 of call. Far at the world's end, strange fascinating lands back in us, bid us rebel in their exotic splendors. Come with us as we head for a port of call. Once again, let us listen in fancy to the wind in the rigging and the gurgle of gray green water as it slips past our radio steamer's sides. For many days, our course is along the coast of South America until, breasting the current of the mighty Rio de Plata, we approach our journey's end. Before us, the white buildings of Buenos Aires materialize as we thread our way through the maze of shipping in the river. Two sturdy tugs puff out to meet us. In a few moments, they have us safely docked and we descend the gangplank. A step, and we are in the Argentine. Taxi, taxi, lottery ticket, lottery ticket, buy today, perhaps fortune will smile. Well, sure it lasts. Come on, dear. Let's get out of this crowd. Taxi. Taxi, it's your service in yours. I speak English too good, and I'm very clever, and all. Well, let us hope so. Here's the address of our hotel. Can you take us there? Si, senor, like the wind. Buenos Aires, the greatest city of the Argentine, the Paris of South America. On all sides, we see the fruits of the country's vast wealth, the beautiful opera, the houses of Congress, the spacious pre-lined boulevards rivaling the Champs Elysees itself. Before us, near the Plaza San Joaquin, on the Avenido de Mayo is the home of the President, the Casa Rosida. Casa Rosida, the pink house, so colored because of its color. As in Washington, D.C., 7,000 miles to the north, the home of the chief executive is known as the White House. Over this great city of more than 2 million souls, flow continuously the clean winds of the pompom, fresh and invigorating. The air crystal clear with its tang and sparkle is like wine to leave. Truly Don Pedro de Mendoza's choice was a happy one, when he called the city he founded, Buenos Aires. It was in 1515 that a Spanish sea captain, searching for the legendary passage to the spice islands of Asia, discovered the mighty Rio de Plata, and thinking it might lead him to the golden country of Peru, sailed far inland. But the captain was killed by Indians, and his followers returned to Spain, bringing with them a little silver they had taken from the natives. The story of the silver grew until it reached the ears of Don Pedro de Mendoza, a soldier with strong connections at the court of Castilla. To his relative, Francisco de los Cobos, secretary to the council of the Indies, Mendoza unfolds his plan. El Rio de Plata, mark that well, my cousin, a river of silver. They say the land is covered with it, until a man must shade his eyes from the glitter. And shall be rich beyond our wildest dreams. Perhaps. But why come to me? Because you have the kings here. You too are of the court. Speak to his majesty. He will agree to your void, especially since the expedition's cost comes from your own turf. He will agree to one ship, perhaps two, so that he will assure my quick return. But I go to found an empire, an empire built on silver with myself, and you too, of course, at the head. Will you agree to that? Oh, there is something else again. What is your plan, cousin? The expedition shall be the greatest the world has ever seen. A dozen ships is necessary. Three thousand men at arms, gentlemen of title, their wives, forces, cattle, ships, priests to marry the living and very good dead. And I shall be the governor, the hereditary governor, over all. The crown must go a teeth of what is signed. The crown? For to you, cousin. What does it matter? The important thing is, I must be strong enough to protect my interest in the beginning, should the king seek to replace me with another. You think I can persuade his majesty? I know it. And remember, it will pay you well. The sly and grasping secretary of the Indies did his part well. One morning in the spring of the following year, the fleet sailed. The voyage was a long one. Storms battered the tiny vessels. Provisions ran low. Animals died. Disease took its toll of the too long confined men at arms. The Mendoza, sick of the stench and misery of the ship, himself fell ill. At last, the remnants of the fleet dropped anchored in the Rio de Plata. Aboard the flagship, three sailors looked with longing at the shore. Silver. Do you think my eyes cannot distinguish silver? That coast is a rock. Yes, and the earth, down earth, and no different from the soil of my father's path to you and Cadi. What though Godly were back in Cadi? Speak for yourself, hombre. For my part, I believe, my lord Mendoza. We shall find the silver. We'll find a grave in this barren land. It's from my lord Mendoza. He has the fever of somebody's heart and cold by turns. And even now, he's bebbling in delirium. But he is, but you say you don't, my lord. My lord. Pack of weaklings, huh? Not I, my lord. You lead us to the treasure. Let me your harmony go free. I see where he's still upon me. For there, lower away my badge, and you, my man, help me in it. Gee, senor. Ah, yes, yes. Leave! Leave! Be careful, amigo. Hold me. Ah, por Dios, you feel of worth again beneath my feet is a tonnage in itself. The air is sweet and sharp. Si, the air is, si. It is good air. Si, good air. Si, good air. Te, po, iros, iris. Thus, from this chance exclamation, the city took its name. We, no sirens. But Mendoza found no treasure, though it was there waiting for him. The treasure is in the soil itself. The good, rich soil of the Pampa wins comes the country's wealth in wheat, in cattle, in sheep, in grapes, in all the fruits of the earth. But for three centuries Argentina remained one of Spain's lesser colonies. Buenos Aires is a struggling village of mud huts. Its governors, minor members in the mother country's great colonial service, strove to make up for the lack of gold or silver in the soil by taxing the people almost to extinction. The Argentinians were little better than slaves, and they're locked only slightly happier than that of the natives of Peru, Mexico, and the islands of the West Indies. Then, in 1810, news reached Buenos Aires that Napoleon had invaded Spain, put his brother on the throne and driven the government out of Madrid. Before fleeing from Cádiz, the council sent dispatches to the government in Buenos Aires. And on the 25th of May, a frenzied mob gathers in the Avenido de Mayo, while inside the governor's palace, the president of the council, prepares to read the dispatches. Order in the council! Order in the council, gentlemen, order! Amigos, we have received today from the motherland great tidings. This, the 25th day of May, in the year of our blessed savior, 1810, will be forever remembered throughout our land. This colony, all the colonies, are no longer dependencies of Spain. Viva la libertad! Viva la independencia! Order! Order! Peace is preaching to our key death to our kings. Let us have labor! Order! Order! Order! Order! Order! Here is the document itself. I shall read it to you. You are no longer what you were, bowed down beneath a yoke hard to bear, regarded with indifference, vexed by greed and oppressed by ignorance. After nominating your deputies, your destinies will no longer depend upon ministers or viceroys or governors. They are in your hands, nominate deputies. Deputies to what? To the Cortes, the council in Spain. What does the Cortes to do with us? Let us follow in the footsteps of our brothers to the north of the United States, and cut the last tide binding us to all Europe. Yes, let us be really free. Argentine for the Argentinos! Arrest that man! Then arrest me, too! Are we men or cowards? If we are men, let us be wholly free! If we are cowards, we will accept the fap thrown to us by a dying coward! I will clear the chamber! We will never rest until we are wholly free! The fight for liberty was a long one, carried out through years of warfare against royalist attack by improvised armies and self-taught commanders. Of these, the greatest was Jose de San Martín, who in the summer of 1816 led an army over the towering Andes, and sweeping Spanish mercenaries before him, marched north into Peru, for he liberated the people of Lima. Then, in secret, he made his way to Guayaquil in Ecuador, for he met the great liberator of the north, Simon Bolivar. San Martín, how often have I dreamed of this day? Let me look at it. Let me hold your hands in mind. How closely have I followed your glorious advance, knowing that every march has been a new page in the book of liberty, now soon to be complete? If I have advanced, it is because I have followed the star of Simon Bolivar. Oh, gracias, gracias, amigo. It has been my compass, and I died. Now that our armies have converged, the worst is over for you. Ah, liberty is a precious thing. And fragile, too. We must learn not to abuse it. For that reason, I return soon to Buenos Aires, towards the adoption of our new constitution, which is, as you know, modeled after that of our cousins in the United States. Not until we defeat, and not until we learn to live according to its tenets, will we know the full joy, liberty, and life. You have shown your people the way. They must not stray from the path. Like all other peoples, the Argentinians made mistakes, but never have they forgotten San Martín, as the many statues to his honor throughout the country testify. Steadily the land grew and flourished, the people profited to experience, and became the richest nation of the vast continent of South America. Nowhere on earth is nature more generous, and throughout the mighty inland plain, where the panther stretches away beyond the Earth's horizon. Its monotony broken only here and there by a lone tree, the ombu, the only native tree in this vast plain. Here are the Great Estancias, or ranches of the cattle and weaklings, many covering as much as half a million acres, boasting 20,000 head of cattle, and perhaps more than a thousand saddle horses. Here we find the Galchos, that colorful cowboy of the Argentine. But let us ask Don Carlos, the owner of one of these Great Estancias, to tell us about the Galchos. More, perhaps, than any other class, the Galchos is helped to make more than Argentina the great country it is today. During the long years of war, first against Spain, and then against Brazilian aggression, it was the Galchos, the Cossack of South America, who bore the brunt of battle. In the constant struggle against savage Indians, it was he who beat back the marauding bands, drove them from the Pampa, and finally, only 40 years ago, brought these menace to an end. Were it not for him, much of the roast beef of old England would never get to the great packing houses along the Rio de Plata. Speaking for myself and my fellow landowners, I can assure you it is from the energy and the resourcefulness of the Galchos whence come the power and wealth of our country. He sounds too good to be true. And not too good. He is simple, passionate, and direct in all his actions. Quick to anger, but once his honor has been appeased, he bears no grudge. He certainly sounds interesting. Let me give you an example that happened only the other day on my estancia. Picture to yourself the moon on the Pampa. Guitars are twanging, brown palms beat the measure, and a company of men and girls are swaying together in the dance of the pericorn. Well, the scene should have warmed Pepe's goucho heart, but as I strolled nearer to enjoy the music, I saw that he was standing listlessly against an Omo tree. Ah, not dancing? Pepe of the nimble feet? When the art is like on Carlos one dances. When it is heavy, one sees the foolishness of it all. It is the way of the world. Ah, when the cattle move tomorrow, amigo, and you gallop after them, the art will be light again. Yes, sir, tomorrow is a long way off. And in that case, I advise you to enjoy yourself tonight. Well, why not so, Chase Pepe? May the only virgin guard your rest on Carlos. Hey, hey, Pepe, sad tonight. And why not? Manuel has stolen his rosa. See how he holds her in the dance and how she smiles at him. I would rather look at Pepe. He is not smiling. Ah, that would add to Manuel's pleasure. Manuel is local. Hey, hey, hey, look. Look at Pepe. He has cotrosi by the wrist. Come, amigo, we shall see what happens. Are you without shame to confront your interest in his name? He's still before my very eyes. Let me go. Am I your slave that I should not choose my companions? Caramba, do you want my knife in your throat? Leave Rosa be. You, you cheaper dance. Hey, hey, he calls Pepe a head drop sheep. You know the calm rosa wears comes from here. You know the silver bracelet on her arm cost me a month's labor. A silver smith you may well be. A man you are not. What's that you'll say? Else you would not need gifts to hold a girl. I, Manuel, a theory is not much of a man. We talk too much. Madre de Dios, rip off your shirt. Take your whip. Hey, don't you get it? Come off the shirt. We shall see which of us is a man. Manuel is cunning with the whip. Ten pesos on Manuel. Ah, but Pepe's heart is hot. Amigo, you have made a bet. Ten pesos says Manuel is last to leave the service. And under, under. Will you stop suffering and make that circle? Hey, make it quickly. I am anxious to continue the dance. But first I must cut my name in this man's back. Here, here. The whips are of equal length. Twice a man's height. Here. Quiet, Mr. Amigo. Who leaves the circle first looted? Ready, Pepe? Ready, Manuel? Ready. Ready. Oh, no. Don't. Wait. Ready me or my ribs? No. Ah, he's a man of the good will. Hey, this now you look. Ramba. Now it is your turn. Rise. Give crown to your Casanova. And all for a girl. My back. Hey, Pepe wins. And I lose ten pesos. Such a state, Mexico. Look at men wear shoulders. Pull mud, pull mud for his shoulders. I am some for my own. I feel like a dressed ear. You will not ride tomorrow, my fine lad. Hey, what's that? I'll ride tomorrow, you devil. If you do, for chaos, give me a drink, someone. Come along, stupid one. We will ask the patron for oil. I'll get my own oil. Rosa can bathe your back. And welcome. Rosa. Oh, Pepe. Come, little one. Rosa was wrong. You are the best, man. Truly, my kisses will make you forgive me. Yeah, that's for your kisses. I have enough kisses for Manuel's whip for one night. Oh, that's the meal. What are you to me, huh? A girl. The world is full of girls. And they can all wait until you, Manuel, show me the stroke that did this. There'll be no skin there for a week. You're both seekers. I forget to boast. Tell me, don't call us. Did those two really ride the next day? Yes, senior. The gaucho is tough. And also he is loyal to his patron. He knows his job is worth doing well, if it is worth doing at all. Life at Grudges is soon forgotten what teamwork is necessary. I assure you, Pepe and Manuel were the better friends because of their quarrel. And if their backs ache the next day, neither said one word to me about it. As in all Latin countries, the national and municipal lotteries are perhaps the most popular diversions of the Argentine people. Everyone from the President of the Republic to the smallest boot black in the Park San Martín has his ticket for the weekly drawing which is held each Sunday at high noon. Many a tale is told of how some millionaire with his palatial residence on the Avenida de Mayo, his membership in the exclusive jockey club, his vast estancy on the Pampa and his polipones, got his start by holding the winning ticket for which he paid five pesos and for which he received a million when the banks opened the following Monday. Vendors roam the streets, the city parks and in the corridors of the government buildings themselves, displaying the tickets and urging the passerby to get his number before it is too late. Around the corner from the Calle Florida, the city's most famous shopping street, which at four each afternoon is closed to all vehicle traffic and given over to pedestrians, is situated a famous cafe whose tango orchestra is considered to be the best in Buenos Aires, which is to say the finest in the world. It is still early in the afternoon and only a few of the cafe's patrons have arrived to enjoy the regular tey dance on. At the entrance, two waiters, one old, the other young, are enjoying a final cigarette before the afternoon rush demands their attention. Behind them, the orchestra's playing the first tango. I listen to them. Every day, the leader begins with his same selection. Not that he's a bad number, mind you, but still at the same time it's... What is it to you? Your job, young fellow, is to serve the patrons, not to listen to the music. For my part, they can play the national anthem if they please. You are an excellent waiter, uncle Jose. But when one has said that, one has said everything. Me? I am a true lover of the dance and my artistic sensibilities are insulted by the slightest thing. In that case, my fine young friend, why do you not change your waiter's apron for the black jacket and sprite trousers of a gentleman of fashion and buy this place from the boss? Then you could have Senor Salvador and his band playing your favorite tune. Be assured, you would not suffer if I did just that. I would make you captain of the waiters. That is the height of your ambition, is it not? There, nephew, with the big idea, may go your fortune. Mombre de Santo Tomás, mira, look. Now, what is the trouble? You see that vendor? What about him? Drew, he has a hunchback on it. He has two hums. Two hums, do you hear? All my life, I look for a man with two hums from whom to buy my ticket and he lotters. Oiga, you with the tickets, come here. Now I know you are a fool. By today, perhaps fortune will smile tomorrow. Here, I will buy. Choose a ticket for me, old man. Let's see now. Two, two, three. Nine? Nine, nine. A propitious number. Yes, a really fine number. Gracias, caballero. You see, uncle, already he calls me caballero, gentlemen. Wait a minute. Oh, you idiot, that is your table. At your service, señor. Miriam, ain't it? One of the Eastergum prize will now take place. Today, senorita de Valdez of the over-announcing amal will choose the first number. Ready? Yes, sir. Spin the ball. Oh, amba, uncle Jose. You see, I should call my number. Ah, now, senorita. What is the number? Call loudly, sir. What are they here? Two. Two? Three? You ever? Nine. You ever? Nine, nine. Uncle Jose, now we go back to the cafe. But this time, to buy. And now, señor, here is your money. And here, Juanito. Señor Juanito, if you please. You are right. Señor Juanito. And as I was saying, here is the deed to the cafe. It is yours. Mine. And now, my first time shall be to make that old uncle of mine capitannally wet. My second. Fanda, where is that Salvador? Here I am, senor. From this day on, I shall choose the music. Moreover, I shall dance every dance. Today, senorita de Valdez, who drew my number, will honor me with the first time. Is that not true, senorita? With pleasure. Play first. De pedos. And I shall show you how a tango should be danced as only a true Argentine can dance. Bravo, Juanito, of the good fortune. You are a true Argentine. Work hard, dream your dreams, and who knows? Fortune may smile upon you. And when she does, be prepared to enjoy yourself. That is the philosophy of these happy people. And if we are to judge by their attainments, it is a philosophy which has served the country well. The gangplank is up, but we must leave this land the broad pompas and great ranchos. Must leave the reckless gauchos, riding, fighting, dancing and love. As we watch the gleaming buildings of Buenos Aires receding, we say, Argentina adios, and hasta la vista. I'd like you to join us again next week at this time as we journey to another of the world's fascinating ports of call.