Jack Simpson’s journey to Brazil to look at proper
The Old Man
Hours passed. No coffee plantations came into view. We were in cattle country of sparse grass and scattered scrub. It was naturally open country, not cleared jungle that later became controversial for cattle growers, and which the late Chico Mendes brought to world-wide attention. Progressing northward, the country slowly broke up into ragged bluffs and small canyons. Less grass, but with a scattering of trees.
The Old Man’s house
We turned off the red-dirt highway onto a secondary dirt road. Within a few miles, a whitewashed adobe house with a red tile roof appeared on our right. We stopped. An old man with silvery hair and a clean-shaven face the color of burnt rawhide greeted us. He was, he told us, widowed. He lived alone. His drinking water was carried from a hand-dug well about fifty yards from the house. His cast-iron cookstove was fueled by wood, which he chopped with a single-blade axe. A kerosene lamp with a sooty chimney sat on the table in his modest but comfortable home. Not far behind the house was a corral and thatched shed, within which were probably fifteen multi-colored goats. His visiting grandson, he said, was out with the main herd. They would return prior to darkness, for the goat herd had to be penned at night as protection against predators.
Soft-spoken and courteous, the old man exuded calmness and dignity. He seemed at one with his surroundings. His nearest neighbors must have been several miles distant. Maybe he liked it that way, although he seemed to enjoy our company. But possibly the reason he enjoyed it was because he knew that it was temporary. And his peaceful solitude would return with our departure.
Ed & Oscar talking to the Old Man in his corral
The old man’s presence remained with me long after we left him standing in his unfenced front yard. I puzzled over his inner peacefulness. Now, after a handful of years have flowed through the tunnel of time, I think I understand. If a person has lived an interesting life, and shared a great love, and has strived to bring a touch of happiness to a few individuals less fortunate than oneself, that person will feel an inner satisfaction, a gladness of the soul…and a peacefulness that has nothing to do with a collection of material items, or the latest gadgetry, or ease of living, or money in the bank.
The Short Gearshift
An hour, more or less, after leaving the goat ranch we turned onto a single-lane dirt road. Our speed decreased to thirty on the good stretches, fifteen on the not-so-good. We climbed into a zone of higher elevation and more rainfall. Trees grew taller, grasses were more abundant. Ed directed Oscar to slow down. “We have to turn onto another road pretty soon. If we go too fast we’ll miss it,” Mr. Zanni explained to me.
The new road, when we found it, was nothing more than an ungraded set of tracks. They lead up a steep rough hill of maybe one hundred and fifty feet. Halfway up the hill the rear wheels spun. Oscar stopped the jeep and engaged the 4-wheel drive unit. But after a few feet the engine bogged down and died. At the driver’s request, Ed and I disembarked, lessening the payload. Oscar was very concerned about the well-being of his vehicle. Within fifteen feet of the summit, the wheels again spun. Oscar let off on the gas a tad. The jeep shuddered and stalled. “Can’t make it,” he told Ed.
“There is no alternative route. Try again,” commanded Ed.
Reluctantly, Oscar did his best. Softball-sized rocks and chunks of sod spewed from beneath the spinning tires as Oscar gunned for the top of the hill. For a few seconds it appeared that he would make it. Then the engine coughed and quit again.
Because he knew no English, Oscar could not understand me when I told Ed that the man did not know what the hell he was doing.
“What are you talking about?” queried Ed.
“He doesn’t understand his vehicle.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I grew up learning to drive a Willys on my family’s ranch. Look, how about asking him if I can try to drive his jeep up the hill?”
Ed looked me in the eye for five seconds before translating my request. Oscar almost tumbled out of the vehicle in his haste to have me take over the controls. I knew then that he had somewhere bought into the myth of the superior capabilities of Americans. I also knew that I was about to reinforce his belief.
Standing well out of the way, Ed and Oscar waited expectantly for me to attack the hill like a rutting bull elephant pursuing a coquettish female. Saying nothing, I shifted the transfer case into low-range, put the transmission in first gear, and crawled to the hilltop slightly faster than the pace of a sleepy sloth.
Stunned and speechless, the two spectators gawked at me.
“How did you do that?” Ed demanded, after regaining control of his vocal cords.
Wide-eyed, Oscar babbled in Portuguese. Translating, Ed told me that our driver would be indebted if I would show him my trick.
“See these two gearshift levers?”
“Sim, senhor.” (Yes, sir.)
“The long one shifts the jeep into 4-wheel drive, correct?”
“Sim, senhor.”
As I demonstrated, I explained, “The short lever has three positions. All the way back is high range, allowing the vehicle to operate at normal speeds. The center position is neutral. All the way forward is low range, causing the jeep to move very slowly.”
Seemingly overwhelmed, Oscar repeatedly saluted me with obrigado, senhor (thank you, sir) while vigorously shaking my hand. Never having touched the short gearshift lever, he had no idea of its function.