Original subtitles

Saludos Amigos

A fond greeting to you

A warm handshake or two

Good friends always do

Saludos Amigos

A new day's waiting to start

You must meet it Wake up and greet it

With a gay song In your heart

Here's an unusual expedition,

artists, musicians and writers setting out for a trip through Latin America...

to find new personalities, music and dances for their cartoon films.

So, "Adios, Hollywood," and "Saludos, amigos."

Saludos Amigos

A new day's waiting to start

You must meet it Wake up and greet it

Three days later, they glided in to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil,

then down to the Argentine, Buenos Aires...

and out across the Pampas.

At Cordoba, the party divided.

Some flew over the Andes into Chile.

The others went north to the Inca country.

Bolivia, Peru and Lake Titicaca.

Turning away from the modern cities

to find the descendants of ancient Inca civilization.

Eight thousand square miles of water over two miles above sea level.

Lake Titicaca has been prominent

in Inca history and folklore for generations.

Wood is scarce at this altitude,

so the fishermen's boats are woven of balsa reeds.

There's always plenty of color and excitement here on market day.

These folks come from miles around,

to trade their goods and swap some of the local gossip.

The styles run to bright-colored clothes and conservative hats.

And a rumble seat for the baby.

Just the kind of material the artists were after.

Their music is strange and exotic.

Melodies handed down from their Inca ancestors.

And walking haystacks are right in tempo.

These little syncopated burros bear the heavy burdens here...

because the more dignified llama

will carry just so much and no more.

When his quota is exceeded, that haughty aristocrat of the Andes

calmly sits down and refuses to budge.

Yes, a llama can make you feel awfully unimportant.

All these impressions,

together with the local color that had been absorbed,

resulted in a little travelog,

seeing the land of the Incas,

through the eyes of a celebrated North American tourist.

Lake Titicaca is approximately 13,000 feet above sea level.

- Thirteen thousand feet?! - Hm. Approximately.

At this great height, many visitors are subject to altitude fever

- or soroche. - Is that so?

The most common symptom is dizziness.

Dizziness?

Ah, phooey!

Often followed by palpitation of the heart.

The ears have a tendency to pop.

And a peculiar ringing sound is heard.

Fascinating, isn't it?

The balsa, or basket boat

is constructed entirely of reeds tightly bound together.

It's built to withstand the fury of the elements.

In fact, it seems to be impervious to practically everything.

Except the inquisitive tourist.

Crossing the lake is often filled with adventure.

A strong wind may arise very suddenly.

And then stop suddenly.

In the village we find this quaint old bakery,

where the tourist may loaf around to his heart's content.

For the artist in search of local color,

the marketplace presents an excellent picture of village life

as shoppers and merchants bustle about the public square.

The precipitous terrain in this region offers no problem

to these hardy folk.

And we find the people here divided into two classes,

those who walk against the wind...

and those who walk with the wind.

Yes, wherever the visitor points his camera,

he finds a picture...

fit for framing.

The llama, or "yama," is an odd-looking individual,

with considerable personality.

His master, here, exercises complete control over him,

with a homemade flute.

Let's see how he responds to a few notes up scale.

And down scale.

Up.

Down.

Now do a circular pattern.

Or reverse.

My, my, my! It's amazing!

Note how the crude sign language

being used by our tourist here,

is quickly interpreted by this wide-awake youngster.

¿Aquí está?

¡Gracias!

¡Mucho gracias!

BI-bl-bl-bl-bl!

The visitor never seems to be satisfied,

until he tries on the native costume.

And our tourist is no exception.

The llama is obviously not a jitterbug,

but if you want to explore this precipitous country,

he'll solve all your transportation problems.

One soon becomes accustomed to the low, fleecy clouds,

that steel like silent ghosts across one's path.

The gentle undulating gait of the llama

adapts itself very nicely to the swaying motion

of the suspension bridge.

Suspension bridge?

Oh!

Far below us, we see the village.

Whoa! Whoa!

The flute.

Give me that flute, ya big palooka!

Hey! Take it easy!

Whoa! Whoa!

What?

The traveler should be cautioned against

any reckless behavior at this high altitude.

Overexertion is dangerous.

And above all, one should never lose one's temper.

Shut up, ya' big windbag!

Get off of me! Go on, beat it!

Doggone you.

And finally, the pottery market,

where the visitor always drops in...

seldom failing to accumulate a large collection,

of the native handiwork,

as he bids a fond farewell

to the land of the Incas, Lake Titicaca.

The flight across the Andes into Chile,

over the highest mountains in America.

Plenty to see and remember on this spectacular trip.

Since no cameras are allowed here,

the boys have to cover this from memory and sketches.

Impressions of Uspallata Pass from 16,000 feet.

These sketches and the stories told of the pioneer mail planes

that first flew this route started everyone thinking.

First a little plane began to take shape...

with a personality all his own.

All agreed that he had good screen possibilities...

and before the plane set down at Santiago,

his life story had begun.

Once upon a time, in a little airport

near Santiago, Chile, there lived three airplanes,

the papa plane, the mama plane and the baby plane.

The papa plane was a big powerful male plane.

Mama plane was a middle-sized female plane.

And the baby plane was a little boy plane named Pedro.

Uh, where is Pedro?

Oh, there he is.

Maybe someday he'll grow up to be a big plane

like his father who carries the mail,

between Chile and Argentina.

Like all fledglings, Pedro went to ground school,

to learn the ABC's of flying.

He studied reading, skywriting...

and arithmetic.

He was taught anatomy.

He also studied history.

Pedro! And geography.

And in geography, he learned the mail route

between Santiago and Mendoza.

Over the mighty Andes, past Aconcagua,

highest mountain in the western hemisphere.

One day the papa plane was laid up with a cold in his cylinder head.

So, he couldn't fly the mail.

And the mama plane couldn't stand the altitude,

because she had high oil pressure.

So, she couldn't fly the mail.

But the mail must go through.

I hope.

Calling Pedro. Ready for Flight Two to Mendoza.

"Now, remember, Pedro," the mama plane said,

"stay out of downdraft and keep your muffler on tight."

And don't go near Aconca--

Aconca-- Aconcagua!

Flight Two leaving for Mendoza.

All clear, Pedro. Let 'er go.

Give 'er the gun, boy!

Gun 'er! Gun 'er!

Don't lose your flying speed! Pull up! Pull up!

Look out!

And so after a masterly take off,

Pedro started on his first assignment,

to pick up the mail at Mendoza.

Each and every trip through this pass is an adventure in itself.

At this altitude, you never can tell what--

Downdraft!

Pulled out of that one all right.

Handles himself like a veteran.

His course carried him over the Pass of Uspallata,

where stands the statue of the Christ of the Andes,

marking the boundary between Chile and Argentina.

So far, so good. Not a cylinder missing.

Pedro was flying on top of the world when suddenly...

his first view of that towering monarch, Aconcagua!

So, this was the big bully they'd warned him about.

But, he didn't scare Pedro, though.

No, siree.

Well, the worst is over.

And from now on, it's clear sailing to Mendoza.

Come in against the wind, Pedro.

There's your mail.

Easy now.

Atta boy!

He picked up his mail like a veteran.

Uh-oh! Careful! That cargo is precious.

Pedro was homeward bound and ahead of schedule.

I'll bet his mother and dad will be proud of him.

Just a natural-born flier.

Hmm, maybe I shouldn't have mentioned it.

Look out!

Hope he got that out of his system.

Now with good luck and-- Uh-oh.

I was afraid of that.

Hey, Pedro, come back!

The little fellow had completely

forgotten his responsibilities. Pedro!

Then suddenly, Aconcagua!

Its rocky, snow-filled crags formed the face of a leering monster.

The oil froze in little Pedro's cylinders

and his motor knocked with fright.

All those warnings came back to him now,

the treacherous crosscurrents, the sudden storms.

Climb above the storm, Pedro!

Never mind the mail! Let it go! Let it go!

Forget the mail! Climb, Pedro! Climb!

Look out!

Climb, Pedro! Climb!

Get above the storm! I know you can make it!

Drop the mail! You've got to save yourself!

More altitude! 25,000's all you need!

Up! Up!

Gun your motor!

Now, just a little more and you'll be in the clear!

Climb, Pedro! Climb! Good boy!

Good boy! I knew you could make it!

You're all right now.

Just level off and head straight for home.

He's out of gas.

Pedro! Pedro!

He's gone.

Back at the home field,

Pedro's parents searched the skies in vain.

They knew that he couldn't have held out this long.

Their brave little son was gone.

Another martyr to the mail service.

Poor little fella. His first flight.

It's too bad it had to end this way.

What was that?

I wonder if it-- No, it couldn't be.

Wait! It is!

It's Pedro!

Pedro! Petey boy! Are you all right?

Well, don't ask me how he did it.

It wasn't exactly a three-point landing,

but he did fulfill his mission.

He brought the mail through.

The mail, that all-important cargo.

"Estoy divirtiendome."

"Having wonderful time. Wish you were--" Hmm.

Well, it might have been important.

And he did bring in the mail!

And so the papa plane, the mama plane

and little Pedro flew happily ever after.

Sailing eastward from Chile, we cross the Argentine Pampas.

Just millions of acres of rich grazing land...

stretching from the mountains to Buenos Aires...

the third largest city in the Western Hemisphere.

Buenos Aires is a beautiful city.

This is the Plaza de Mayo,

one of its delightful parks.

The Teatro Colon, home of the opera.

And the stately Congress building,

center of Argentina's government.

The tallest building in South America...

the Edificio Cavanaugh.

Yes, they were really impressed with the big city,

but impressive too was the lure of the Pampas

and the Argentine gaucho,

as painted by F. Molina Campos.

The party were guests at his ranch studio,

where Senor Campos paints the gaucho

with amazing detail and humor.

Seeing these pictures made them more anxious than ever

to meet these caballeros in person.

And they lived up to their pictures.

A real wild west show,

but just part of the day's work for a gaucho.

Sketching these paisanos in action was no easy job.

But they did manage to get a good look at the gaucho's equipment.

Silver coins decorate his belt, or tirador.

The sheepskin saddle.

Soft horsehide boots.

This garment's called a chiripa.

Here the visitors were treated to an asado:

choice cuts of meat,

mate, the Argentine tea,

and wine from their own vineyards.

True Argentine hospitality.

A group of skilled dancers entertained the guests.

Not the modern tango of Buenos Aires,

but the country dances of the Argentine.

The same tunes to which their grandparents had danced.

Notice how closely these steps resemble

the old-time square dances of North America.

Gathering picture material here was a pleasure.

Another story was under way.

And after seeing Senor Campos' paintings,

and all this colorful exhibition,

we couldn't help but compare the life of the Argentine gaucho,

with that of our own cowboy.

And they reached way back into Texas to find the leading man.

From the windswept plains of Montana,

to the sunbaked banks of the Rio Grande,

over countless miles of mountain and prairie,

untouched and unsullied by the mercenary hand of civilization,

roams a tough, hardy and heroic breed of man,

the North American cowboy.

Strong, silent and weather-beaten.

Howdy, strangers!

This colorful cowhand of the great west

has his counterpart in the South American gaucho.

So let us call upon the magic of our motion picture camera

and whisk our hardy heroes outward.

Over land and sea,

over rugged mountains and dense jungles...

down across the equator

to the lush, grassy Pampas of the Argentine,

the home of the gaucho.

Now, the cowboys of both Americas have much in common,

although their costume differs in a few minor details.

We substitute bombachas for chaps, the sombrero.

Then there's the saco,

the tirador, the chiripa and the panuelo.

Botas, espuelas.

Then finally, we have the poncho,

which just about covers everything.

The gaucho's closest friend and inseparable companion

is his horse, or pingo.

Quickly the gaucho reaches for his lasso!

Twirling the rawhide above his head,

he deftly tosses the noose about the horse's neck,

and easily subdues the spirited animal

with the help of the snubbing post...

...or palenque.

Thanks to the palenque, or snubbing post,

the horse is soon brought under control,

and is ready for the saddle.

While it appears complex at first glance,

the recado, or saddle, is really simplicity itself.

In saddling the horse, or pingo,

the gaucho simply lays a foundation of sudaderos

and rosaderos, adding the cinchas, bastos, sheepskin, pigskin,

bridle, bit and finally, the gaucho.

When riding the range at night,

the saddle may be quickly converted into a bed, or catre.

Bed?

One of the gaucho's favorite sports is the asado,

or Argentine barbecue.

Over an open charcoal fire,

thick, juicy, tender steaks are prepared.

And, amigos,

it fairly melts in your mouth.

Macanudo!

The gaucho's method of eating looks quite simple,

yet requires a certain amount of practice.

The bread and meat are held in one hand,

the knife in the other.

Note the action of wrist and elbow,

as knife and food synchronize in deft, graceful rhythm.

One, two, bite, cut, chew.

One, two, bite, cut, chew.

Yes, it is this wholesome diet that build the gaucho's

nerves of steel and muscles of iron.

And now the boleadoras, or bolas.

The bolas consist of three lead weights covered with rawhide

and is often used for sport, such as capturing

that swift-moving bird of the Pampas, the Argentine ostrich,

or avestruz.

Unlike most members of the ostrich family,

the avestruz is not equipped with ornamental tail plumage.

Its slender legs make excellent targets for the bolas.

Did he say "bolas"?

Caramba!

Dashing at breakneck speed,

the gaucho whirls the bolas round and round, faster and faster,

and then the throw!

Straight and sure it flies, until it finds its mark.

And the swift bird is captured and tied all in one operation.

And now to fully appreciate this remarkable feat,

let us study the action,

through the eye of the slow-motion camera.

Note the grace and beauty,

of this light-footed creature in startled flight.

With delicate balance and clocklike precision of timing,

man and beast moving as one,

display a minimum of waste motion...

as the whirling bolas are unleashed.

Faster and faster!

On and on they spin, closer and closer!

Here they come! Be careful!

Get out of the way! Heads up! Watch it!

Look out, look out! Here it comes! Duck, duck, duck!

Too late! Too late!

And when night--

When night falls,

...the lone gaucho oft times

finds himself far, far out on the Pampas.

Listen to the melancholy strains of the triste,

a sad, romantic ballad.

Yo soy la blanca paloma

Que en el cardal

De la loma

Yo soy-- Yo soy-- Yo soy-- Yo soy-- Yo soy-- Yo--

Yo soy

But the gaucho is not always sad.

Come, let us dance to the lively beat of the chacarera,

the dance of the farmer's daughter.

Combining the minuet,

the bunny hug, and a dash of jumping jive.

The Pampas version of cutting a rug.

And El Malambo,

a solo number in which the dancer swings out with utter abandon,

often described as perpetual motion below the equator.

El Pala Pala.

Ah-hyuck!

Traditional dance of the rooster and the hen.

And now, as he sways to the gentle undulations

of El Malambo, we gently waft our transplanted cowboy...

back to his prairie homeland.

Here we leave him with warm and tender memories,

of his visit to the gay, romantic land of the gaucho.

Hasta la vista. ¡Adios, amigos!

And now from the Pampas to Brazil and Rio de Janeiro,

a city of amazing beauty and a perfect setting.

One of the best views of the city is from the top of Sugarloaf,

overlooking Copacabana Beach, the playground of Rio.

From Corcovado, the Statue of the Savior looks out

upon these scenes of active city life.

This is the kind of atmosphere the artists were after.

The outdoor cafes...

the mosaic sidewalks that are found all over Rio.

These designs are a tribute to patience and artistry,

preserving a Brazilian tradition.

Here are some of the first impressions.

This is what can happen to a big city,

when a crowd of cartoonists are turned loose.

Among the sketches was a promising actor,

Old Papagaio, the parrot featured in most of Brazil's funny stories.

With the help of the wardrobe department,

he becomes Joe Carioca.

The music of Brazil, a samba.

Rhythm instruments like reco reco...

and the cabaca...

all help to beat out that intricate samba rhythm...

a lively two-step with a bounce.

It's the same rhythm that captivates the whole city

when carnival time comes around.

Samba!

Carnival in Rio...

three hilarious days and nights.

Singing, dancing and celebrating.

The spirit of the Mardi Gras and New Year's Eve rolled into one.

Each year hundreds of songs are written

especially for this occasion,

and the dream of every composer

is to have his song chosen as a Carnival hit.

One number stood out as a perfect background

for the first Brazilian film.

Its author, Ary Barroso, has made use of the samba rhythm

to paint a musical picture of his native land,

"Aquarela do Brasil," a watercolor of Brazil.

Brasil Meu Brasil brasileiro

Meu mulato inzoneiro

Vou cantar-te os meus versos

O Brasil, samba, que da

Bamboleio Que faz gingar

O Brasil Do meu amor

Terra de Nosso Senhor

Brasil

Brasil

Pra mim

Pra mim

O esse coqueiro que da coco

Aonde amarro a minha rede

Nas noites claras de lua

Brasil

Brasil

O oi essas fontes murmurantes

Oi onde eu mato minha sede

E onde a lua vem brincar

Oi, esse Brasil lindo e trigueiro

E o meu Brasil brasileiro

Terra de samba e pandeiro

Brasil

Brasil

Pra mim

Pra mim

What happened? Where am I?

What's going on around here?

Boy, this is fun!

Uh-oh!

What's this? A parrot?

Cavalheiro, aqui esta o meu cartao.

"Jose Carioca.

Rio de...

Janeiro, Brasil."

Nao, senhor. Jose Carioca.

Rio de Janeiro, Brasil. Tem um dos seus?

- Huh? - Tem um dos seus?

My card? I know I brought one from the States.

Ah! There you are.

Muito obrigado.

Donald Duck?

O Pato Donald! O Pato Donald!

Ora, venha de la um abraco,

um quebra costelas, um bom carioca,

bem amigo, seja bem-vindo, meu caro.

O Pato Donald! Veja voce.

Vamos sair por ai. Vai conhecer o Rio.

Vamos a todos os lugares. Vamos a Tijuca, Copacabana,

Salgueiro, Laranjeiras, Botafogo, Andarai, Meyer,

Jardim Botanico, Furnas, Campos de Sant'Ana, Cinelandia,

Praca Onze, Sao Cristovao, Niteroi, Paqueta, Avenida Atlantica,

Leme, Leblon, Gavea, Pao de Acucar, e ao Corcovado!

- Or as you Americans say... - Huh?

- "Let's go see the town." - Okay, Joe!

Where do we go?

Donald, I will show you the land of the samba!

Samba? What's samba?

Ah, the samba!

Ah, soda pop!

Nao, cachaca.

Que tal uma cachacinha agora?

- Saude. - Down the hatch, Joe!

- Muito obrigado. - Oh.

Donald, now you have the spirit of the samba!

Oh, boy! Oh, boy! Oh, boy! Oh, boy! Samba!

Oi, esse Brasil lindo e trigueiro

E o meu Brasil brasileiro

Terra de samba e pandeiro

Brasil

Brasil

Pra mim

Pra mim