Plantation Boy - Menino de Engenho - Chapter 13(ii)

When I woke up some time in the morning I could see the fields, a lake of muddy water. Here and there were green islands of cane. The river had flowed into the trenches that had been dug around the house and it left us surrounded on all sounds like a castle with its moat. It even went as far as the forest.

My grandfather looked out over the submerged cane fields, his harvest almost totally lost. But he did not complain. He knew that the river had brought rich soils to his lands. He himself would say,

"I'd prefer to lose out because of the water than because of the sun."

Later on that morning the canoeists arrived to report on the morning's work. They had come across people in their houses with water up to their chests, women crying in their despair. They had transported people, furniture and calves to higher ground. A man called Salvador had, however, disappeared when he had tried to swim the creek at Ponte.

It would be necessary to send food to these homeless people, and my grandfather ordered that they be sent a barrel of dried cod.  

"And the people at Maravalha?" he asked the canoeists.

"They've gone to S. Miguel. But Captain Juca stayed behind. The river went up to the kitchen door. You can't see an inch of cane. It's a sea of water from here onwards. The canoe went over the plantation fence.”

But the river, whose level had gone down by a metre, began to rise again that night. We were hoping to go up through the forest in an ox-cart, but we had to detour several miles before we could reach a track that took us across the lagoon.

For us children it was a great adventure. We jumped about excitedly when we were packing. And when we jumped on the wagon it was like we were going on a visit to other plantations. On the road we met people with news about the flood in Pilar. "On Palha Street not a single house remained standing. A canoe overturned, killing six people. The bridge at Itabaiana was swept away."

As the waters rose so did Aunt Maria's fear. The seamstresses and the maids came along with us too. In another wagon lay old Aunt Galdina, paralysed. Sinhàzinha did not want to come. She did not want to abandon her brother-in -law. Her enemies had to respect this courage of hers. And, indeed, at that moment, we forgave her much of her wickedness. The wagon arrived at the house of old Amâncio at five o'clock in the morning. Everybody was awake. In the yard were the belongings of refugees who had arrived there before us. There were two families perhaps, with their children, their pigs, their pans and their chickens. We, the inhabitants of the main house, shared the same fear as them, these poor squatters. And with them, we drank the same coffee, sweetened with raw sugar, and we ate old Amâncio's sweet potatoes. And at lunch we ate meat and porridge.

At night we slept in cane beds. The rain dripped inside the house through goodness knows how many holes. And the horrible smell of the pig sties so close to us! The other families stayed in the flour mill, on the ground. It was the best Amâncio had to offer us, this sorry, smelly, repugnant misery of the pariah.