This meal
consisted of jerked beef, farinha, rice, black beans, turtle soup,
and the national Goiabada marmalade. The cook, who was nothing but
a sick rubber-worker, had spoiled the principal part of the meal by
disregarding the juices of the meat, and cooking it without salt,
besides mixing the inevitable farinha with everything. But it was
a part of the custom of the country and could not be helped. _De
gustibus non est disputandum._
When this meal was over, I was invited to go with the secretary,
Mr. da Marinha, the man who had first greeted me in the morning,
to see a sick person. At some distance from the house was a small
barracao, where we were received by a _seringueiro_ named Marques. This
remarkable man was destined to figure prominently in experiences that
I had to undergo later. He pulled aside a large mosquito-net which
guarded the entrance of the inner room of this hut. In the hammock
we found a middle-aged woman; a native of Ceara. Her face was not
unattractive but terribly emaciated, and she was evidently very
sick. She showed us an arm bound up in rags, and the part exposed
was wasted and dark red. It was explained that three weeks before,
an accident had forced a wooden splinter into her thumb and she had
neglected the inflammation that followed.
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