272 



THE INDIA RUBBER WORLD 



[M \v l, 1910. 



Part of the Port of Para Works. 



Soon we began to see the fishing boats of typical Portuguese 

 construction, fitted with sails, dark brown, red and blue. As 

 we got further up the river the water became calmer. Did I 

 mention that it was growing warmer all of the time? It certainly 

 was hot, and those who were to remain on board the boat during 

 its stay in port were already getting out mosquito bars. The 

 captain explained to me the reason for anchoring the night 

 before. It seems this coast is afflicted with unusual and strong 

 currents. He pointed out a bank which a huge freight steamer 

 skirted by unlucky chance one dark night, running her bilge 

 keel upon it, and turned turtle almost instantly. Then, too, he 

 showed us the reefs where only a short time before another 

 huge freighter had been wrecked, the captain blowing out 

 his brains when he found his vessel was a total loss. Soon we 

 sighted some of the many islands with which the waterway 

 is filled, and then almost at once got our first glimpse of 

 the water front of the great Rubber City. 



In coming up to Para everything is on so large a scale that 

 one gets no idea at all of the wonderful configuration of the 

 country. The view is confined to wide expanses of muddy 

 water, low shores, densely overgrown with tropical forests, 

 and a few islands. A bird's eye view would show islands big 

 and little by the thousands, rivers of all sizes coming in from 

 every point of the compass, almost; creeks, lagoons, waterways, 

 the whole lower country a gigantic plain rising but a few feet 

 above tide level, sparsely settled, the riot of vegetation crowd- 

 ing every inch of space, and even stretching far out into the 

 quiet earth-laden waters. 



We passed in safety the little Portuguese built fort that 

 guards the entrance to the harbor, skirted the shore where the 

 great plant of the Port of Para* is located, and finally dropped 

 anchor about a mile from the piers. When the great tropical 

 contractors, the Pearsons, finish their work, Para will have a 

 fine system of granite quays, at which steamers may discharge 

 and load, and passengers go ashore over a gangplank. Until 

 that is done, cargoes are handled in huge lighters covered with 

 movable sheet iron awnings, and passengers go ashore in 

 launches, tugs or rowboats. 



I had heard many stories of the vigilance of the customs offi- 

 cials, and that everything paid duty. I, therefore, took only hand 

 baggage for the first trip ashore, and even then would have had 

 trouble with the camera had not a Smoking Room Friend 



explained in profuse Portuguese that I was intimately con- 

 nected with the iniendente (mayor) and had come from New 

 York purposely to get his photograph. Both federal and state 

 customs, who were aboard almost as soon as the anchor was 

 down, passed me at that. They don't take any chances, how- 

 ever; a passenger going ashore even for a few minutes cannot 

 return to his boat without a permit from a shore official, and 

 one's luggage may remain in the custom house until the Amazon 

 freezes over, if the officials do not choose to bestir themselves. 

 At least so everybody says. To finish my own custom house ex- 

 periences, a newspaper friend went next day, picked out my 

 luggage, got it passed and up to the hotel within two hours. 

 He did this by reading again and again to the bored official 

 a personal estimate of the Editor of The India Rubber World 

 that he himself had caused to be put in the daily papers. In 

 self defense the customs man marked the luggage. 



The shore tug on which we embarked took us within a 

 hundred yards of the shore and then tied up to one of the huge 

 lighters, where we were to be transferred to a small rowboat. 

 We saw a couple of porters jump on the lighter, walk around 

 its shelf-like edge, and disappear on their way to shore. Rather 

 than wait for the boat, I followed and wished I hadn't, for the 

 other side of the lighter was made fast to what was once a 

 long wooden pier, but the planking having all been removed, 

 there remained an uneven, rotting nail studded skeleton with 

 the yellow water looking surprisingly dirty and deep under- 

 neath it. I got ashore all right, but the broiling sun and my 

 exertions put me in a perspiration that would fill a Turkish bath 

 attendent with envy. 



We landed right in the rubber district. There was rubber 

 everywhere, on the sidewalks, in the streets, on trucks, in the 

 great storehouses and in the air — that is, the smell of it. We 

 didn't pause to see the rubber men then, however, but went up 

 a narrow street to the electric car line, sw-ung aboard, and were 

 soon at the Cafe Da Paz and located in a comfortable room. 



Breakfast is at 12 o'clock, noon, in Para, and while I was 

 enjoying that meal, I took occasion to chat with an American 

 commercial traveler who came to Brazil once a year. It makes 

 me proud always to see evidences of American enterprise in for- 

 eign countries, so I asked him a few questions. 



"Do many commercial travelers strike this port'" 



"Lots of them," said he. 



"How many American drummers are there in town at 

 present?" 



"I'm the cully one," was the reply. 



"How many Germans are here?" 



"Eighty," said lie. 



[TO BE CONTINUED.] 



*An American corporation improving the harbor. 



Six Months Old "Hevea/' Para Museum. 



