Santos Ships Coffee by Tons, 

 But Cup Is Hard to Find 



Sao Paulo, 3,000 Feet Up, Is Modern 

 City of 1,200,000 Population 



Bearing gifts for South Ameri- 

 can zoos, Dr. William M. Mann, 

 director of the National Zoolog- 

 ical Park, is en route to points in 

 Brazil, Argentina and Uruguay 

 to collect birds, reptiles and ani- 

 mals. Among those accompany- 

 ing him is William H. Shippen, 

 jr., feature writer of The Star 

 staff, who here presents the 14th 

 of a series of articles abMrVrT 

 Mann's expedition. 



By W. H. SHIPPEN, Jr., 



Star Staff Correspondent. 



SANTOS, Brazil— Seeing three 

 such cities in two days — Rio, Santos 

 and Sao Paulo — one collects im- 

 pressions and jots down a few facts 

 for future reference. The impres- 

 sions come to 

 mind, and the 

 facts can wait. : , 

 'Hasta manana," 

 as they say — 

 "until tomor- 

 row." Sometimes 

 tomorrow never 1;J| 

 comes. American 

 go-getters down ; 

 here are sure it 

 never comes. 



Anyhow, "the 

 Sleeping Giant," 

 as the sailors 

 call the long, 

 jumbled moun- 

 tain that lies On W. H. Shippen, Jr. 



the starboard side of ships going 

 south out of Rio, looks strangely 

 like George Washington as he must 

 have appeared on his funeral bier. 



There is the same rugged nobility 

 about the head. The body is less 

 clearly defined, crumpled — that of 

 an old man who has served his time 

 —"doffed his wrinkled gear." The 

 whole length of the giant is 4 or 5 

 miles. His toes are the pinnacle 

 from which projects the high statue 

 of Christ. As we went out of the 

 harbor in the dusk the giant's pur ^ 

 pie figure was lined ; at the base with 

 a, row of twinkling lights along the 

 bay drive. 



The tiny, dwindling Christ statue, 

 lit by floodlights, was the last we 

 saw of Rio. 



In Rio we seemed a long way 

 from the news of the world. The 

 papers were printed and hawked in 

 Portuguese . . . airmail took a long 

 time, it seemed, to get through. A 

 matter of days, of course, but it 

 seemed a time. Yet K later — in an 

 automobile winding down a jungle- 

 grown mountain— the driver turned 

 on his radio. To my ears came 

 "My Heart Belongs to Daddy" 

 through the courtesy of a breakfast 

 food company. Then followed a 

 resume of the United States news, 

 including the latest Hollywood di- 

 vorces, marriages, rumors, etc. 



In Rio they have 7% miles of 

 almost vertical, cork-screw roadway, 

 called the "Devil's Springboard." 

 Each year motor drivers from as 

 many as 15 foreign countries race 

 local contenders up and down seven 

 times for such prizes as they survive 

 to collect. There are many hair- 

 pin turns (a better engineer could 



have widened them, North Amer- 

 icans say) which are nothing but an 

 invitation to eternity for racers. A 

 German holds the one-way record — 

 iy 2 miles in 7 minutes and 55 

 seconds.. 



A German also designed the "high- 

 way" for commercial purposes. 



The Brazilians say there has been 

 no race without its casualty. The 

 ""best" races have several fatalities. 

 Great crowds assemble. 



"It is magnificent, senor ! " ex- 

 claimed our host. 



Incidentally, no driver from the 

 United States has entered the race 

 to date. 



But enough of Rio. 



But Not to Drink. 



When we arrived off Santos yes- 

 terday morning, very early, just after 

 daylight, I awakened to a fragrant 

 smell of coffee. The shore breeze 

 brought it to my nostrils. I rang 

 for the steward to ask for coffee. 

 I learned the coffee was't quite 

 ready, since it was so early. So I 

 went back to sleep, still sniffing 

 coffee — our ship was docking at the 

 world's biggest coffee pot. 



I slept so heartily and well I 

 didn't awake until after the shore 

 trippers had gone down the gang- 

 way. I rang for coffee, but the 

 dining room had closed. (Please un- 

 derstand this is no reflection on the 

 service of the ship, which has been 

 more than excellent in every re- 

 spect — don't let a propagandist tell 

 you different.) I went ashore in 

 search of coffee. I walked through 

 a mile of warehouses, all loaded 

 with beans for that good American 

 drink. I couldn't find a cafe in 

 walking distance of the docks which 

 sold coffee — partly, no doubt, be- 

 cause I didn't know where to go, 

 but mostly because the citizens were 

 too busy storing coffee. 



After that we went to Sao Paulo, 

 about 60 miles across the moun- 

 tains. I was so busy following Dr. 

 Mann about the snake farm there 

 I never h#d a chance to get my 

 coffee. 



Coming back, our driver was de- 



layed by coffee trucks en route to 

 this port. When he arrived back on 

 board, the dining room was closing. 



"Can I have some Brazilian coffee, 

 please," I asked. 



"Sorry, sir, but I can bring you 

 some American coffee — some Java, 

 that is. Most of our cooks, you see, 

 have gone off duty!" 



Meanwhile, from the docks just 

 outside, I could hear the funny little 

 locomotives, whistling, huffing and 

 puffing, pulling carloads of coffee, 

 and the creak of two -score derricks 

 loading coffee. 



P S— I don't like coffee much 

 anyhow. 



Heading" Into Fall. 



Getting to Sao Paulo is worse 

 than climbing one of Rio's dizzy 

 mountain roads. The highway 4,000 

 feet or so up the coastal mountain 

 between Santos and Sao Paulo is 

 one of the world's steepest grades : 

 for motor cars, with reverse turns 

 every 100 yards and several right - 

 angle turns between. Coming down 

 this hignway in the darkness, with 

 the lights of Santos almost imme- 

 diately below, duplicates a view from 

 an airplane banking into Washing- 

 ton Airport. 



A plateau extends beyond the 

 coastal mountains, and Sao Paulo 

 lies at some 3,000 feet altitude. It ' 

 is a city of 1,200,000. The American 

 consul advised us to have lunch at 

 the city's leading department store, 

 a modern building with stocks, per- 

 sonnel and prices about on a par 

 with Washington's best. 



The comparison held good in the 

 store's lunchroom on the top floor, 

 except that more men than women 

 were lunching, and the crowd was 

 such that the head waiter was quite 

 unable to find tables. Another dif- 

 ference was the service was slow, 

 very slow — and those at luncheon 

 remained over their drinks and con- 

 versation for a long time after a 

 Washington crowd would have gone 

 elsewhere. 



The people at luncheon were 

 dressed in fall attire. Our summer 

 clothing seemed out of place, al- 

 though the day was decidedly on 

 the summer side. . Fall flowers dec- 

 orated the tables. 



(I'm only just beginning to be- 

 lieve we've headed into the fall 

 while spring blooms in Washing- 

 ton.) 



Tomorrow: A hero tends animals. 



