by David Yeadon
Lost Worlds
Exploring the Earth’s Remote Places
Written and Illustrated by David Yeadon
For Peter Hillier
pilot, philosopher and friend;
the man who gave me yet
one more life
and widened my smile.
Contents
Words of Thanks
Introduction
1 Zaire’s Ruwenzori: To the Mountains of the Moon
2 Venezuela’s Los Llanos: Exploring Infinities
3 The Venezuelan Andes: Seeking the Hermit
4 Barbuda: All Alone in Paradise
5 Panama—The Darien: Lost in the Golden Time
6 The Chilean Fjords: Killer Waves, Williwaws, and Other Wonders
7 Northwest Australia: Bungle Bungle and the Never-Nevers
8 South-West Tasmania: Journeys of Solitude Through a True Wilderness
9 Fiji: The Temptations of Taveuni
About the Author and the Illustrator
Other Books by David Yeadon
Copyright
About the Publisher
The saving of the self:
The point of life is to know, love and serve the soul.
Thomas Moore (Care of the Soul)
Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.
Helen Keller
I was not born to be forced. I will breathe after my own fashion.
Henry David Thoreau
The saving of the earth:
We have done, and continue to do, terrible things to the Earth in the name of “progress.”
I believe it is still very much in the balance, whether we can succeed in rescuing ourselves and the Earth from the consequences of our arrogance and folly. There’s no room for the unbelievable complacency of those who claim that we have already done enough, and that our economic prospects will be undermined if we make too much of a song-and-dance about the environment. The truth is that there will be no singing and no dancing if we don’t take far more drastic measures than we have to date.
The wounds we have inflicted can be healed; the Earth can be “saved” from further destruction. But if it is to be done, it must be done now. Otherwise, it may never be done at all.
Jonathan Porritt—Save The Earth—Turner Publishing, 1991.
WORDS OF THANKS
So many individuals gave encouragement and support during my travels. Without their kindness I might never have completed my journeys—or this book. In particular I would like to thank:
Richard Agar, for his hospitality at Exmouth in Western Australia.
Parker Antin, for his book Himalayan Odyssey and his enthusiasm for my adventures.
The legendary Doña Barbara, who gave meaning (tinged with menace) to Venezuela’s Los Llanos.
Jan Beck, for his help in reaching Zaire’s Mountains of the Moon.
Tim Cahill, for his kind words on my previous book, The Back of Beyond, which gave me heart for these journeys.
The late Bruce Chatwin, for his beautiful book The Songlines from which I learned so much about the Australian outback.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, for the pleasures of his book The Lost World and for the dreams he made me dream.
Phil Cooper, pilot and companion, for his calm and composure over the notorious Western Arthurs range in South-West Tasmania.
Tom Cronin, for his ongoing interest in my adventures (and his desire to join me as a video-recordist for WHBG, Boston).
The Cuna Indians, for their hospitality in Panama’s Darien Gap and their explanation of “The Golden Time.”
Lynne Cupper, my sister, and husband Burford, who offered sanctuary and fine sustenance during my homebound stopovers in England.
Jose Diego, llanero and lover of the wild places, for his tales and insights during my Los Llanos odyssey.
Monica and Herman Ehret, for their constant support and love.
The Estrada family, for their kindness and hospitality in Venezuela’s Los Llanos.
Ormond Eyre of Taveuni’s Maravu Plantation Resort, for an evening of kava and fine conversation.
Bill Foley of Westchester Book Composition, for transforming a spotty manuscript into perfect galleys.
“Frigatebird Sam,” for his company and revelations on the island of Barbuda.
Bob Geeves, a wilderness-man par excellence, for his stories and bush-wisdom (but not his snoring!) at Melaleuca in South-West Tasmania.
Stephanie Gunning of HarperCollins, for always making the process of book-creation seem so easy.
Linda Halsey and the staff of The Washington Post Travel Section, who faithfully encouraged me in my wanderings and published numerous extracts from these journeys.
Don Hammerquist, a true “King in a Grass Castle” rancher at Western Australia’s Mount Augustus, for his tales of the “jackaroo” life.
Peter Hillier, to whom this book is dedicated, who saved my life (and this book) in Australia.
Michael and Marianne Hume, my white-water-enthusiast friends, whose experience on the cutting edge of life makes some of my adventures pale in comparison.
The late Deny King, for the comfort of his hikers’ hut and the inspiration of his “writing-shack.”
Eric Leed, for the insights of his book The Mind of the Traveler and the pleasure of our conversations.
Anne Morrow Lindbergh, for the inspirations from her little book A Gift from the Sea on the island of Barbuda.
Graeme Macarthur and Murray, my hosts and companions in the Bungle Bungle of Western Australia.
Maika, Mitieli, the four fishermen, and the villagers of Navakawau on Taveuni (Fiji), without whom my visit would have been far less rewarding.
Thomas Moore, for his wonderful book, Care of the Soul, which helped my spirit through so many rough patches.
Jan Morris, whose books are among my favorite traveling companions.
Paco, my guide into the Venezuelan Andes, whose energy and endurance were inspirational (if occasionally irritating!).
Nancy and Sam Paskin, who are always the first to ask about my journeys.
Dan Peebles, for his help in extracting me from a mud hole in the Australian outback.
Bob Poole of National Geographic, for constant encouragement to this world wanderer.
Wilf and Joan Proctor, for living life to the full and always being there.
Lela Prym of Taveuni’s Garden Island Resort, for her kindness and Julia Roberts smile.
The Pygmies of Zaire’s Ituri Forest, for one night of magic following that strange “bangi” afternoon.
Lanny Riley, for his tales—and truth—about Tasmania’s “hidden history” (and an excellent breakfast!).
Juan Felix Sanchez and his wife, Epifania, from whom I learned so much in the El Tisure valley of the Venezuelan Andes.
Christine Schillig of HarperCollins, for her support with this book and her subsequent decision to wander the earth in search of her own lost worlds.
Peter Swales, my Australian skipper and companion on the almost-disastrous sail down the fjord coast of Chile (and special thanks to Christine, his boat, for her amazing endurance).
Scott Swanson of Lost World Adventures, for his company and conviviality in Venezuela.
Joan Tapper and the staff of Islands Magazine, for inviting me to share some of my “lost world” discoveries with readers.
Paul Valcoze, for his company and quiet insights on that long boat journey into the heart of Zaire’s darkness.
Mike Ventura, a fine photographer, with whom I plan to enjoy more odysseys.
“Walrus” Wade, Australian outback pilot and raconteur, for getting me safely across the great “Never-Nevers.”
Kurt Wassen and his team of fellow-mountaineers for helping me down from Zaire’s Mountains of the Mo
on.
Aubrey and Rosemary Webson and their two children, Amber and Kamali, for their kindness on Antigua and enduring friendship.
Barbara and Peter Willson, tin miners at Melaleuca in South-West Tasmania, for their company and English humor.
Bill Winkley, a fellow writer, for his hospitality and advice in Fiji and the endurance of his friendship.
Claude Yeadon, my late father, whose spirit wafts through these pages, and my late mother, Margaret, whose love of open-ended travel taught me so much.
Lynn Yorke of the National Geographic Traveler, who shares my love of places unexplored.
And special thanks, once again, to:
Hugh Van Dusen, my HarperCollins editor and friend, who creates the best welcome-home dinners.
And finally—my wife Anne—for all her help in preparing the manuscript, her prayers during my long absences, and her love.
INTRODUCTION
I have a confession to make. If confessions embarrass you, please feel free to ignore what follows and leap right into the chapters. Book introductions are usually pretty dull anyway. I rarely read them—particularly those with a confessional element. I assume that if the writer—particularly a travel writer—lugs a backpack of guilts and hang-ups and phobias around, the burden will quickly become apparent, sometimes nauseatingly so, in the flow and flux of the writing.
Come to think of it, I have a number of confessions.
First: I am happily—very happily—married to Anne, and have been for twenty-five years (plus a little prematrimonial get-acquainted time). So—in my travels I’m not escaping from a broken love affair or a pending divorce; I’m not looking for a replacement wife or any other relationship “thing” that might otherwise permeate these pages with purple-prosed angst or feel-sorry-for-me diatribes. I’m just your average happy wanderer who misses his wife (and best friend) far too much during his adventuring, who finds solace from homesickness and occasional depression either in silence or overactive sociability, and who is one of the most reluctant postcard and letter writers I’ve ever known. Fortunately, my mate puts up with my long lapses in communication, prays for me regularly, and comforts me wholeheartedly when I return—wan, weary, and, more often than not, whacked out.
Second confession: I love traveling. And thus I dislike travel books written by authors whose catalogs of miseries, morose complaints, and know-it-all arrogances seem to demean the very concept of open-eyed, open-minded and open-ended travel.
To repeat: I love travel. I have loved its sear and serendipity since I first wandered away from home in Yorkshire, England, through the open gate of my grandparents’ garden and into the wild and unknown streets outside—at the age of three. Thanks for the timely intervention of a “bobby” I was restored to domestic disharmony (my father was temporarily in disgrace for leaving the gate unlatched), but not before I’d been pursued for blocks by a belligerent Scottish terrier, almost fallen down an open manhole, enjoyed the remnants of an ice-cream cone someone had kindly left stuck in a privet hedge, and attempted a little well-acted bribery at a corner shop by bawling my head off until I was given a free bag of licorice candies.
It was a relatively short journey by grown-up standards but in toddler terms I had entered a universe of delights and spine-tingling terrors. And I learned a few lessons that lasted. I learned that fear generates fear and aggressiveness (the more alarmed I was at the growling of the terrier, the more ferocious he became, until I banged him on the nose with a branch); I learned that danger can lurk in the most benign places (the open manhole in a very respectable suburban street of hedgebound homes); I learned that living off the land was both feasible and delightful (the discarded ice cream was the best I’d ever tasted); and I learned that drawing too much attention to myself could jeopardize my adventuring escapades (the shop owner who had donated the bag of candies also immediately called the police).
But I digress (another typical problem with introductions).
The lure and love of travel has been a prime component of my nature for as long as I can remember, despite all my efforts to live the straight and proper life (fifteen years as a city planner), to marry (much to the surprise of my family—and also my wife, I think), to become an avid consumer (far too many clapped-out cars) and even a social acolyte (a miserable boat trip with London’s toffee-nosed, stinking rich jet set at the Henley Regatta put an end to that brief experiment).
Then things changed. One near-death and other soul-jarring experiences made me, in common with many others, face the fact of my mortality and adopt more of an “only-one-life” policy. Without regurgitating all the round-robin arguments and rationalizations that plagued me for a while, I will simply say I eventually recognized the power and impetus of the child within, the child who had never lost his lust for things wild and undiscovered, for places and people that most of us only read about (in books like this, perhaps), for experiences that stretch the envelope of existence to the breaking point.
And so, hand in hand and heart in heart, Anne and I discarded much of the baggage of our overdirected and driven lives and learned to enjoy a simpler, less cluttered existence. We became explorers—starting small in a VW camper (just a plain green bus—no LSD-inspired graphics on this one), writing a little, sketching, and exploring America’s great wildernesses. Books began to emerge almost by accident. We were in our James Campbell stage, finding our own “bliss” and letting our souls lead us wherever they would. We had little money, no “security,” few possessions of any importance, no plans, and no unwanted ties—and we were ridiculously happy. We were—in the best sense of that overworked word—free. Free of the parts we had thought to be ourselves, only to realize that our true selves had been railroaded and ramrodded for years by forces and influences that were not of our choosing. For a while we became children again, children of the earth, delighting in its power and mystery and, in turn, the power and mystery of our own lives. We roamed; we rested on mountaintops and by quiet streams and lakes far from the churning confusions and clamor we had once accepted as life’s ransom; we talked and read and thought and sang (funny the things you find yourself doing when you “let go”), we wrote…and somehow more books emerged.
Now, that was all a long time ago. Since those early days Anne has experienced numerous challenges working with blind and visually impaired populations around the world and I, with a few interesting diversions along the way, have just completed this, my sixteenth illustrated travel book. Sometimes we travel together, sometimes we don’t. We’ve shared many strange and wonderful experiences; we’ve gained a considerable amount of knowledge and maybe even a little wisdom. Exploration—both inner and external—is still the driving force behind our lives. Travel has become an active metaphor of life itself—the celebration of uncertainty, curiosity, unpredictability, “luck,” fear, hope, and wonder—the wonder of places untouched and untrammeled, the double wonder of self-discovery and the discovery of the earth’s secret places and lost worlds, the wonder of being alone in lonely remote regions in an increasingly homogenized world that sometimes seems far too overdiscovered, the wonder of sharing experiences and insights with others….
Which leads to confession number three.
My own enthusiasm for travel and the inner exploration that comes from making oneself vulnerable and reliant upon one’s own resources continually increases my empathy for fellow travelers with similar attitudes. “World wanderers,” “Earth Gypsies”—call them what you will—seem to have the knack of tapping into their own rich seams of self-dependence, courage, and clear-mindedness. I listen, entranced as a child, to their tales; I share their fears and tribulations; I celebrate their endurance and their fascination in life as they hone down the cutting edges of their own perceptions and walk the razor’s edge of their own mortality.
Recently I talked with two friends, Michael and Marianne, both white-water enthusiasts, as they attempted to distill the essence of their experiences on some of the wildest rivers in the worl
d. First understand that these two people are pure mainstream America. They pay all their worldly dues, they work long hours at regular jobs, they have a home with an irritatingly large mortgage, they mow their own lawn, they do their own home repairs, they pay their full share of taxes, life insurance, credit card and utility bills…they’re “normal.”