A fond greeting to you
A warm handshake or two
Good friends always
A new's waiting to start
You must meet it
Wake up and greet it
With a gay song in your heart
Here's an unusual expedition:
artists, musicians and writers setting
out for a trip through Latin America...
to find new personalities, music
and dances for their cartoon films.
Three days later they glided in
to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil...
then down to the Argentine,
Buenos Aires...
and out across the pampas.
At Cordoba, the party divided.
Some flew over the Andes into Chile.
The others went north
to the Inca country...
Bolivia, Peru
and Lake Titicaca...
turning away from the modern cities
to find the descendants...
of ancient Inca civilization.
Eight thousand square miles of water
over two miles above sea level...
Lake Titicaca has been prominent in Inca
history and folklore for generations.
Wood is scarce at this altitude...
so the fishermen's boats
are woven of balsa reeds.
There's always plenty of colour
and excitement here on market day.
These folks come from miles around
to trade their goods...
and swap some of the local gossip.
The styles run to bright-coloured
clothes and conservative hats...
and a rumble seat for the baby.
Just the kind of material
the artists were after.
Their music is strange and exotic...
melodies handed down
from their Inca ancestors.
And walking haystacks
are right in tempo.
These little syncopated burros
bear the heavy burdens here...
because the more dignified llama
will carry us to much and no more.
When his quota is exceeded,
that haughty aristocrat of the Andes...
calmly sits down
and refuses to budge.
Yes, a llama can make you feel
awfully unimportant.
All these impressions, together with the
local colour that had been absorbed...
resulted in a little travelogue...
seeing the land of the Incas
through the eyes...
of a celebrated North American tourist.
Lake Titicaca is approximately
13,000 feet above sea level.
- 13,000 feet!
- Hmm, approximately.
At this great height, many visitors are
subject to altitude fever, or soroche.
- Is that so?
- The most common symptom is dizziness.
Dizziness? Aw, phooey!
Often followed
by palpitation of the heart.
The ears have a tendency to pop.
And a peculiar
ringing sound is heard.
Fascinating, isn't it?
The balsa, or basket boat...
is constructed entirely
of reeds tightly bound together.
It's built to withstand
the fury of the elements.
In fact, it seems to be impervious
to practically everything...
except the inquisitive tourist.
Crossing the lake
is often filled with adventure.
A strong wind
may arise very suddenly...
and then stop suddenly.
For the artist
in search of local colour...
the marketplace presents an
excellent picture of village life...
as shoppers and merchants
bustle about the public square.
The precipitous terrain in this region
offers no problem to these hearty folk.
And we find the people here
divided into two classes...
those who walk against the wind...
and those who walk with the wind.
Yes, wherever the visitor
points his camera...
he finds a picture fit for framing.
The llama, or "yama",
is an odd-looking individual...
with considerable personality.
His master, here, exercises
complete control over him...
with a home-made flute.
is quickly interpreted
by this wide-awake youngster.
The visitor never seems to be satisfied
until he tries on the native costume.
And our tourist is no exception.
The llama is obviously
not a jitterbug...
but if you want to explore
this precipitous country...
hell solve all your
transportation problems.
One soon becomes accustomed
to the low, fleecy clouds...
that steal like silent ghosts
across one's path.
The gentle undulating gait of the llama
adapts itself very nicely...
to the swaying motion
of the suspension bridge.
Suspension bridge?
Oh, no!
Far below us, we see the village.
Whoa! Whoa-oa!
The flute.
Give me that flute, ya big palooka!
Hey! Take it easy!
Whoa! Whoa-oa!
What?
The traveller should be cautioned
against any reckless behaviour...
at this high altitude.
Overexertion is dangerous.
And above all, one should
never lose one's temper.
Shut up, ya big windbag!
Get off of me!
Go on, beat it!
Doggone you.
And finally, the pottery market...
where the visitor always drops in...
seldom failing to accumulate
a large collection...
of the native handiwork,
as he bids a fond farewell...
to the land of the Incas,
Lake Titicaca.
The flight across the Andes
into Chile...
over the highest mountains in America.
Plenty to see and remember
on this spectacular trip.
Since no cameras are allowed here...
the boys have to cover this
from memory and sketches.
Impressions of Uspallata Pass
from 16,000 feet.
These sketches and the stories
told of the pioneer mail planes...
that first flew this route
started everyone thinking.
First a little plane
began to take shape...
with a personality all his own.
All agreed that he had
good screen possibilities...
and before the plane set down
at Santiago...
his life story had begun.
Once upon a time in a little airport
near Santiago, Chile...
there lived three aeroplanes:
the papa plane, the mama plane
and the baby plane.
The papa plane was a big,
powerful male plane.
Mama plane was
a middle-sized female plane.
And the baby plane was
a little boy plane named Pedro.
Uh, where is Pedro?
Oh, there he is. Maybe someday...
hell grow up to be a big plane
like his father...
who carries the mail
between Chile and Argentina.
Like all fledglings,
Pedro went to ground school...
to learn the ABC's of flying.
He studied reading,
skywriting and arithmetic.
He was taught anatomy.
He also studied history...
Pedro! And geography.
And in geography, he learned the mail
route between Santiago and Mendoza.
Over the mighty Andes,
past Aconcagua...
highest mountain
in the Western Hemisphere.
One day the papa plane was laid up
with a cold in his cylinder head.
So he couldnt fly the mail.
And the mama plane
couldnt stand the altitude...
because she had high oil pressure.
So she couldnt fly the mail.
But the mail must go through...
I hope.
Calli Pedro.
Ready for Flight 2 to Mendoza.
"Now, remember, Pedro",
the mama plane said...
"stay out of downdraught
and keep your muffler on tight. "
And dont go near Aconca...
Aconca... Aconcagua!
Flight 2 leaving for Mendoza.
All clear, Pedro.
Let 'er go.
Give 'er the gun, boy!
Gun 'er! Gun 'er!
Dont lose you ring speed!
Pull up!! Pull up!!
Look out!
And so, after a masterly takeoff...
Pedro started on
his first assignment...
to pick up the mail at Mendoza.
Each and every trip through
this pass is an adventure in itself.
At this altitude,
you never can tell what...
Downdraught!
Pulled out of that one all right.
Handles himself like a veteran.
His course carried him
over the Pass of Uspallata...
where stands the statue
of the Christ of the Andes...
marking the boundary
between Chile and Argentina.
So far, so good.
Not a cylinder missing.
Pedro was flying on top
of the world when suddenly...
his first view of that
towering monarch, Aconcagua!
So this was the big bully
theyd warned him about.
But he didnt scare Pedro, though.
No, sirree.
Well, the worst is over.
And from now on,
it's clear sailing to Mendoza.
Come in against the wind, Pedro.
There's your mail.
Easy now. Attaboy!
He picked up his mail
like a veteran.
Uh-oh! Careful!
That cargo is precious.
Pedro was homeward-bound
and ahead of schedule.
Ill bet his mother and dad
will be proud of him.
Just a natural-born flier.
Hmm. Maybe I
shouldnt have mentioned it.
Look out!
Hope he got that out of his system.
Now with good luck and a...
Uh-oh.
I was afraid of that.
Hey, Pedro, come back!
The little fellow had completely
forgotten his responsibilities. Pedro!
Then suddenly, Aconcagua!
Its rocky, snow-filled crags formed
the face of a leering monster.
The oil froze
in little Pedro's cylinders...
and his motor knocked with fright.
All those warnings
came back to him now:
the treacherous crosscurrents,
the sudden storms.
Climb above the storm, Pedro!
Never mind the mail!
Let it go! Let it go!
Forget the mail!
Climb, Pedro! Climb!
Look out!
Climb, Pedro! Climb!
Get above the storm!
I know you can make it!
Drop the mail!
Youve got to save yourself!
More altitude!
25,000's all you need!
Up! Up!
Gun your motor! Now just a little more
and youll be in the clear!
Climb, Pedro! Climb!
Good boy!
Good boy!
I knew you could make it!
Youre all right now.
Just level off
and head straight for home.
He's out of gas.
Pedro! Pedro!
He's gone.
Back at the home field...
Pedro's parents
searched the skies in vain.
They knew that he couldnt
have held out this long.
Their brave little son was gone...
another martyr to the mail service.
Poor little fella.
His first flight.
It's too bad
it had to end this way.
What was that?
I wonder if it...
No, it couldnt be.
Wait! It is! It's Pedro!
Pedro! Petey boy!
Are you all right?
Well, dont ask me how he did it.
It wasnt exactly
a three-point landing...
but he did fulfil his mission.
He brought the mail through.
The mail,
that all-important cargo.
"Having wonderful time.
Wish you were... " Mmm.
Well, it might have been important.
And he did bring in the mail.
And so, the papa plane,
the mama plane...
and little Pedro
flew happily ever after.
Sailing eastward from Chile,
we cross the Argentine pampas...
just millions of acres
of rich grazing land...
the third largest city
in the Western Hemisphere.
Buenos Aires is a beautiful city.
This is the plaza de Mayo,
one of its delightful parks;
the Teatro Colon,
home of the opera;
and the stately Congress building,
centre of Argentinas government.
The tallest building
in South America...
the Edificio Cavanaugh.
Yes, they were really
impressed with the big city...
but impressive, too,
was the lure of the pampas...
and the Argentine gaucho
as painted by F. Molina Campos.
The party were guests
at his ranch studio...
where Senor Campos paints the gaucho...
with amazing detail and humour.
Seeing these pictures made them
more anxious than ever...
to meet these caballeros
in person.
And they lived up to their pictures.
A real Wild West show...
but just part
of the day's work for a gaucho.
Sketching these paisanos
in action was no easy ob.
But they did manage to get a good
look at the gaucho's equipment.
Silver coins decorate his belt,
or tirador.
The sheepskin saddle.
Soft horsehide boots.
This garment's called a chiri.
Here the visitors
were treated to an asado.
choice cuts of meat;
mate, the Argentine tea;
and wine from their own vineyards.
True Argentine hospitality.
A group of skilled dancers
entertained the guests.
Not the modern tango
of Buenos Aires...
but the country dances
of the Argentine.
The same tunes to which
their grandparents had danced.
Notice how closely
these steps resemble...
the old-time square dances
of North America.
Gathering picture material
here was a pleasure.
Another story was under way.
And after seeing Senor Campos, paintings
and all this colourful exhibition...
we couldnt help but compare
the life of the Argentine gaucho...
with that of our own cowboy.
And they reached way back
into Texas to find a leading man.
From the windswept plains
of Montana...
to the sunbaked banks
of the Rio Grande...
over countless miles
of mountain and prairie...
untouched and unsullied by
the mercenary hand of civilization...
roams a tough,
hardy and heroic breed of man:
the North American cowboy.
Strong, silent and weather-beaten.
Howdy, strangers.
This colourful cowhand
of the great West...
has his counterpart
in the South American gaucho.
Over land and sea, over rugged
mountains and dense jungles...
down across the equator to the lush,
grassy pampas of the Argentine...
the home of the gaucho.
Now, the cowboys of both
Americas have much in common...
although their costume
differs in a few minor details.
We substitute bombachas
for chaps; the sombrero.
Then there's the saco,
the tirador...
the chiri and the panuelo.
Then, finally,
we have the poncho...
which just about covers everything.
The gaucho's closest friend
and inseparable companion...
is his horse, or pingo.
Quickly the gaucho
reaches for his lasso!
Twirling the rawhide above his head, he deftly
tosses the noose about the horse's neck...
and easily subdues
the spirited animal...
with the help
of the snubbing post...
or palenque.
Thanks to the palenque,
or snubbing post...
the horse is soon brought under
control and is ready for the saddle.
While it appears complex
at first glance...
adding the cinchas,
bastos, sheepskin, pigskin...
bridle, bit and, finally,
the gaucho.
When riding the range at night...
the saddle may be quickly
converted into a bed, or catre.
Bed?
One of the gaucho's
favourite sports is the asado...
or Argentine barbecue.
Over an open charcoal fire...
thick, juicy,
tender steaks are prepared.
And, amigos,
it fairly melts in your mouth.
The gaucho's method
of eating looks quite simple...
yet requires
a certain amount of practice.
The bread and meat
are held in one hand...
the knife in the other.
Note the action
of wrist and elbow...
as knife and food synchronize
in deft, graceful rhythm.
One, two, bite, cut, chew.
One, a-two, a-bite, cut, chew.
Yes, it is this wholesome diet
that builds...
the gaucho's nerves of steel
and muscles of iron.
And now the boleadoras, or bolas.
The bolas consists of three lead
weights covered with rawhide...
and is often used for sport,
such as capturing...
that swift-moving bird of the
pampas, the Argentine ostrich...
or avestruz..
Unlike most members
of the ostrich family...
the avestruz. is not equipped
with ornamental tail plumage.
Its slender legs make
excellent targets for the bolas.
Did he say bolas?
Dashing at breakneck speed, the gaucho
whirls the bolas, round and, round...
faster and faster,
and then the throw!
And now to fully appreciate
this remarkable feat...
let us study the action...
through the eye
of the slow-motion camera.
Note the grace and beauty...
of this light-footed creature
in startled flight.
With delicate balance and
clocklike precision of timing...
man and beast moving as one...
display a minimum of waste motion...
as the whirling bolas are unleashed.
Faster and faster!
On and on they spin, closer and closer!
Here they come! Be careful!
Get out of the way! Heads up! Watch it!
Look out, look out!
Here it comes! Duck, duck, duck!
Too late! Too late!
And when night...
When night falls...
the lone gaucho oft-times finds
himself far, far out on the pampas.
Listen to the melancholy
strains of the triste...
a sad, romantic ballad.
But the gaucho is not always sad.
Come, let us dance to
the lively beat of the chacarera...
the dance of the farmer's daughter.
Combining the minuet...
the bunny hug
and a dash of jumping jive.
The pampas version of cutting a rug.
And El Malambo...
a solo number in which the dancer
swings out with utter abandon...
often described as
perpetual motion below the equator.
Traditional dance
of the rooster and the hen.
And now, as he sways to
the gentle undulations of El Malambo...
we gently waft
our transplanted cowboy...
back to his prairie homeland.
Here we leave him
with warm and tender memories...
of his visit to the gay,
romantic land of the gaucho.
And now from the pampas
to Brazil and Rio de Janeiro...
a city of amazing beauty
and a perfect setting.
One of the best views of the city
is from the top of Sugarloaf...
overlooking Copacabana Beach,
the playground of Rio.
From Corcovado, the Statue
of the Saviour looks out...
upon these scenes
of active city life.
This is the kind of atmosphere
the artists were after:
the outdoor cafes...
the mosaic sidewalks
that are found all over Rio.
These designs are a tribute
to patience and artistry...
preserving a Brazilian tradition.
Here are some
of the first impressions.
This is what can happen to a big city
when a crowd of cartoonists...
are turned loose.
Among the sketches
was a promising actor...
Old Papagaio, the parrot featured
in most of Brazil's funny stories.
With the help of the wardrobe
department, he becomes Joe Carioca.
The music of Brazil, a samba.
Rhythm instruments
like the reco reco...
and the cabaca...
all help to beat out
that intricate samba rhythm...
a lively two-step with a bounce.
It's the same rhythm that
captivates the whole city...
when carnival time comes around.
Carnival in Rio...
three hilarious days and nights.
Singing, dancing and celebrating.
The spirit of the Mardi Gras
and New Year's Eve rolled into one.
Each year hundreds of songs are written
especially for this occasion...
and the dream of every composer is to
have his song chosen as a carnival hit.
One number stood out as a perfect
background for the first Brazilian film.
Its author, Ary Barroso,
has made use of the samba rhythm...
to paint a musical picture
of his native land.
A watercolour of Brazil.
What happened? Where am I?
What's going on around here?
Boy, this is fun!
Uh-oh.
What's this? A parrot?
"Chos Carioco.
Rio de, uh...
January, Brassa. "
No, senor. Jos Carioca.
Huh?
My card? I know I brought one
from the States.
Ah. There you are.
"Donald Duck"?
O Pato Donald! O Pato Donald!
O Pato Donald!
Or, as you Americans say...
- Huh?
- "let's go see the town. "
Okay, Joe! Where do we go?
Donald, I will show you
the land of the samba.
Samba? What's samba?
Ha! The samba!
Ah! Soda pop!
Down the hatch, Joe!
Ohh!
Oh, boy! Oh, boy!
Oh, boy! Oh, boy! Samba!