Rumors of a fabulous city in the jungle had apparently originated in the story of a 1500 Portuguese sailor who heard from his captors Jerusalem artichokes, avid cannibals if they made an exception in exchange for her to marry the daughter of his boss (which must surely be cause for revocation). It is difficult to gauge the strength of the Tupinamba as informants, and not tell you as gourmets. In any case, the colonel was an old map of Z. After a lull in his career browser to take part in World War I (was in the Somme and was wounded with gas), in 1925, to 58, accompanied only by his offspring Jack and the son of a friend, Fawcett head stuck in the jungle of the Upper Xingu and never has been heard of him or the other (or many others who tried to look for: an estimated one hundred, including several freaks, have palmed suffer because of the bug-the Candiru, why not-Fawcett).
Let me return to this point in my personal experience and point out that, incomparably less skilled in forest issues, I'm back. The credit is not mine, but a Pemon Indian named Casimir-thanks from here, Casimiro, who was kind enough to retrace his steps and find a bromeliad hiccuping with horror. "Lost!, Triggering tremendous word madness," wrote Romulo Gallegos in My Canaima. There I was, indeed, in Canaima National Park in Venezuela. We had left a tour group in canoe (canoe) to the Auyantepuy, whose top falls of Angel Falls. We navigate the rapids of the Carrao and Churun. After beaching the boat we walked in single file through the forest between trees strangled by vines when I stopped for a moment to admire a hummingbird flying like a sapphire. It was just a moment of reckless dismissal but I was completely alone in the jungle. No one was in sight. I called, louder and louder until hitting end screams as Klaus Kinski. I thought about running to either side but got calm down enough to stay put and avoid getting lost even more. The jungle was a vast green of maddening monotony and overwhelming indifference. My terrified imagination populated by jaguars, alligators, snakes and blowguns jararaca, not to mention the anacondas and candiru. It was time to remember that the park Canaima has the size of Belgium and has no signs. When Casimiro gave me I was in such a state that did not seem to know whether it was me or the rest of the taciturn tapir that had hunted the night before with his old gun.
Trauma of that jungle boots, say, my tune with Fawcett. Know nothing about their fate. He found his city?? There imagination who include many stories and legends interviewed an old white man in the jungle-it's still there, at the Shangri La lush, perhaps even enthroned as king or god. There has been talk of skinned Indian children who were his children or grandchildren. In a recent splendid book-in which is based the film will star Brad Pitt, 'The Lost City of Z (Plaza & Janes, 2010), the New Yorker reporter David Grann, who had access to the diaries of Colonel, traces the story of Fawcett and his adventures and partly himself to the Amazon in search of the browser, or at least his memory-guided by an old samba dancer (!). He could see the skeletal remains Kalapalo conserving and attributed to our man, but do not add up. Grann believes, based on recent archaeological discoveries of large urban structures in the Amazon jungle, that Fawcett was not so wrong: there may have been a great pre-Columbian civilization in the jungle of Xingu with settlements of up to five thousand people and some monumental aesthetic.
In any case, the browser has never returned. Still there, returning a mirror image strangely moving. Why do not we all be lost in one way or another. If you want me to tell the truth, a part of me also continues in the jungle, stupefied and indecisive, unable to find a way out or even just to look. As Fawcett, it is sometimes difficult to find the way home.