. They were fine fellows, and their work leads them into many dangers and through strange experiences. Some time previously two of their members had established themselves among remote and hostile Indians who, up till then, had killed any strangers falling into their hands. They lived with the tribe, and endeavoured to introduce practical Christianity into their lives. After a time they returned to the Mission to replenish their supplies and, although they knew the terrible risk they were running, again returned to the work which called them. They went to their deaths, for shortly afterwards, sickness afflicted the tribe and a poor, weakly youth succumbed to it. Superstition, which is incredibly strong, bade the witch doctor find a cause for the tribe’s misfortunes, and his evil choice fell upon the two strangers, who were deemed to have brought the sickness upon them. I hope they died quickly. I asked my missionary friends whether the results they obtained were encouraging, and they assured me that they were. Without wishing to take sides in a highly controversial issue, I should say that it is far better for the savage first to meet the invading white man in the shape of a missionary, than for them to encounter, and to be exploited by, the usual type of trader. Much missionary work is negatived by the methods of these traders, who usually find that a bottle of liquor has more potent charms than any message of spiritual bliss to come. Medical assistance is, of course, an important feature of modern Christian endeavour, but often the native is loth to accept it. I was told that sometimes they will consent to have a bad tooth extracted, to undergo other treatment, only if they receive a gift for so doing. It must be very difficult to strive for results with a people who let themselves be saved out of print and ‘with an éye to the prizes

The senior missionary, the American, related an interesting incident regarding the fate of Colonel Fawcett, whose disappearance in the wilds of Central Brazil gave rise to so many fantastic stories and aroused world-wide interest. In 1925, Colonel J. Fawcett, with two companions, his own son and another young Englishman, struck into the interior of Matta Grosso on a most romantic and glamorous quest. Their aim was to discover the ancient cities of an unknown civilisation, a civilisation which, Fawcett was convinced, had existed, and the ruins of which were still to be found. Even to-day, the interior of Matto Grosso is largely virgin soil, and is likely to remain so for many years; but, although little is known of this vast expanse of jungle waste, much is conjectured, and rumour speaks of a mountain range, of gold and silver mines, and of a race of white Indians, the offspring of a Lost People. Into this land of mystery Fawcett disappeared in 1925, and from the moment he turned his back on the last civilised community, nothing was ever heard from him or from his companions. But rumour was not idle, and when two years later fears were entertained for his safety, amazing tales began to seep through from the interior. The basis of these stories was the same; that, although his companions were dead, Fawcett himself still lived. From this point, however, the tale differed, and it was variously held that he was the unwilling captive of savage Indians; that he was mad, and lived with the tribe as one of themselves; and that he was worshipped as a god, and wielded strange powers over his subjects. The world received these tales with fervid interest, and in 1928, three years after Colonel Fawcett had disappeared, an American expedition under Commander George Dyott set out to find him. Their efforts proved that it was a thousand to one chance against the explorer still being alive, although, at the same time, they did not discover incontrovertible proofs of his death. Odds of a thousands to one did not deter a British party from leaving on a similar quest four years later, and the evidence they collected confirmed the earlier reports of Commander Dyott, that it was beyond the realms of possibility that Colonel Fawcett still survived. This was a verdict with which my missionary friend concurred. His calling took him out among the remoter Indians, and none knew better than he the difficulties and the dangers to be faced in those parts. The incident he mentioned had occurred some years previously, when he was visiting a distant tribe. In one of the huts he had seen a black tin box with the initials J.F. painted on it. The box, the Indians told him, had been left there eighteen months before by a white man who had come to them and rested with them for a few days ‘before continuing on his way. The missionary was firmly of the opinion that the box had belonged to Colonel Fawcett, and, he said, it was the first news of him since the expedition had left. Again there was no mention of Fawcett’s son and his other companion, although this does not necessarily imply that they were not still with him. When the missionary told me of this I had no more than a casual knowledge of the circumstances gleaned from newspaper reports, and I did not ask him the (continued on next page)

(continued trom previous page) exact date when he had seen the black box. Had I done so, it might have established a clue to Colonel Fawcett’s existence up to a time within eighteen months from that date. My friend, too, discredited the sensational newspaper reports which maintained public interest in the affair, and believed that the Colonel’s party had met their deaths either from natural causes in the inhospitable jungle, or else by falling foul of hostile Indians through whose country they had attempted to pass. He added that if Central Brazil was once the home of a forgotten civilisation the present inhabitants showed precious little sign of having inherited any of its finer points. * * % My new friends were staggered when they heard why I had come to Corumba and, as I was expecting, they, too, agreed that the river trip was suicidal folly. To the host of objections which I already knew, they added a few more. The authorities in Corumba, they said, would not allow a foreigner to navigate any craft, even a canoe, without a pilot in charge; and, in any case, permission would have to be forthcoming from a higher authority than the local one. Also that Paraguay, would be a stumbling block,- since river travel for foreigners in that country was restricted to the regular passenger steamers; and that. even this method was not particularly safe either, for just previously two of their colleagues had been taken off the boat at Asuncion, the Paraguayan capital, and imprisoned on the suspicion that they were Bolivian agents. Later on, I had good cause to remember this piece of information. Prospects certainly did not improve upon a closer acquaintance with actual conditions, and next day I was completely and definitely convinced that the canoe trip was a ridiculous impossibility. With the senior missionary to act as interpreter, I called upon the local bigwig, and, rather to my companion’s consternation, we were able to see the great man himself immediately. Being a stranger, and an impatient one at that, I did not appreciate the fine points of the etiquette demanded in paying a visit to such a personage, and my bull-at-a-gate tactics were dreadfully crude. In point of fact, we simply walked in on him and bearded the lion in his den, for finding the outer office unattended. we opened another door, and there we were. There was he, too, leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, shirt-sleeved, and smoking a black cigar. Obviously, the big business man caught with his nose to the grindstone. ° He seemed surprised to see us, as well he might, for the usual procedure in such an affair is far more elaborate. First of all one gets to know a secretary or a friend, and to this person one tentatively suggests that it is desired to meet the Big Noise on a little matter of, oh! no importance whatsoever, and at a time, oh! any old time this side of quarter day, to suit his convenience. The great thing, of course, is not to appear to be in a hurry, They do not like people who want things done quickly. They just do not understand them, for isn’t there always to-morrow, which, by all the signs, will obviously be a far better day for doing things than to-day? No; anybody in @ hurry’ makes them suspicious and, bad tem-

pered, and the hasty one’s chances of getting what he wants are practically nil. Anyway, the secretary, or friend, after learning the whys and wherefores of everything will cogitate, and if the day is, say, Friday, and he has favourably considered your proposals, he will suggest a further meeting on, perhaps, the following Wednesday. Then, without doubt, he says, something will surely be accomplished; and after that, who knows, perhaps an appointment may be arranged just as the senhor desires. By the time this happens one’s business, life history and future prospects have been matters of common discussion among all arid sundry, and the interview passes off along the lines already prepared for it, Nevertheless, that is how it is done, or at least, how it should be done in the best circles; circumspectly, unhurriedly,. and with due regard to all the proprieties, However, whether Big-Wig liked it or not, we were in the lists and my companion got down to business -without waiting for the flourish of trumpets. This did nothing to lessen the other’s chagrin, for, clearly he regarded our visit as an intrusion, and humphed! humphed! in a most official manner. But luckily, as he began to understand our mission, his sense of humour was tickled, until finally he was all smiles and laughing loudly, and I could see that he had a fine tale to tell for the rest of his life of the mad Englishman who came 6000 miles to paddle down to Buenos Aires in a canoe. He certainly enjoyed his joke, which did not worry me in the least, for I still had the ranch to go to, so I smiled ruefully and made comic motions of despair. That amused him more than ever, and he _ gesticulated violently, showing me in pantomime where the crocodiles would bite-apparently they are partial to that part of one’s anatomy favoured by bull-dogs-and making snapping noises with his teeth, indicative of how the piranha fish would relish the good red blood of a healthy young Englishman. We were getting ; along famously, that was plain enough, but still-I had not received the official veto to the trip which honour demanded, and I asked whether, apart from crocodiles and piranhas, there were any legal objections. Believe me, there were plenty, and for the next five minutes I watched with interest his changing facial expressions ‘as he replied to thé question. Like most Latins he registered well, as they say in Hollywood, and with no knowledge of his language I was able to follow the gist, of his remarks merely by observing his countenance. He was most informative, and I knew then, beyond all doubt, that the expedition was forbidden by the authorities. This knowledge gave me great satisfaction, because by then, quite honestly, I was in a blue funk about the whole business, and yet in spite of everything I knew that I was still determined to have a shot at it unless I was forcibly prevented. But now, however, honour was served, and with relief I could turn from gloomily speculating which unpleasant death out of all those prophesied would be my own particular lot, to the far more attractive prospect of life on a_ cattle fazenda in wildest Matta Grosso. Clo he-atntieidtes gee