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swallows lustily to relieve the change in pressure on his ears.

The field at Cobán is approached through a valley with hills towering on both sides. Some of the little farms appear to be standing on end as they slide by the window. Suddenly the pilot makes a 90degree turn to the left and we drop into a postage stamp field. Brakes are jammed on as soon as the wheels touch. Most of the townspeople are lined up along the fence in their colorful costumes. Twentythree of them are going north to gather chicle during the summer; each is provided with an assortment of bedding, clothing, food, chickens, pigs, and dogs. The men, of course, carry machetes as their only tool for jungle work. On takeoff, the wheels are lifted quickly and we barely scrape over the trees at the end of the runway.

In a half-hour we are back at Flores for refueling. Passengers and their bevy of livestock get out for a breather, because the cabin soon becomes unbearable in the

hot sun. Some of the corn is taken aboard again for points further north.

Soon after takeoff, we are thrilled by the sight of an enormous stone temple jutting from the expanse of jungle. This mysterious structure marks the deserted ruins of Tikal, an ancient metropolis of the Mayan empire. In his book The Ancient Maya, S. G. Morley estimates that Tikal once had a population of 200,000 or more. As we circle overhead, it appears that the ruins cover at least several hundred acres. While it is difficult to understand how an advanced civilization could exist in such a wilderness, the outlines of a once vast lake system visible from the air suggest that this may have been a rich agricultural district centuries ago.

We are still discussing this possibility when Matthews has to devote his entire attention to finding the tiny strip at Dos Lagunas. The field here is so narrow and the trees are so high along its edge that it is practically invisible from the air. To eliminate the possibility of missing the

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field entirely, a radio marker had to be installed. To add to the fun, the landing strip is strictly one-way. When it was constructed, the ground crew spent several days chopping down trees before it was discovered that a large hill was directly in line with the runway. It was too late to start over again, so the field is still used from one end only, regardless of wind direction!

State-side pilots who are used to landing a DC-3 at 70 to 80 miles per hour would also be amazed at the way AVIATECA'S pilots set one down at 50-60 without pancaking. This technique is essential on such short runways.

As usual, most of Dos Lagunas' citizens come running out to the field when the plane lands. It is their only contact with the outside world and the occasion for the community's chief social function. Our passengers disembark here and, surpris

ingly enough, none have gotten ill in spite of a very bumpy ride. In a few minutes we are airborne again, headed for the Caribbean city of Puerto Barrios.

Aside from Guatemala City, Puerto Barrios has the only considerable airport in the country. Its long concrete runway was constructed during the war as part of the inter-American defense plan. The town is the terminus of Guatemala's only railroad and AVIATECA maintains a warehouse here. While heavy tractor parts and drums of Diesel fuel are being tied down in the airplane, we enjoy a good hearty lunch prepared by the company cook.

In the afternoon we take a long northward jump to the agricultural colony of Poptún, located in a remote section near the Mexican border. This project was begun recently on an experimental basis by the Guatemalan government, and if it is

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EVERYBODY TURNS OUT TO SEE THE PLANE LAND AT COBÁN

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An Interpretation of Brazil

On March 31, the Brazilian Ambassador to the Pan American Union and Madame Muniz formally opened an exhibition of documentary photographs of Brazil taken. by Riva Putnam. Mrs. Putnam recorded her camera impressions of Rio and São Paulo-some of which are reproduced in these pages during a visit to Brazil last year with her husband. As Mr. Putnam pointed out: "If these pictures should give you the itch to go there just as soon as the boats start running or the plane fares come down, then you belong to our club."

Ambassador Muniz launched the exhibit with these remarks:

... During a casual trip to Brazil, without elaborate equipment and without planning, Riva Putnam, by her rare gift of photography coupled with her background of sociology, was able to present a very interesting interpretation of Brazil and its life.

. . . It seems appropriate for me, as a Brazilian, to pay a tribute of gratitude to Mr. and Mrs. Putnam for their untiring efforts in acquainting the American public with Brazilian culture. We owe to Mr. Samuel Putnam remarkable trans

lations of two significant sociological and literary works of modern Brazilian literature. Os Sertões by Euclydes da Cunha and Casa Grande e Senzala by Gilberto Freyre were rendered into English in an outstanding manner, which only a talented writer, admirably conversant with the history and literature of Brazil, could have achieved. In recognition of that work, Mr. Putnam was awarded the Calogeras prize.

... One of the most interesting and farreaching aspects of Pan Americanism is the blending of the different cultures existing in America to produce a richer and more varied culture in the American continent. This can only be done through cultural exchange among the Americas, through visits of students and scholars, and through efforts towards making the significant works of literature of one country accessible to the other countries in this hemisphere. In this field, of particular value is the contribution of a writer such as Samuel Putnam who, through his knowledge of Brazilian language and literature, is able to convey, in the translations made by him, the color and the feeling of the original.

We can realize, by examining this exhibit, the invaluable assistance which Riva Putnam renders to her husband's endeavors by pursuing the same interests with brilliant intelligence and artistic gifts. To both I extend my heartfelt thanks.

Camera Impressions of Brazil

RIVA PUTNAM

IT WAS always exciting to start off, with my camera case over my shoulder, because the sun was filled with iridescence; and maneuvering to get what I hoped would be shots to give my impressions was an adventure in itself. At first, in Rio, the perfect beauty of the city in its natural setting was a barrier. It wasn't until I had been there a little while that I began to feel its sensuous rhythm and the city came alive for me. From that moment on, I could only hope that I should have time enough to set down with my camera the emotional impact Brazil made on me. Chiefly, I think, I had to call upon my reserves of patience and fortitude. Standing in a spot to get a certain scene meant, usually, waiting for an opening in time when the movement of people slackened for that bare fraction required; or waiting for the crowd of curious who would surround a americana to grow disinterested enough to move on, so that the normal pace was reestablished. Other vistas would perhaps arouse a policeman's suspicion, so that nonchalance and another angle, always keeping in focus my objective, were required.

One day I had reached the final stop of my delightful ride on the street car going up Santa Teresa Mountain, and had started my climb on foot. My objective was São Francisco-the tiniest chapel, I believe, in the world-and a different view of Corcovado; but I had taken a wrong turning. My case was growing heavy, and I was hot with the sun beating down. I encountered some small mountain goats, a few children who scrambled into the rocks and brush as agilely as the

goats, and finally met a workman. In my faulty and limping Portuguese, I asked him. where the chapel was. He directed me most minutely and then, as he saw bewilderment come into my eyes, he turned about, to come with me. In spite of my protests for his own convenience and time, he took me to the very door-it was quite a hike, and quite a climb. And not a penny of recompense would he accept. The little chapel, in which one person could stand before the altar, was locked. An old, old man sought out the key from the home beside the chapel for me; but he, too, would not be paid for a courtesy. And when, climbing higher, I came upon the frame of my Corcovado scene, I said, "Here is the essence of this day." Now as I look at it, the day in its perfect beauty and grace is reborn for me. So many people like the picture that I am drawn to the conclusion they feel something of all this too.

I think my pictures portray the normal pace of Brazil. In Rio and São Paulo they are cross sections of large, beautifully planned, bustling cities of entirely different types. Any street in Rio, in any neighborhood, will give you a vista—the mountains, the bay, the parks, the squares are everywhere, in poor neighborhoods as well as prosperous, and the people spend much of their time outdoors. The problem is one of selection and sensitivity.

São Paulo, on the other hand, is filled with industry and factories, and the movement of life is more staccato there, the scene more that of a bustling industrial city such as Chicago.

The new architecture of these two larg

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