ACROSS UNKNOWN SOUTH AMERICA 
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 north-northeast towered a high plateau, the 
Serra de Callos, also called, I believe, Serra do Cusuzeiro. 
After travelling up and down and across several 
streamlets, we reached at sunset the Rio Boccagna (2,230 
feet 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. During the 
day we had passed really wonderful grazing land on either 
side of the track, but principally to the east, between the 
north bank of the Corumba 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 kilometres, 
we halted after dark at the moradoria, or farm, of 
Mazagan (elevation 2,375 feet 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 did not disturb his efforts. He took no 
notice whatever of us. Dinner was prepared — it took a 
long time — the musician all the time enchanting 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! ” 
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