I received this from Uncle Rudi via email in 2015. Email was titled "dads last try at sharing" so I can only assume this is my grandfather from Germany, Otto Eberhard George Lothar Schneider (1885-1958).
The Way of an Emigrant in South America
Written
about 1946
Some years before I emigrated from Europe to Argentina, I was a member of the
crew of a three masted bark. Like other windjammers, we were loading
pitchpine in Mobile bay at the mouth of the Mississippi. The backbreaking
labor, the miserable food, and the bully mate, as well as the stories about
plenty of money, big cities, and large prairies full of intrepid cowboys,
brought my decision to leave the ship to a head. This wasn't as easy as one may
think. We were anchored twelve miles out, near a little sand dune island,
but the lumber came out on big barges, towed by a tug. At night, when
empty, they dropped anchor about half a mile astern to be picked up by the tug
in the morning in exchange for a barge with a new supply of wood.
One stormy night I eased the paint scow hanging on the cathead down just above
the choppy water, climbed down and cut the tackle so the next high wave lifted
her away. It was risky, because I had only a board to navigate
with. However, the wind and waves carried me swiftly astern in the
direction of the pounding barge.
I managed to get alongside and when she was up on a wave, jumped over her flat
deck. In no time at all, the scow, which was only a square box was, lost
in the stormy darkness. These barges are manned only by one Negro, who
was, of course, asleep, so I opened up one of the small square hatches,
lowering myself into the slimy water world interior, replacing the hatch behind
me. Unfortunately, on account of the unruly sea, the tug did not arrive
that particular morning, which in turn meant that on board the ship a boat was
lowered to search the island and a close search was made of the barge.
The bully mate came down the hatch into the barge interior and lit a match in
the dark, then called up, "he isn't here either." I was hanging
over his head like a monkey on a deck beam, and, as luck would have it, my
sheath knife, which every sailor carries, dropped out of its sheath on his
head. That was the end of my first attempt to become an American
citizen. Brought before the captain, he remarked, "I knew you were
trying to run away but never thought you'd try it in a night like that!! I'll
impound all your belongings until the scow is paid for."
Years later, back home, recounting this episode, father advised me to
finish school before going into a foreign country. And so, when the time
arrived, we flipped a coin: heads up "North America", tails
"South America". Tails it was. Argentina. But how to get
there? Money was scarce, so I signed on as a sort of sailmaker for the
run only. The ship was a passenger boat and my work consisted of sewing
canvas covers for boats and other things.
One fine day, I stood on the docks of Buenos Aires with a small bag of clothes
over my shoulder and a tiny dictionary in my pocket. Argentina. The
first night I spent at a cheap hotel along the waterfront, but early in the
morning, I took my bag and wandered west out of the city. The Camino
Real, which means highway, was dusty and windblown, but followed the rails in a
general way. The country was flat with nothing in particular to catch the
eye. As night drew on, I felt pretty lonely in the immensity on which the
sinking sun cast its last rays. walking along the rails, a sort of barn
made from corrugated tin sheets was visible, I directed my feet over
there to look for some sort of shelter for the night. Approaching, I
noticed a couple of men squatting about a fire, who called to come and sit. As
it turned out they were foreigners also. Gringos also, and our aims and hopes
were identical. Some of them already knew the ropes. That is, where
work could be had, speak a little Spanish to get along with, and above all, how
to hit the road and secure food.
I travelled west as far as my resources allowed and asked for a job at a ranch,
then learned the ins and outs of being a gaucho on the pampas of
Argentina. I bought a horse from an Indian living on a small island in a
river raising horses, with the help of the foreman who spoke Indian.
Learned the hard way that the Indian had told me to cover the horses eyes with
a blanket when crossing water as he had trained them to not cross water.
The fourth time the horse stopped short and pitched me over his head into the
water, the next river that I came to, I shot him. When I cooled
down, I realized that I had a 75 kilometer walk back to the hacienda with my
saddle and gear. I arrived hungry and footsore and much smarter.
Several years later, I was working as a rail hand on the railroad through the
Andes. All work stopped when the surveying instrument was dropped
and broken. I offered to fix it on site instead of sending the unit back
to Europe for repairs. I was successful, got promoted to the surveying
team, and was the first man on the team to see Lake Titicaca. I was told
by the construction boss to look him up if i came to the United States, job guaranteed,
in the oil fields working for Shell oil.
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