neighborhood, and rises in flood from a stream say seventy-five yards
wide to a rushing lake, if the expression be permitted, half a mile
and more across. Our car finally refused to move; its wheels simply
turned _in situ_, so deep was the sand. There was nothing for it but
to walk to the river bank, where we were met with many apologies. A
bamboo bridge had been built across the stream a few days before so
that our cars might cross, but yesterday's rain had washed it down,
and would we try to cross on rafts? We looked at the rafts, bamboo
platforms built over large _bancas_ (canoes, double-enders cut out of a
single log), the bamboos being lashed together with _bejuco_ (rattan,
the native substitute for nails), and decided that no self-respecting
motor would stand such transportation, but would go to the bottom first
by overturning. So we got our stuff aboard the rafts, were poled over,
and made the rest of the journey to Tayug, our first considerable halt,
in _carromatas_ (the native two-wheeled, springless cart). Fortunately
the distance was short, the _carromata_ being an instrument of torture
happily overlooked by the Spanish Inquisition.

At Tayug a great concourse of people welcomed us, with arches, flags,
and decorations. The _presidencia_, or town hall, was filled with the
notabilities, and Mr. Forbes was presented with an address by one of
the _señoritas_. Suitable answer having been made, we adjourned, the
men first, the women following when we had done, according to native
custom, to the side rooms, where a surprisingly good tiffin had been
got ready for us, venison, chickens, French rolls, _dulces_ (sweets),
whiskey and soda, Heaven knows what else, to which, all unwitting of
our doom, we did full justice. About two miles beyond Tayug lies San
Francisco, the initial point of our real mounted journey. The people
along this part of the road had simply outdone themselves in the matter
of arches, there being one at every hundred yards almost. At San