迷失Z城

The Lost City of Z is a very long way from a true story — and I should know
A new Hollywood film hypes Percy Fawcett as a great explorer. In fact, he was a racist incompetent who achieved very little

The new film The Lost City of Z is being advertised as based on the true story of one of Britain’s greatest explorers. It is about Lt-Col Percy Fawcett. Greatest explorer? Fawcett? He was a surveyor who never discovered anything, a nutter, a racist, and so incompetent that the only expedition he organised was a five-week disaster. Calling him one of our greatest explorers is like calling Eddie the Eagle one of our greatest sportsmen. It is an insult to the huge roster of true explorers. Had the advertisement been about a soap powder, it would fall foul of the Trade Descriptions Act.

Percy Fawcett joined the army immediately after school, with a commission in the artillery in 1886. The next 20 years involved garrison duty in Ceylon and postings in Malta and England. The only significant events were getting married and becoming a devotee (like many others) of the charlatan psychic Madame Blavatsky. Fawcett’s game-changer came in 1906, when he was 40. The army let him take the Royal Geographical Society’s course on frontier surveying. Far away in South America, Bolivia had just sold its rubber-rich province of Acre to Brazil, so it needed its new north-western boundary mapped. The Bolivians approached the RGS for a mature surveyor to do this. The society’s secretary asked the newly qualified Fawcett whether he wanted to go; he accepted, reported for duty in La Paz and was at work on the new Amazonian frontier by the end of the year. This survey was the best thing Fawcett did. But he described it as boring, because the new frontier was all along rivers. This was the height of the great Amazon rubber boom, so he and his team cruised from one comfortable rubber barraca to the next, taking their regular measurements.

Fawcett’s only publications were a series of papers in the Geographical Journal about his mapping work. But he kept a journal, and in 1953 his son Brian edited this and other papers into a book called Exploration Fawcett. He emerges from it as a typical Edwardian colonial officer — friendly with South Americans but looking down on them, appalled by the cruelty at some rubber stations, full of gossip about life on this remote but boom-rich backwater, and uninterested in nature apart from banalities about dangerous snakes and irritating insects.

In 1908, the Bolivians asked Fawcett to survey another of their frontiers with Brazil: a small river called Verde, far away at the north-eastern corner of the large landlocked country. The preparations were appalling. Fawcett took minimal supplies, since he was accustomed to being fed by rubber stations. This was the end of the dry season with the river at its lowest. So they soon had to abandon their boat and continue on foot. After only a week, all food was exhausted and they were really starving. Fawcett casually remarked that five out of his six peons died from the effects of this five-week disaster. This was the only expedition he led into unexplored territory.

The Bolivians invited Fawcett back in 1910, this time to map part of their boundary with Peru. It involved paddling up a frontier river called Heath and two meetings with indigenous peoples on the banks. The first group fired arrows and guns over their heads. But Fawcett waded ashore with presents and shouting a few words of ‘Chuncho’ (the Peruvian word for all forest peoples) that he had memorised but did not understand. That was the only time that Fawcett attempted any language other than Spanish. Further up the Heath river, Fawcett met a tribe he called Ecocha (now Ese Eja) whom he really liked. They were ‘embarrassingly hospitable’ with their food, so Fawcett spent a few days with them and recorded something of their ethnography. He returned for a second visit in 1911.

After a final survey for the Bolivian government in 1913, of the upper Beni river in the Andes, Fawcett went sightseeing in central Bolivia. He and two companions were paddled down the big Guaporé river. They stopped at Mequens on its Brazilian bank to visit the Swedish anthropologist Baron Erland Nordenskiöld and his attractive wife, who provided guides to take them on a walk inland to visit a people they called Maxubi (now Makurap). The Maxubi were friendly and hospitable, but continuing on a forest trail Fawcett met another tribe (probably Sakurabiat) to whom he took a violent dislike. When one aimed a drawn bow at him, Fawcett shot the man with a Mauser revolver — absolutely forbidden by Brazil’s Indian Service. He described them as he imagined Neanderthals or Piltdown Man to have looked: ‘large hairy men, with exceptionally long arms, and foreheads sloping back from pronounced eye ridges… villainous savages, hideous ape men with pig-like eyes.’ No Amazonian Indian has body hair or looks remotely like this — I know, because I have spent time with over 40 different peoples. These two groups, and the two on the Heath, were the only tribal people seen by Fawcett. He liked two of them. So it was strange that he wrote racist gibberish that ‘there are three kinds of Indians. The first are docile and miserable people, easily tamed; the second, dangerous, repulsive cannibals very rarely seen; the third, a robust and fair people, who must have a civilised origin.’

When Fawcett was in the cattle country of central Bolivia in September 1914, news came of the outbreak of war. So he hurried home and by January 1915 was back in the artillery. In his late forties, he was too old for frontline service; but he fought a good war, ending as Lieutenant-Colonel.

In one of his pre-war lectures to the RGS, Fawcett had spoken of possible ancient ruins in the Amazon forests. He was now told about a scrap of paper dated 1743 in which bandeirantes imagined that they had seen a deserted city in the jungles. (The bandeirantes were slavers who scoured the interior of Brazil for Indians to capture. Although most of these thugs were illiterate, others did write reports about their travels — none of which said a word about seeing ruins.) Fawcett gave this imaginary ‘lost city’ the codename Z, and finding it became an obsession.

The easiest forest tribes to visit in Brazil were on the headwaters of one of the Amazon’s southern tributaries, the Xingu. A German anthropologist had contacted a dozen amiable peoples there in 1884; and since then they had been visited by seven groups of anthropologists or Indian Service officials. All had walked in by the same trail. So in 1920 Fawcett tried to follow this route — even though it was nowhere near where the chimera city might have been. His plans went wrong, so he got no further than a ranch halfway along the trail. In 1921 he searched for the mythical city down on the Atlantic coast, by train inland from Salvador da Bahia; but, hardly surprisingly, the miners there knew nothing.

In 1925, by now penniless but desperate, Fawcett tried again to reach the upper Xingu tribes. He now took two inexperienced ex-public schoolboys, his son Jack and Jack’s friend Raleigh Rimmel. The old surveyor made two suicidal pronouncements. One was that the trio should travel light, with nothing more than small packs. Everyone in Amazonia knew that you could not cut trails and keep your team fed with fewer than eight men. (I can confirm this, having done months of such cutting and carrying.) But Fawcett sent their pack animals and porters back, and continued with only his two novices. His other dictum was that Indians would look after them. This was equally dangerous. The Xingu tribes pride themselves on generosity; but they expect visitors to reciprocate. All expeditions in the past four decades had brought plenty of presents such as machetes, knives and beads. Fawcett had none. He committed other blunders that antagonised their hosts. So it was only a matter of days before they were all dead.

Twenty years later, Chief Comatsi of the Kalapalo tribe gave a very detailed account of Fawcett’s visit, reminding his assembled people of exactly how they had killed the unwelcome strangers. But the German anthropologist Max Schmidt, who was there in 1926, thought that they had plunged into the forests, got lost and starved to death; this was also the view of a missionary couple called Young who were on another Xingu headwater. The Brazilian Indian Service regretted that Fawcett, who was obsessively secretive, had not asked for their help in dealing with the Indians. They felt he was killed because of the harshness and lack of tact that all recognised in him.

Such was the sad tale of this incompetent, whose only skill was in surveying. But the disappearance of an English colonel while searching for a mythical ancient city in tropical rain forests was a media sensation. Two expeditions went to try to learn more. There was revived interest in the 1950s with the publication of Exploration Fawcett and the Kalapalo chief’s account of how they killed the Englishmen. Then it was forgotten until 2009 when David Grann, a talented writer, published The Lost City of Z. Unfortunately, Grann hyped the story out of all proportion and wrongly depicted Fawcett as a great explorer.

As he cheerfully admitted, Grann had no experience of rainforests. But he let his imagination run riot, with pages about ferocious piranhas, huge anacondas, electric eels (actually a fish that has never killed a man), frogs ‘with enough toxins to kill 100 people’, ‘predator’ pig-like peccary, ‘sauba ants that could reduce the men’s clothes to threads in a single night, ticks that attached like leeches (another scourge) and the red hairy chiggers that consumed human tissue. The cyanide-squirting millipedes. The parasitic worms that caused blindness…’ and so on. Everyone who know tropical forests, including me, knows that almost every word of this is nonsense.

Fawcett himself gave a simple account of his four surveying journeys for the Bolivian government. But for Grann, ‘in expedition after expedition… he explored thousands of square miles of the Amazon and helped redraw the map of South America’. Fawcett admitted that he was ‘a greenhorn in the jungle’ and knew nothing about nature. But Grann wrote that he moved ‘inch by inch through the jungle, tracing rivers and mountains, cataloguing exotic species… [until] he had explored as much of the region as anyone’.

For Grann, Fawcett was competing against other explorers ‘who were racing into the interior of South America’. The only study that Fawcett made after leaving school in 1886 was his RGS surveying course. He never mentioned any library research. But for Grann he was ‘almost unique’ in viewing 16th- and 17th-century chronicles ignored by other scholars; he re–evaluated El Dorado chronicles and consulted ‘archival records’ and ‘tribesmen’ in ‘piecing together his theory of Z’. Not a word of this was true, either.

Grann wrote that, as an author, he would have been lost without my three-volume, 2,100-page history of Brazilian Indians and five centuries of exploration. He quotes quite often from my books. So he had no excuse for describing Fawcett’s brief visits to three indigenous villages as the ‘discovery of so many previously unknown Indians’, from whom ‘he learned to speak myriad indigenous languages’, and adopted ‘herbal medicines and native methods of hunting [so that he] was better able to survive off the land’. Equally absurd was his rubbish about cannibalistic tribes, blow guns with poisoned darts, or Kuikuro menacing him with ‘gleaming spears flickering’ from the undergrowth (they never used spears, or had metal even, before their contact 130 years ago).

When the colonel vanished, Grann writes that ‘scores’ of explorers tried to find him, and that ‘one recent estimate put the death toll from these expeditions as high as 100.’ Actually, only one search expedition reached the Xingu, led by George Dyott in 1928. (It found that the three Englishmen had been killed by Indians.) The only other expedition was in 1932, but it got only as far as the Araguaia river far to the east. The death toll from these two attempts was zero. In 1935 a ridiculous actor called Albert de Winton went by himself to the Xingu and was killed by Indians who wanted his gun. So if we count him, the death toll is one — well short of Grann’s 100.

These and a great many other passages are artistic licence and hype of an absurd order. Hollywood believed everything Grann wrote, and then hyped it up more. People wishing to learn about the maverick colonel should consult his own fairly modest memoir — not the recent fantasy book and film about him. But I could recommend scores of writings by real explorers.

John Hemming is a Canadian explorer; the three volumes of his history of Brazilian Indians are Red Gold (1978), Amazon Frontier (1985) and Die If You Must (2004)

探险家Percy Fawcett生于1867年，深入亚马逊河谷5次直至最后一次消失在密林之中。影片改编自他的故事。
        佛斯特的父亲生于印度殖民地，哥哥是登山家与冒险小说家。佛斯特自己一心想从事更加冒险有趣的职业，所以佛斯特几乎不假思索地就接受了去南美画地图这样的使命，也开始了他的冒险人生。
       看到一张冒险家本人1911年的照片，那时候他已经成功地完成了几次亚马逊河域的旅程，照片上的他紧蹙眉头，神情严肃，并没有那种轻松喜悦的神色。
       影片中的福斯特梳着一丝不苟的油头，绅士气十足。他在途中读妻子写下的歌颂英雄主义的诗歌。佛斯特第一次探险归来的时候得到了热烈的欢迎。他与怀抱幼子的妻子在人群中拥吻。英格兰歌舞升平，生活惬意，波澜不惊，与密林丛生，四处是未知的野兽以及印第安部落的亚马逊形成了鲜明的对比。可是佛斯特坚信自己发现了失落的文明，执意要再次踏上旅途。妻子看着佛斯特在高堂上神色坚定地号召人们去寻找Z文明，又骄傲又担心。终于他和妻子爆发了争吵。可是争吵后，他还是和同伴踏上了九死一生的旅途。不过这次他们铩羽而归，并没能到达Z。
     时光到了一战，年近50的佛斯特自愿到前线服役。在战场，一个女巫对佛斯特说，你所发现的，远比你想象的更加伟大，你要再去寻找他们，这就是你的命运。佛斯特与曾经一同探险的伙伴在同一军营服役，在一场战斗中，几乎命丧德军毒气战。在病床上，佛斯特说自己梦到了亚马逊的从林，可是医生说介于身体状况佛斯特不可能再踏上那样的征途了。佛斯特的长子Jake看着在病榻上痛哭流涕的父亲，却默默与这位缺席家庭生活多年的父亲和解了。
     最后，Jake鼓励父亲再次踏上征途，也许是战争与缺乏父爱的童年让Jake对人生的意义充满质疑，Jake坚持要与父亲同去。他们一路上都受到高度关注，在火车站为他们喝彩的人不计其数。可是这次终究是一次致命之旅，父子俩在丛林里走过之前的那些路，发现曾经人烟兴盛的城市已荒废，终将父子俩也成了迷失的一部分，都没能再回来。
     维基百科上提供了福斯特父子结局的很多说法，但没有一个说法能够被证实。有一个说法是佛斯特丧失了记忆，在一个食人部落里生活并成为了首领。又有很多其他的说法表示父子已被杀害。
     影片并没有英雄主义式的煽情。全片色彩古典，更像是流畅的叙事。里面间或的南美片段，也让人想起马尔克斯的小说。
     不管是探险，还是一战，佛斯特度过了那样危险重重的一生。在那些濒死时刻，他想起的都是恍如隔世般的英格兰，可这些却是他放弃的生活。他曾经幸运地找到过Z的一些遗迹，却终其一生再没能踏上Z。
      但是你能说，佛斯特的一生都是无用功吗？用佛斯特自己的话说，这就是他的命运，他们完成了别人无法想象的旅程。

      看完电影出来，里昂正是暮色降至的时刻，看着平静美好的街道与河流，想想有人能够放弃这样的生活，坚持去完成那件十分危险的使命，又觉得其实世界是属于有勇气的人的，我们今天对世界的很多认知，都是由这些勇敢的古典旅行者缔造出来的。

还挺意外的，原来不按教科书叙事理论拍的片子是这样的。
躲开了英雄的塑料味儿，结识了一个人，管窥了一战前英国的一段社会阶层关系。

个人觉得最关键的梗，在他妻子最后对他念的一封小信，关于什么是活着。
值得背下来。

z城不是一个城。片中也从来没对这座城有过多的渲染，不过是一些小碎片拿出来作为电影不可不用之物摆摆样子。
z城隐喻的是深藏在每个人心里的那个梦想。
对z城的追寻和殉葬，这其间所损失的寻常人生，付出了爱人、朋友、社会地位、儿子的生命、自己的生命——一切人生必要且珍贵之物的代价，而那个梦想是否真的实现了呢？也始终未知。

那又如何呢？
那又如何？
去背片尾他妻子的那封小信。

祝福，是由俄罗斯女巫送上的。
她说‘这是你的使命’。

能清楚的找到自己的使命，清晰的明白它高于一切人生需求，在每一个需要做选择的关头，毫不犹豫的选择它。
这是莫大的幸福。

所有的战斗，都没用轰轰烈烈的处理。战场就在平淡之中，就在寻常生活里，就在每一个细小的选择之间。
愿我们都能发现自己的z城。
迷失其中，也是一种完美的结局。