by Ed Stafford
With no option but to revert to coconuts, I used the stubby Y-pole to dislodge three that were greenish-brown. After expending energy smashing into them my frustration began to boil when I found they were all dry inside. I could feel the anger growing inside me about the water situation. Then I noticed another short coconut tree bearing very small green coconuts and reached up easily and picked them with my bare hand. Each small fruit yielded sweet liquid that I flushed down my throat until I was belching like a yob. They were amazing and could not have come at a better time. I even managed to leave the third for the morning.
Having gone from fierce anger to grateful elation in the space of thirty seconds I stood on the beach in the dying sun, almost feeling like dancing. This whole experience was bloody extraordinary.
I ate my ten snails in the cave. I had hoped that things might have gone better but as I sat swallowing those slimy, fatty mouthfuls I realised I’d actually achieved quite a lot. I flicked on the camera and recorded my thoughts: ‘What most people don’t realise is that when you’ve got nothing – absolutely nothing – your whole day is taken up maintaining your status quo. I’m going to have to set myself such small goals to achieve each day.’ To help myself feel better I ran over the day’s accomplishments. ‘I’ve made a grass skirt of sorts, I’ve circumnavigated the island, I’ve made two rain-collection devices, the second of which may work, I’ve made a crude blanket, I’ve drunk green coconuts, and I’ve eaten coconut flesh and snails.’
On reflection, it seemed like a good day’s work and I wondered at my tendency to focus on the failures. I seemed to be pretty hard on myself and was unreasonably expecting everything to be easier – a series of successes – to bolster my confidence in my own ability. Of course it was never going to be like that, and there were always going to be failures along the way as I’d never done this before. As a result my high standards had the detrimental effect of making me focus on the negatives because I wouldn’t allow myself to enjoy the things that went well. I was too intent on punishing myself for my mistakes.
When you select a team for a tough expedition, you need to be very careful. Stressful situations make people fall out with each other – it’s almost inevitable. The problem isn’t the falling out, it’s how you recognise what’s going on and deal with it. You need to forgive and forget. When you’re a team of one that’s a little bit harder. And, let’s face it, if you want to tear into someone and criticise them, you’ve got a lot of ammunition if the person you’re attacking is yourself. It’s not like you can hide any weakness or stupidity.
I was angry at myself and at the world. I was annoyed at not taking the preparations seriously enough; annoyed that I didn’t recognise the tuberous roots here; annoyed that I didn’t know the types of wood for making a fire; annoyed that I couldn’t plait the palm leaves. I was annoyed that I didn’t know if there were any alternative fresh water sources. I hadn’t taken any genuine responsibility for what I was about to do. I’d just allowed myself to fall into a crazy idea with the lazy attitude that everything would be fine – it always was. Good things happen to me. But as I began to lose control I saw the gaping flaws in the way I made decisions and projected blame in my own life. I had to stop negatively lashing out at everything and start taking ownership of the situation I’d created. If not, my very own dream would mutate around me into a self-created nightmare.
As the last of the sun faded and the sky turned black I sat in my cave staring at the darkness. I hadn’t enjoyed day two. I hoped I would enjoy day three more. Had my expectations been too high for this whole project? Was I actually capable of thriving and not merely surviving? I wasn’t sure of anything any more.
The two starlings came in to nest for the night and did their best to reassure me that I was not entirely alone.
Iwoke up at around 4 a.m. having been asleep since it got dark at six the previous evening. The bedding had come loose and the draught had woken me up but I’d slept for a body-and-soul replenishing ten whole hours. I groaned an indulgent half-smile as I stretched like a sleepy cat in the dust.
The extra bedding and excavating had worked and I had directly benefited from my efforts. By 7 a.m. I estimated that I’d remade the bed three times during the night but I considered that good in thirteen hours. No part of me wanted to move from my snug dark ball in the corner of the brightening cave.
I marked day three on the wall in chalky stone and watched the crabs scurry across the pristine morning beach. The sight made me want to focus on lighting a fire so that I could feast on roasted crab meat. But primal fear brought me back to the most important survival priority of all – finding sufficient fresh water. I could feel myself getting more dehydrated by the day. After all, the coconut water was not pure water – and I wasn’t sure how long I should rely on it as my main source of hydration.
So I began my deliberations once more. Rainwater collection, on any significant scale, meant building a roof so that the expanse of waterproof material could act as an artificial catchment area that I could harness. So was the most sensible thing for me to focus on building a shelter? I considered this and was immediately brought back to the fact that I had a cave that worked well so that would be an unnecessary, and very time-consuming, task right now. So, with some relief, I decided to revert to focusing on finding the right wood with which to make fire.
This was already a survival situation, albeit one that I could have brought to an end at any moment, but that was a madness in itself. I didn’t have enough water or food. I kept having to calm myself down but became exasperated with myself for having to sit in my stone circle time and time again. I couldn’t sit down and calm myself down all day. I needed to do stuff – to be constructive – or I would never progress. Hence I started to slip into ignoring my feelings and busying myself in as many urgent tasks as possible to hide from them. ‘I must make a plan for the day: I will enhance the seep so that I can collect more water; I will source and carve my fire sticks; and I will cover my body in clay so that I don’t get burned. ‘Let’s go, Ed – let’s go.’
On the face of it this looks constructive. I was taking positive action, after all. But there was unease and tension about everything I did. In a place where I should have been entirely in tune with what was going on inside me I either frantically sought distraction in physical tasks or otherwise seemed to latch on to frustration at others, belittling myself for my situation. I completely devolved responsibility and allowed my brain to take my frustrations out on something else rather than confronting what was really going on inside me with the intention of actually sorting it out. It takes a seasoned escape artist to hide from himself on an uninhabited Pacific island, but somehow I was finding a way.
I drank 500ml from the seep with the straw with the hope that I would get a further 500ml by lunchtime. That wasn’t a bad start. I was in existence mode and this was raw existence. I took my remaining little green coconut and drank it with some brown coconut for flesh and ten snails. Once I had covered myself in the shitty powder from the bottom of the cave mixed with seawater I was ready to start the day. I laughed to myself. This was like some hideous reversal of a normal day. Get up, wash off the dirt in a lovely shower, dress and eat something nice. Here it was get up, cover yourself in shit, don’t get dressed, eat something horrible.
By the time the sun was overhead I had collected several hand drill elements made from beach hibiscus and they were drying out on a rock in the sun. The long thin new stems would make great arrows and spears and, if left to dry out completely, I had been told they could even be used to make fire.
I felt my bowels gurgle. It seemed the most ecologically sound way of doing a poo was to go in the sea. It also meant that it would be washed away and not leave any dirty areas of the island, so it was hygienic, too. After I freed a reasonable-sized turd I realised that the sea was also a handy bidet. Nice one. With no soap, I would follow Islamic protocol and use one hand to eat an
d the other to wipe my bum. This would have to start tomorrow, though, as I’d just wiped my bum with my right hand and I didn’t particularly want to restrict myself to eating with my left hand for the remaining fifty-seven and a half days.
At low tide I spent time looking for further fresh water seeps in the hope that I’d find one that wasn’t too brackish. But every pool that I crouched down beside and lapped from like a dog turned out to be seawater. While out looking I also found a set of goat tracks on the beach – the tracks were too small to be deer. I ran through all the exciting options that catching a goat could mean: meat, fur, sinew . . . I looked up the beach and saw something dark lying in the shallows. On inspection it turned out to be a dead kid goat. Its coat was soaked, matted and wet and covered in sand. Not knowing the cause of death I knew that I couldn’t eat it but I could – in theory – get skin and sinew for cordage. I could even use the bone for making arrow tips or crude fishing hooks or needles. I wondered if it had died because it hadn’t been able to drink from the rock seep that I was now drinking from.
I immediately realised that I didn’t have a good enough cutting tool to skin the animal so I had no option but drive a small hole into its chest and rip it apart with my fingers. The fur came off easily, rather like a sock, once I’d got going, and I smashed its head open with a rock to get out the brains. Soaking a skin in the animal’s brains and water can soften the hide to a more manageable, buckskin-like feel. I left the small, emaciated body on the rocks within sight of the cave to see if it attracted any scavengers. It was already beginning to smell and I was glad I hadn’t attempted to eat any of the meat. I could use the bones and sinew from this carcass when I needed them.
It was mid-afternoon now, the sun beginning its slow slide into the water. I sat in the shade of the trees and worked on the fire drill elements with a small shell. Despite not having done any work on increasing the flow of the rock seep I had spent a long time searching for other sources and my fire apparatus was looking good drying in the sun. I was fairly content that I had accomplished what I’d planned to do that day and so, as I knew it would be high tide in the morning, and it would also be dropbox day, I decided that I would head up the hill and, rather than skirting the coast, try and find a route to Lemon Camp over the top of the island.
It was a bit of an excuse if I’m honest. I felt that I’d worked hard doing boring stuff and just wanted to climb and explore. Ten metres into the forest the island floor started to rise sharply. I immediately began using my hands to pull at roots and vegetation to scramble up the muddy bank. With my one shod foot I felt like a staggering drunk in the early hours of the morning who is ill equipped to deal with the exposing light of day. I could stand on sharper thorns and rocks but I slid out of the flip-flop regularly and snagged it on fallen branches. My bare foot needed less attention but slowed my progress as it was still tender and soft and felt every inch of the uneven ground.
For ten minutes I climbed and climbed uncertainly, like some creature evolving from the sea on to land. I’d hardly eaten and was also dehydrated and so my sense of exuberant exploration was somewhat dulled as I slipped and fell and panted hard.
Gradually, however, the ground began to level off and I found myself on the top of a high, forested spur. The waves in the distance could be discerned less clearly; I could hear the birds and the sound of my flip-flop crunching twigs. The size of a golf course fairway, the top of the island felt like another world to the noisy exposed coastline. It was completely covered in forest and the vegetation blocked any view from the top, wrapping this micro world in shimmering leafy paper. The trees were randomly spaced apart like in a mature Scottish forest and I could walk freely between them. Strange ideas went through my head. If people had lived up here they would have been mild, softly spoken, and would have invited me into their little homes in the tree trunks for a cup of tea. Steady, Ed! It seemed a bit early to be going off on nutty daydreams, but the association stuck, and the place became known to me as the Highlands.
In the centre of the Highlands stood the biggest, blackest tree on the island. The mammoth trunk spawned an entire marquee of twisted branches that were further supported along their beams by vertical roots that shot straight down to the forest floor. The structure could have housed a whole gang of merry men and I decided it would be an obvious feature that I could use to keep my bearings. It reminded me of a children’s book by Enid Blyton that I vaguely remembered which revolved around a tree that was big enough for many people to live in. In the book the tree was so tall that its topmost branches reached the clouds and it was wide enough to contain small houses carved into its trunk. And so I came to refer to my enchanted tree on top of the island in the centre of the Highlands as the Faraway Tree. Fanciful or not, it was a key landmark.
Between the tree and me was a vague circle of rocks each the size of a large cauldron. The pattern was not perfect enough for me to be sure it was man-made and not random enough to be sure it wasn’t. In front of the giant black tree the rocks took on the feel of an ancient ruin or ceremonial site and added to the mystery of this quiet and still space. I walked through the rocks and under the twisted eaves of the tree. My hands brushed aside dusty cobwebs and my shins scraped through small thorny grasses but my mind was as peaceful as if I’d just stepped into a church.
On the far side of the tree the ground seemed to fall away to the front and to the right. My internal compass told me that Lemon Camp would not be straight over this spur – that would bring me out too far north. From my recollections I estimated that I should head diagonally right from the crest of the hill and so I padded barefoot down the gentle slope to the right following nothing but gut instinct. It looked right. It felt right. There was no path and as I left the open Highlands the vegetation grew denser and thicker and I had to pick my way through by pulling aside branches and crawling under fallen trees on my hands and knees.
I felt intensely alive as I scanned the trees, absorbing every detail and fold of the land. My ears pricked up as a faint but distinct bleating rang through the forest. Senses now heightened, I moved as quietly as I could in the direction of the noise. I made sure that my feet didn’t snap any twigs and placed each bare foot on the forest floor as if I was portraying ‘stealth’ in a mime.
The trees drifted past on either side of me as I floated forward on red alert. Before too long a small black and white juvenile goat emerged from the undergrowth only four metres away from me. It cocked its head towards me and paused as it registered what it was witnessing. I froze – adrenaline valves fully open, tunnel vision narrowing down to only the most essential field. Logic overtook instinct, as, although I realised the significance of the find, I also knew that I wasn’t yet ready to catch a goat. I had no weapons with which to hunt an animal and I had no method of curing or cooking its meat. It would only go to waste. I gently moved towards the fragile-looking mammal and it started, cried out and ran off into the undergrowth. Two previously unseen larger goats returned the startled bleat and followed it out of sight.
As I write this I now know that there had been a herd of domesticated goats left on the island by the Komo tribe sixty years earlier. They had survived living off coconuts and leaves and had bred successfully, eventually becoming feral wild animals.
I kept the sun behind me and I knew that, as it was now afternoon, I was heading east. The light intensified and the distant waves grew louder, a breeze raising goose bumps on my skin. The slope kept falling away and in my mind the ocean was in front of me about thirty metres below. Gradually the spaces between the branches grew wider and glimpses of blue told me I was almost there. I pulled my way through the last branches and over the fragmented coconut husks and was hit by the blinding sunshine of a rocky beach with a very stiff wind in my face. I recognised the beach from the day before and knew that I was close to Lemon Camp. Black rocks the size of footballs made a giant jagged boulder field. Waves crashed into this rough coast with three
times the force of the one that I’d left. Facing the ocean I looked along the beach to my right to see the prominent gap in the rocks running directly from the ocean to an opening in the tree line. A fallen tree that I’d made a mental note of the day before confirmed that I was indeed looking at the entrance to Lemon Camp.
That’s remarkable – my inner compass is working! I praised myself. The odds of arriving out of the interior of the island less than ten metres north of the entrance to my intended destination had been stacked against me. Two sets of fresh footprints. Ah, maybe hold the self-congratulation. One set was barefoot and one set wore trainers. I knew immediately that at least one boatman and Steven had been here today. This was most unexpected. Was there something wrong? Had I messed up the days? The dropbox would hopefully tell the story.
In the dropbox was a small Ziploc bag containing a camera cleaning kit! I was so happy – a nice little soft paintbrush for removing dust, a lens cleaning cloth and a tiny bottle of lens cleaning fluid. It felt like Christmas to have this unexpected gift and there were six fresh batteries, too. I wasn’t sure why they’d come today and not tomorrow – boredom or intrigue, probably, as the kit that was missing wasn’t that urgent. Nonetheless, it was utterly reassuring to have seen signs of other human life and to receive a resupply. I was not being forgotten – there were people assisting from afar. It felt good to be reminded of that.
I stuffed my goodies into the Cinesaddle’s marsupial pocket. A Cinesaddle is basically a bean bag the size of a small footstool that you use instead of a camera tripod to put the camera down on to film. It had a shoulder strap, and, handily for me, a large pocket for storing filming ancillaries. As the sun was getting low and the tide wasn’t too high, I opted to return home via the shoreline. ‘Goodbye, Lemon Camp – and signs of humanity.’ I almost wanted to stay and savour the feeling of the presence of other people. It was clear to me I was already very lonely.