Here's an unusual expedition.
Artists, musicians and writers setting out for Latin America
to find new personalities, music and dances for their cartoon films.
So adiós. Hollywood and saludos. amigos.
Three days later, they glided into Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.
Then down to the Argentine, Buenos Aires...
and out across the pampas.
At Córdoba 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 Inca civilisation.
8,000 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 just so 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 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?
Approximately.
At this great height, many visitors are subject to altitude fever, or soroche.
Is that so?
- The most common symptom is dizziness. - Dizziness? 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 an adventure.
A strong wind may arise very suddenly,
and then stop suddenly.
In the village we find this quaint old bakery,
where the tourist may loaf around to his heart's content.
For the artist in search of local colour,
the marketplace presents a picture of village life
as shoppers and merchants bustle about the public square.
The precipitous terrain in this region offers no problem to these hardy folk,
and we find the people here divided into two classes -
those who walk against the wind
and those who walk with the wind.
Wherever the visitor points his camera, he finds a picture fit for framing.
The llama is an odd-looking individual with considerable personality.
His master here exercises complete control over him with a home-made flute.
Let's see how he responds to a few notes up scale.
And down scale.
Up.
Down.
Now to a circular pattern.
Or reverse.
My. It's amazing.
Note how the crude sign language used by our tourist
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 country,
he'll 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?
Far below us we see the village.
The flute.
Give me that flute, you big palooka.
Take it easy. Whoa.
The traveller should avoid reckless behaviour at this high altitude.
Overexertion is dangerous,
and above all one should never lose one's temper.
Shut up, you big windbag.
Doggone. Get off me.
Come 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 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 airplanes -
the papa plane, the mama plane and the baby plane.
The papa plane was a big, powerful mail plane.
The mama plane was a middle-sized female plane.
And the baby plane was a little boy plane named Pedro.
Where is Pedro?
There he is.
Maybe someday he'll 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 ABCs of flying.
He studied reading, sky-writing and arithmetic.
He was taught anatomy.
He also studied history,
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 couldn't fly the mail.
And the mama plane couldn't stand the altitude because of high oil pressure.
So she couldn't fly the mail.
But the mail must go through.
I hope.
Calling Pedro. Ready for flight two to Mendoza.
"Now, remember," the mama plane said.
"Stay out of downdraughts and keep your muffler on tight."
And don't go near Aconcagua.
Flight two leaving for Mendoza.
All clear. Let her go.
Give her the gun, boy. Gun her.
Don't lose your flying speed. Hold on.
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'll...
A downdraught.
Pulled out of that one all right.
Handles himself like a veteran.
His course took 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,
the big bully they'd warned him about.
But he didn't scare Pedro, though. No, sirree.
The worst is over, and from now on it's clear sailing to Mendoza.
Come in against the wind. There's your mail.
Easy, now. Attaboy.
He picked up his mail like a veteran.
Careful. That cargo is precious.
Pedro was homeward bound and ahead of schedule.
I'll bet his mother and dad will be proud of him.
Just a natural-born flier.
Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned it.
Look out.
Hope he got that out of his system.
Now with good luck and...
I was afraid of that.
Hey, come back.
The little fellow had forgotten his responsibilities.
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.
Never mind the mail. Let it go.
Forget the mail. Climb.
Look out.
Get above the storm. I know you can make it.
Drop the mail. You've got to save yourself.
More altitude. 25,000's all you need. Up. Up.
Gun your motor. Now just a little more and you'll be in the clear.
Climb.
Good boy.
I knew you could make it. You're all right now.
Just level off and head straight for home.
He's out of gas.
He's gone.
Back at the home field, Pedro's parents searched the skies in vain.
They knew that he couldn't 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 couldn't be.
Wait. It is. It's Pedro.
Petey-boy. Are you all right?
Don't ask me how he did it.
It wasn't 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..."
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
stretching from the mountains to Buenos Aires,
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 Colón, home of the opera.
And the stately Congress building, centre of Argentina's government.
The tallest building in South America, the Edificio Kavanagh.
Yes, they were 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 visited his ranch studio
where Señor Campos paints the gaucho with amazing detail and humour.
Seeing these pictures made them anxious 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 job.
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 chiripá.
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.
See 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.
After seeing Señor Campos' paintings and all this colourful exhibition,
we couldn't help but compare the Argentine gaucho with 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 civilisation,
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. Sombrero.
Then there's the saco. the tirador. the chiripá and the pañuelo.
Then finally we have the poncho,
which just about covers everything.
A gaucho's closest friend and inseparable companion
is his horse, or pingo.
Quickly the gaucho grabs his lasso.
Twirling it above his head, he tosses it about the horse's neck
and easily subdues him 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,
the recado. or saddle, is really simplicity itself.
In saddling the horse, or pingo.
the gaucho simply lays a foundation of sudaderos and rosaleros.
adding the cinchos. 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 it fairly melts in your mouth.
The gaucho's method of eating looks 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 synchronise in deft, graceful rhythm.
One, two, bite, cut, chew.
It is this wholesome diet
that builds the gaucho's nerves of steel and muscles of iron.
And now the boleadoras. or bolas.
It consists of three lead weights covered with rawhide
and is often used for sports such as capturing the Argentine ostrich,
or avestruz.
Unlike most members of the ostrich family,
the avestruz has no ornamental tail plumage.
Its slender legs make excellent targets for the bolas.
Did he say bolas?
Dashing at breakneck speed, the gaucho whirls it round,
faster and faster, and then the throw.
Straight it flies to its mark,
and the swift bird is captured and tied all in one operation.
And now, to fully appreciate this remarkable feat,
let us study the action from the eye of the slow-motion camera.
Note the grace and beauty of this light-footed creature in startled flight.
With delicate balance and clock-like 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. Get out of the way. Watch it. Look out. Here it comes.
Too late.
And when night...
When night falls, the lone gaucho ofttimes finds himself
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.
El pala pala -
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 Sugar Loaf,
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 cafés.
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 city when a crowd of cartoonists are turned loose.
Among the sketches was a promising actor, O 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 cabaça
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.
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,
Aquarela Do Brasil - A Watercolour of Brazil.
What happened? Where am I?
What's going on around here?
Boy, this is fun.
What's this? A parrot?
My card?
I know I brought one from the States.
There you are.
Or, as you Americans say, let's go see the town.
OK, Joe. Where do we go?
I will show you the land of the samba.
What's samba?
The samba.
Soda pop.
Down the hatch.
Now you have the spirit of the samba.