To summarize Lost Trails... would be easy, but it would not do justice to the quality of Fawcett's commentary. Instead, I've quoted several passages from the book that illustrate the passion and variety of his observations.

   Fawcett was fascinated by the way civilization fell away as he went deeper into the forest. He was astonished at the barbarity of the remote rubber camps and small settlements (barracas):
  "(Cobija) had been a barraca, but was abandoned and became overgrown. In 1903 the Brazilians captured it, and then were wiped out by the Bolivians, who attacked with Indians. They fired the huts with burning arrows bound in petroleum-soaked cotton, and then picked off the defenders as they were forced into the open. Not a single Brazilian escaped. Even when we arrived there—three years afterwards—skeletons still littered the ground."
   In another example of the inhumane existence of the men who lived in these remote regions Fawcett mentions the bizarre behavior of some of his boat crew:
   "...by nightfall the crew were utterly exhausted. The moment they threw themselves down on the hot rocks beside the river they were fast asleep, and in consequence pneumonia was rife amongst them...
   "...Any man who fell ill became the butt of the rest, and when he died there was tremendous hilarity. The staring corpse was tied to a pole, and sparsely covered in a shallow trench scraped out with paddles on the river bank, his monument a couple of crossed twigs tied with grass. For funeral there was a drop of kachasa all around, and ho for the next victim!"
   The insensitivity to human suffering exhibited by the inhabitants of these remote regions, both native and white, is a constant theme in Fawcett's journals, and in many other books describing life in these backwaters. Even friends of mine who have traveled in this area have warned me to be very wary in South America of any contact with the army or the police. Such meetings are frequently unpredictable or hazardous. Is it a consequence of the cultures of the barbarous men who conquered these parts of South America, a result of living without controls and contact with civilization, or something else? The pattern is described so often that I think it should warn travelers in these regions to be especially wary.
   Another of Fawcett's recurring themes is the attitude of the white settlers in the forest camps toward the local Indians. They almost always found the Indians hostile and aggressive; Fawcett consistently found them friendly and helpful, with a few exceptions. Why this difference in attitude? Fawcett leaves no doubt:
   "Immediately there was a round-up, and those [Indians] who were not killed were taken away to the Beni [as slaves]. One woman carrying a new-born child was shot in the ankle, and, unable to walk, was dragged to the river to be towed down stream on a raft behind the launch. When the party in the launch were tired of this, they cut her adrift to reach the shore any way she could. The perpetrators of this ghastly business boasted openly of their doings—proud of their 'victory'! They told how children had been taken by the legs and dashed against trees to kill them. There is no doubt of these atrocities, and it is not an exaggeration on my part."
   Throughout the book Fawcett observes the living conditions in the bush. One of the diseases he reported frequently is "earth eating" (also reported in Appalachia, in modern America):
   "Many of the Indian peons at San Carlos were earth-eaters, doomed to die after a year or two of this habit. One of its victims had shortly before been sent off sick with a load of bananas and meat to keep him going, but on the way out he was caught making three mud pies for breakfast. he died before reaching his destination."
   And another case mentioned later:
   "Beside us, under the shade of the hut's eaves, a man was dying of earth eating—an emaciated creature whose stomach was greatly swollen. To those who knew the symptoms the case was obviously hopeless, and our seringero (rubber gatherer) host was wasting no sympathy on him. All the time the victim kept up a monotonous groaning and ejaculated, 'Senhores, I'm in agony—aie, what agony!'
   "'You've got to die in about half an hour,' said the seringero in answer, 'so why all this fuss? It spoils the breakfast of the senhores!'
   "'Aie!' wailed the dying man. 'I'm in agony—aie, what agony!'
   "Suddenly a woman snatched away the mosquito net. The man was dead. A wasp settled on his nose, which twitched feebly, but there was no sound from him. Within an hour his body was buried, and probably forgotten. I wondered why he had been born—what object was served by his passage through childhood to a life of hopeless misery, and finally to a lonely, agonizing and unwept exit."
   After Fawcett became familiar with the story of Francisco Raposo his attention began to shift from pure engineering toward exploration and discovery. Things he heard on his survey expeditions, and stories and lore he learned from people he met between expeditions began to seduce him. In one place He records a conversation with a man concerning an unusual forest bird that nests in perfect round holes in rock cliffs.
   "'They make the holes themselves.' The words were spoken by a man who had spent a quarter of a century in the forests. 'I've seen how they do it, many a time. I've watched, I have, and seen the birds come to the cliff with leaves of some sort in their beaks, and cling to the rock like woodpeckers to a tree while they rubbed the leaves in a circular motion over the surface. Then they would fly off, and come back with more leaves, and carry on with the rubbing process. After three or four repetitions they dropped the leaves and started pecking at the place with their sharp beaks, and—here's the marvellous part—they would soon open out a round hole in the stone...'
   "'Do you mean to say that the bird's beak can penetrate solid rock?'
   '...No, I don't think the bird can get through solid rock. I believe, as everyone who has watched them believes, that those birds know of a leaf with juice that can soften up rock till it's like wet clay.'
   "The man continued with a personal story about his nephew. He had walked through the thick bush to a nearby camp to retrieve his horse, which had gone lame and had been left there temporarily. He noticed, when he arrived, that his new Mexican spurs had been eaten away almost completely. The owner of the camp asked him if he had walked through a certain plant about a foot high, with dark reddish leaves. The young man said he had walked through a wide area that was completely covered with such plants. 'That's it!...That's what's eaten your spurs away! That's the stuff the Incas used for shaping stones. The juice will soften rock up till it's like paste. You must show me where you found the plants.' But when they retraced the young man's steps they were unable to locate them."
   In a footnote Brian Fawcett, the editor of the book, has a personal story to tell concerning the mysterious rock-softening plants:
   "'I don't believe it!' said a friend who had been a member of the Yale Peruvian Expedition that discovered Macchupicchu in 1911. 'I've seen them in all stages of preparation, and can assure you the fitting surfaces were worked by hand and nothing else!'
   "Another friend of mine told me the following story:
   "'Some years ago, when I was working in the mining camp at Cerro de Pasco (a place 14,000 feet up in the Andes of Central Peru), I went out one Sunday with some other Gringos to visit some old Inca or Pre-Inca graves—to see if we could find anything worth while. We took our grub with us, and, of course, a few bottles of pisco and beer, and a peon—a cholo—to help us dig.
   "'Well, we had our lunch when we got to the burial place, and afterwards started to open up some graves that seemed to be untouched. We worked hard, and knocked off every now and then for a drink. I don't drink myself, but the others did, especially one chap who poured too much pisco into himself and was inclined to be noisy. When we knocked off, all we had found was an earthenware jar of about a quart capacity, and with liquid inside it.
   "'"I bet it's chicha!" said the noisy one. "Let's try it and see what sort of stuff the Incas drank!"
   "'"Probably poison us if we do." observed another.
   "'"Tell you what, then—let's try in on the peon!"
   "'They dug the seal and stopper out of the jar's mouth, sniffed at the contents and called the peon over to them.
   "'"Take a drink of this chicha," ordered the drunk. The peon took the jar, hesitated, and then with an expression of fear spreading over his face thrust it into the drunk's hands and backed away.
   "'"No, no, señor," he murmured. "Not that. That's not chicha!" He turned and made off.
   "'The drunk put the jar down on a flat-topped rock and set off in pursuit. "Come on, boys—catch him!" he yelled. They caught the wretched man, dragged him back, and ordered him to drink the contents of the jar. The peon struggled madly, his eyes popping. There was a bit of a scrimmage, and the jar was knocked over and broken, its contents forming a puddle on top of the rock. Then the peon broke free and took to his heels.
   "'Everyone laughed. It was a huge joke. But the exercise had made them thirsty and they went over to the sack where the beer- bottles lay.
   "'About ten minutes later I bent over the rock and casually examined the pool of spilled liquid. It was no longer liquid; the whole patch where it had been, and the rock under it, were as soft as wet cement! It was as though the stone had melted, like wax under the influence of heat.'"
   Another tale Fawcett heard occasionally became an important point of focus for some of his later expeditions:
   "The Indians there spoke of houses with 'stars to light them, which never went out.' This was the first, but not the last time I heard of these permanent lights found occasionally in the ancient houses built by that forgotten civilization of old. I knew that certain Indians of Ecuador were reputed to light their huts at night by means of luminous plants, but that, I considered, must be a different thing altogether. There was some secret means of illumination known to the ancients that remains to be rediscovered by scientists of today—some method of harnessing forces unknown to us."
   Was it true, or was it a case of the treasure hunter succumbing to the tales of treasure he wanted to believe?
   On his last expedition, Fawcett has exploration and treasure in mind. His itinerary includes specific goals. One of these is the strange light source:
   "Our route will be from Dead Horse Camp, 11° 43' south and 54° 35' west, where my horse died in 1921, roughly northeast to the Xingu, visiting on the way an ancient stone tower which is the terror of the surrounding Indians, as at night it is lighted from door and windows."

   Fawcett's narratives are really detailed, very literate diaries; reports on each of his expeditions. They are based on simple chronological recounting of the events on his treks, augmented by a profusion of observations of almost everything unusual he experienced or wondered about on the trips. They are surprisingly optimistic; he seems never to have doubted his ability to complete a project successfully and return safely, until much later when divulging his plans for his last trip in 1925. He was clearly concerned about his physical condition and the likelihood that he would not survive this one.
   Throughout his adventures Fawcett laments not being able to find reliable, fit companions for his trips. Finally, on his last, he was accompanied by his older son Jack and Jack's good friend; and he seems to have been satisfied. Regrettably, all three men disappeared forever during that expedition.

   Brian Fawcett's epilog recounts his efforts to find his father and brother after their disappearance. Numerous leads got him nowhere, and he was forced to conclude that the men had been killed, perhaps even eaten, by the Indians in those remote regions.
   I wondered why Fawcett was constantly pulled toward regions whose inhabitants were reported to be hostile, savage, even cannibals. Was he attempting to prove something he had not been willing to tell? Was he following a connection he had developed between certain tribes and his lost city? Did he simply have a death wish—an explorer's version of earth-eating? All—unknown!
   I had the impression that, at the end, he had very specific goals he would not reveal until he had concluded his final exploration successfully. He may not even have disclosed his true purpose to his son.
   While reading this book one must remember that the author was writing in the early 20th Century. His British upper middle class cultural biases stamp his work at almost every turn. I say this not because that is objectionable or in any way minimizes the accuracy of Fawcett's observations or adventures, but because in our recent culture, so dominated by concern with "political correctness" and "valuing cultural diversity," many people have simply rejected everything Fawcett achieved because of his conservative (but probably very astute) racial and cultural views. I personally found his observations on the people he met important to my understanding of some of his experiences. For example, he makes frequent reference to the physical differences he observed from one Indian tribe to the next. One he describes as fair-skinned, blue-eyed, auburn-haired; another as black, hairy, primitive, brutal. A careful reader will notice quickly that Fawcett characterizes the races he encounters primarily by their behaviors, not by their appearances. But their appearances are important to him, first as tribal identifiers; second, because throughout his career in Brazil he sought a race of a certain phenotype: fair, blue-eyed, light-haired. He believed they descended from an ancient, higher civilization and might give a clue that would lead him to Raposo's lost city.
   Another characteristic Fawcett exposes is his concurrent belief in (a) the tangible, empirical world of science, and (b) a spiritual world where observations often cannot be resolved by technical measurement or analysis. In effect, Fawcett was scientist and mystic; and mystics are not "politically correct" today. It is obvious that many men felt the same in Fawcett's day; the Royal Geographic Society never took his reports or presentations seriously. This hurt him deeply and effected his later work.

   I personally don't care about Fawcett's "politics." His book is engaging, mystifying, often graphic and terrifying. It's an adventure classic treasure.
   Lost Trails, Lost Cities, or Exploration Fawcett, has disappeared from publishers' warehouses. It may still be possible to find the occasional copy in used book stores. A good possibility is to place a special order with our online associate, amazon.com. They still list the British title as possibly available.

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   See you next time for more reviews of interesting books. To read book reviews from previous issues see "Back Issues" in our "Library."