Wings To South America: Journey Into Springtime, 1960s

There are certain places on this earth, a few rare haunting places that seem to be a dream of childhood come alive. And this is one. South America. This continent with its air soft is some eternal month of May. [Music] Heat. Heat. South America beckoning adventurers to come and discover its secrets. The journey to adventure is so simple now. Only a few hours from the USA to the gentle South American summer. Half a day works a miracle of seasons. Brings you to the place where lasting memories begin. South America, a continent where spring spills forth in late August. And summer bursts into bloom in December. And fall comes with the golden light of April. A land of pleasure rich with laughter and romance. The pulse of a people echoes in the rhythm of their cities. Caracus, boomtown capital of a freewheeling country, Venezuela, proud son of the solid earth. The story of Venezuela is written in its skyline. You have to search for the past. An all but forgotten recollection. A dim and time softened memory lost among the skyscrapers that seem to have shot up overnight. Behind it all, behind the new highways and the new housing, behind the swimming pools and the lavish hotels like the Tamanakaco, lies the harvest of a single crop. Oil [Music] A single crop makes possible the easy living and the air of prosperity. There is not a human being in Venezuela whose life is not touched in some way by the crop that comes from under the waters of Lake Maraco. [Music] This rich black gold of Venezuela fuels the great highways of a continent. Carries the traveler south to the boulevards of Buenos Iris, most cosmopolitan capital of the southern continent. The whiz of traffic along the avenue of the 9th of July, the world's widest boulevard. The morning sun gleams on the obelisk commemorating the founding of Buenos Iris by Pedro de Mendoza in the year 1537. [Music] A city with an echo of Paris and a bit of Vienna and more than a touch of Rome in the broad plazas flooded with sunlight. [Music] The local citizens call themselves Portenos, a people with a fierce pride and a love of pomp and fanfare. And underneath it all, the gentleness of a child. Renosis, city of a thousand statues. A 20th century city with a special enchanted place for the children. An open air comic book exchange. [Music] Another part of life racing along at a tempo swift as the hands of the craftsmen turning out the high fashion goods that make the women of Buenosis rival the women of Paris. [Music] When it comes to outfitting a lady, they have a certain touch. And why shouldn't they? The guide books speak of the statues, but a porteno can tell you that around town there are figures just as interesting as any you'll find on pedestals in the plaza. [Music] Eating a meal in the restaurants of Buenos Iris has all the anticipation and color, the delight and the ritual of opening night at a ballet. The chef is the empressario of the city and steak is his classic. [Music] What you would pay in New York for a good cigar in Buenos Iris will buy you a steak thick as a dictionary. [Music] This is a town where steak is king and eating is a royal ritual. [Music] A city with places where a slice is a delight and places where a slice is a disaster. The clipped greens of the jockey club seems a long way from the flatlands of the pompus. And yet look closely and you will see that the pompus have left their indelible mark on the character of these portenos. You see it in their passion for horses. Riding them along the sundappled paths of Polarmo Park, watching them race at Santa. On a bright afternoon, you'll find 50,000 jamming the grand stands to root home the long shots. [Music] What it takes is a scientific system. One simply calculates the weight of the jockey, the past performance of the animal, etc. The problem is to try and find some way of explaining this to the horse. [Music] [Applause] [Music] [Applause] [Music] Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey. [Music] [Applause] [Music] If you want to know if there's any such thing as a system for beating the races, you'll find the answer scattered across the grass of Sanro. And you're consoled by the quiet of Elte. All up and down the coast, tiny boats tack in and out of a 100 hidden harbors and half-lost bays. [Music] And the quietness reaches across the Argentine to touch the red gables of Yao Yao. [Music] A place on the lakes where the breeze softly whispers, "Stop your running and take the time to come alive again. [Music] The Lake District, where fishermen come from every corner of the globe. [Music] In the mountain lakes of Argentina, the prize is trout. And in the swift rush of the Sto Grande, it's a silver streak of lightning. The famous fighting Dorado. [Music] [Applause] [Music] 50 years ago, Argentina brought in wild stags from Germany to stock these hills. And where the stags run, the hunters follow. Tracking is a delicate business. [Music] [Music] around the campfire. There's an international flavor. Hunters coming all the way from Denmark and Bulgavaria, from Dallas and San Francisco to spend their days on the wild trails and their twilights gazing at the fire smoke alive with memories. [Music] In the last light of dusk and the first light of morning, campfires burn across the pompus of Argentina and Uruguay like signal fires on another world. The pompus, world of the gauchos. [Music] figures out of an ancient fable. Half horse, half man, tough, independent, ironic, at home in this immense and trackless interior. This world of grass and sky. Senores Dana, lords of nothingness. [Music] [Applause] Their ancestors were Spanish cabaleros from Sturias and the Basque country, shepherds and the sons of shepherds, herdsmen and the descendants of herdsmen. [Music] At the end of the long day in the saddle, they straggled back to the campfire. Back to the young lamb roasting over the embers and the kettle brewing the strong tea they called mate. The gauchos eyes sharp as a condor, ears attuned to silence, hands tough as saddle leather. There are curious things that could be told about these companos. Things you would never dream about. That one, Francisco. And that one we call El Diablo, the devil. That one Pabito wept when his horse died. And that one writes poetry. Poetry. E Fasco. These are men, brother. True men. [Music] [Music] And When the Goucher returns, a warm welcome home. [Music] Bit by bit, you weave the pattern of sights and sounds that make a continent. The creek of an ox cart on a lonely back road across the pompus. The murmur of the wind snapping at the stays, billowing the canvas, driving you along the coast toward Uruguay. Uruguay, the smallest of the South American countries, like a tiny, brilliant tropical bird perched on the shoulder of sea between Argentina and Brazil. These beaches are the playground for the southern half of the continent. A charming miniature of the Riviera. [Music] Beyond the beach, half hidden away in a pine forest, the cabanas of the Conte Griel Country Club, playing host to guests from New York, London, Paris. Monte Vidale, a finefeatured delicate lady. To look at her, you'd never guess that her ancestors were hard-bitten pioneers who came by wagon train, slogging their oxen through the mud along the Rio de la Plata. Monte Vido is a languid lady with a charming smile. But across the northern border in Brazil, Sao Paulo is a rugged young man in a hurry. Strictly business, steel and industrial diamonds, cotton and coffee. When twothirds of the world wakes up in the morning, its coffee pot is filled by Sao Paulo. [Music] Sao Paulo's beauty is the pure geometry of its buildings. A sequence of sonnetss written in glass and stone. But 600 m west, rich red earth is the canvas of a Brazilian masterpiece. [Music] [Applause] [Music] Out of a jungle wilderness, rising high on the central plateau, Brazilia. A splash of brilliance on the dark and distant heart of a nation. The interior opens and a slumbering giant awakes. Brazilia, capital city of a new Brazil. Out of a primitive past, the daring palace of a president. as if some ancient goddess's vision of the future suddenly came true. A yearning people's dream of tomorrow is reflected in her buildings. A nation's awakening in concrete and steel. Towers of government. Proud and noble pillars of Senate and House. [Music] [Music] Brazilia. The soul of a people. The soaring spirit of man. But on the coast, the old queen still rains. Rio de Janeiro with its harbor like a fallen star. Its buildings white as salt cliffs and the curve of its beaches with their names like songs. Flamingo, Boto, Copa Cabana. [Music] Rio is a young beauty with a quick silver lap, bright as the sun, capriccious as the sea. [Music] A city that is inherited from the Portuguese a love of pleasure. A karaoka simply enjoys the day. Let tomorrow take care of itself. And the phrase they speak most often is no import. It doesn't matter. A day in Rio has the lovely aimlessness of a child on a picnic. [Music] Hot sausages and cool coconut milk. A feeling of intimacy in the air. [Music] Always the magnificent mountains drawing your eyes upward to the crown of Corovado. Heat. [Music] Heat. [Music] below the breathtaking ark of Wanabara Bay. [Music] [Applause] [Music] Ride the cable car to the peak of Sugarloaf [Music] and look down on the lagoon curving away to San Francisco. [Music] Look down and you see the sweet face of Rio cradled in the arms of sea and sky. Listen, and you hear in that distant stillness, the trembling beat of a city alive. In the springtime, the tempo quickens. Pulsing life bursts into madness. In four flaming days, Rio goes wild. [Music] This is how it begins. The pounding of samba drums. The first tremors of excitement in the streets. Carnival time in Rio. A special karaoka state of mind. A marvelous kind of spring madness. [Music] [Music] I love [Music] [Applause] [Music] Carnival in Rio. Four days and four nights when reality vanishes into the hills and the dream takes over. [Music] [Music] Hallelujah. [Music] [Applause] [Music] Yeah. [Music] [Applause] [Music] [Applause] [Music] [Applause] [Music] With the dawn of Ash Wednesday, the carnival fever subsides under the cool hand of mourning. [Music] The last revelers straggle home, and Rio assumes once more its familiar, incomparable face. [Music] This city and stretching away behind it, South America, continent of the sun, sitting astride her mountain peaks, saluting the sweet morning. If you have a taste for the unforgettable, this is something to remember. [Music]