Aloha Wanderwell

TWENTY-ONE

TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH

In 1931 the city of Rio de Janeiro was about to unveil a new statue atop nearby Corcovado Mountain. Workers on the scaffolding could look down over the fast growing city onto Copacabana and its legendary sandy beach, and across lovely Guanabara Bay dotted with ships and surrounded by a jumble of mountains shaped like cresting waves, pyramids, and sugar loaves. The view was equally impressive at sea level. Even before the SS Lorraine Cross had docked, Walter was rushing to load his cameras and capture the moment: Aloha and Olga standing on deck with proud expressions, the new Unit N^o II beside them, Sugarloaf Mountain sliding past.

As the unloading process began, it was obvious that the press had been well prepared — but this time it was not through Aloha’s efforts. Hardly had they set foot on land before they were swarmed by excited reporters asking for details of their expedition for Colonel Rondon. How long would they stay? Where were they headed? Was it true they would search for Colonel Percy Fawcett? Someone, it seemed, had let slip that the Wanderwells were working with Colonel Rondon, and in Rio, Fawcett was a name that captured attention.

Colonel Cândido Mariano da Silva Rondon, a short man with a tall forehead and watchful, deep-set eyes, was a fierce advocate for indigenous rights and had just resigned as the head of Brazil’s Indian Protection Bureau. Like Aloha and Walter, Rondon was an adventurer who had crossed vast territories against insurmountable odds. In 1908 Rondon led an expedition into the northern Mato Grosso region. After four months of travel in dugout canoes and slashing their way through untouched jungle, his party ran out of supplies. The work, however, was not completed so the expedition foraged from the forest and continued.1 Despite illness, hunger, the depredations of animals, and the threat of hostile tribes, the expedition managed to complete its survey of the area, including the discovery of a major Amazon tributary that Rondon named the River of Doubt. When the expedition returned to Rio the following year, Rondon was hailed as a hero — no one had imagined he could still be alive.

Four years later Rondon’s fame surged again when he was appointed to guide former US president Theodore Roosevelt on a scientific expedition into the Mato Grosso. In his account, Through the Brazilian Wilderness, Roosevelt wrote that Rondon “has been for a quarter of a century the foremost explorer of the Brazilian hinterland,” and that shortly after meeting him, “It was evident that he knew his business thoroughly and it was equally evident that he would be a pleasant companion.”2

The opportunity to follow in the footsteps of an American president and share the same guide was thrilling. The expedition, however, would be the most dangerous they had yet attempted. Roosevelt considered his voyage along the River of Doubt had been gruelling, remarking that it had shaved ten years off his life. In fact, Roosevelt never recovered. Within five years, the president was dead of complications arising from injuries and illnesses contracted on the trip.³

It was clear why Rondon had agreed to play host to a US president. What was less clear was why he was so willing to assist the Wanderwell Expedition, providing guides, maps, equipment, and even the use of two government planes.

Although best known as a Brazilian nationalist, Rondon was also an ardent defender of indigenous peoples. The son of a native Bororo mother, he forbade the men on his expeditions to use violence against the indigenous peoples, telling them, “Die if you must, but never kill.”4

Walter Wanderwell and General Cândido Rondon on the terrace of the Copacabana Hotel in Rio de Janeiro, at the outset of their Mato Grosso adventure, Brazil, 1930.

One explorer who had aroused Rondon’s suspicion was the famous Percy Fawcett, sponsored by England’s Royal Geographical Society, which itself had a reputation for using scientific exploration as a disguise for colonial designs. In response to Fawcett’s request to lead a team into the Mato Grosso, Rondon said it was not necessary “for foreigners to conduct expeditions in Brazil, as we have civilians and military men who are very capable of doing such work.”5 And after Fawcett vanished, Rondon even protested the arrival of search parties whom he feared would negatively impact the indigenous tribes. As late as 1932, the British Foreign Office in Rio de Janeiro was warning:

General Rondon has been publishing in the press the severest strictures on foreign explorers in Brazil, whose intentions he considers suspect, especially in connection with attempts to search for Colonel Fawcett. The Ambassador gravely doubts whether General Rondon will give any facilities to expeditions of this kind and fears that he may even cause special legislation to be passed in order to hinder them.6

And yet for the Wanderwell expedition Rondon offered every assistance possible, short of accompanying them. For years, Rondon had worked to publicize the plight of Brazilian native peoples and his own Indian Protection Bureau, but with almost no success. As one historian wrote, “Rondon and his officers were reduced to publishing appeals in newspapers, for public opinion was their only source of support.”7 But the Wanderwell Expedition promised a means to create international sympathy for Brazil’s indigenous people and an appreciation for their land and way of life. Rondon understood that the best tools were not political, but visual. Half an hour of film could do more to raise awareness than a dozen fiery speeches. In exchange for a plane, a crew, and a bit of fuel, the Wanderwell Expedition could not only make movies but also carry them to audiences around the globe.

During their initial meeting, Wanderwell and Rondon found much common ground: they were both explorers, both experienced publicists, and, at least for each other’s benefit, both concerned with shaping public policy for the better. It’s not hard to see that Rondon would have supported Walter’s idea for an international police (Brazil had struggled to secure its borders for decades), and according to Aloha, the two were soon chatting with an easy familiarity. Photographs show Walter and Rondon, each in their respective uniforms, smiling warmly in a friendly embrace. It was a vital success, because without Rondon’s support Aloha and Walter could not have pursued their adventures in the Amazon jungle.

The expedition stayed at the Copacabana Hotel and basked in the attention of Rio’s adventuring elite, accepting daily invitations to white tablecloth functions from businessmen, important local families, and politicians. Photographs reveal Aloha in a beautiful beaded gown and Walter in a traditional tuxedo, the only images of them out of uniform. The Carl Zeiss Company donated equipment, Standard Oil obliged with fuel, the Brazilian government provided two planes, and smaller companies provided food, clothing, and walking shoes. For Walter, though, the most significant achievement was the rush of people wanting to start their own WAWEC units. With so many groups capturing so much media (and sending in fees), he hoped the Work Around the World Educational Club would soon be large enough to influence political opinion. As a hedge against competition, Walter instructed the office in Miami to proceed with securing copyright for the WAWEC manual. Papers were duly filed and the Library of Congress issued its certificate of copyright registration on April 13, 1931, Class AA Entry N^o 65746.

In late March 1931, Aloha, Walter, and a cinematographer known only as “C” completed a three-day train journey to the town of Corumbá, a small, European-style town with large government buildings and a thriving population. The town sat on a waterway at the tip of the Pantanal region, the world’s largest wetlands. The Pantanal covered more than 42,400 square miles, an area almost as large as England. At the train station, Aloha, Walter, and C were met by town officials and the men appointed to be their mechanic and pilot. The pilot was a German Aloha refers to as “Tech,” a former First World War flying ace. The mechanic was an exceptionally handsome young man nicknamed Practico who, according to Aloha, had a commission to rule over part of northern Brazil — an impossible task owing to its remoteness and the lack of any major settlements.8

The following morning, Aloha and company hauled their cameras down to the harbour, where “a gleaming silvery fliers’ delight” awaited them.⁹ The Junkers F.13 was a German-built floatplane that featured plush upholstery, reading lights, and swivel chairs. Affectionately called an “air limousine,” the plane offered quick and luxurious transportation into regions that would otherwise take weeks to access. This particular vessel, with call letters P-BAJA, belonged to the German-Brazilian Condor Syndicate, the same airline that was now co-operating with the Graf Zeppelin to provide the world’s fastest transatlantic mail and passenger service.

For the next two weeks Aloha and Tech made short exploratory flights over the region. They mapped villages, took aerial photographs and considered the logistics of a multi-week expedition: “rations for 30 days, a large supply of maté, trade clothes and gifts, calico and old clothing. A .303 Enfield rifle, a Luger, dysentery pills, Atabrin for malaria (and) snake serum were included.”10 Rondon had made it clear that the disposition of the Mato Grosso tribes ranged from mildly hostile to murderously aggressive. Certain tribes he advised they avoid, while others, like the Bororo, were considered reasonably safe. Still, as Rondon himself made clear, the plane would undoubtedly “terrify the Indios” and if the natives decided to attack, there was nothing to do but let them. Injury or death was a distinct possibility.

Aloha climbed into the pilot’s seat, nodded to Tech seated beside her, then waved once more through the open window. After a tentative rumble, the engine gushed smoke, rose to a roar and began pulling the aircraft across the water’s corrugated surface. The once distant shore of trees rushed forward as the heavy plane began to bounce and stutter until it peeled away from the lake’s surface and climbed into the air.

The flight from Corumbá took them north along the Paraguay River across vast stretches of green, marbled with lakes, streams, and marshes that made the land look like an enormous soaked sponge. Throughout the journey they did not glimpse another settlement, or even a wisp of camp smoke. After several hours, Aloha began her descent. She would attempt to land on a mile-wide stretch of the Paraguay River. As the water drew close, however, Aloha froze, afraid that she would get the angle wrong or touch down too abruptly. When she asked the German pilot how he managed it, he had said, “I wait, and then I think about it a minute, and then I just set it down.” Aloha harrumphed. “Well, that’s alright for you buddy . . . flying all your life.”11 She swallowed her fear and the plane touched the water, sliding to a safe and frothy stop.

A staged film sequence depicts how the expedition was able to initiate contact with members of a Bororo village. Aloha is shown leaving several hand mirrors on a log before climbing a tree to watch. Moments later, a curious man, naked except for a necklace and a sheath over his penis, comes to collect one of the mirrors. He examines it briefly before racing back into the forest. In the next scene, Aloha is in the Bororo village, surrounded by a coterie of curious and equally naked tribe members, all smiling with the exception of a small, muscular man wearing a monkish haircut and a stony expression. Aloha would later write that she had “made a devastating blunder. To the Caciquè I should have presented the gifts.”¹² The Caciquè, or chief, would ultimately decide their fate, so it was vital that he should be appeased.

Ruffled feathers were smoothed by the presentation of another gift. Aloha, seated on a mat, held up what looked like a bundle of rope to the unsmiling chief. Each holding one end, Aloha and the leader unfolded the bundle to reveal a large hammock. Aloha and company were allowed to stay and, slowly, everyone — the crew and the natives — began to relax.

Aloha celebrates the delivery of her Junkers F.13 seaplane from Colonel Rondon, Córdoba, Brazil, 1930.

Before long, Aloha had worked up the courage to swim nude in the river with local girls. The film and photographs of Aloha with three Bororo women in the water are among the most memorable of the trip, revealing her willingness to connect with the cultures she was among. While the Bororo women walk nonchalantly into the river, a blindingly white Aloha races into the water after them and is the first to duck under, her body language that of someone skinny-dipping on a dare.

Aloha and Walter focused much of their footage on the Bororo: muscular old women pounding a mortar of maize using logs taller than they were, close-ups of Bororo faces with blunt-bangs haircuts, easy smiles, and fantastic jewellery. Several men wore necklaces with a pendant made from the front claws of a giant armadillo and shaped to represent a bird.

Aloha and three Bororo women bathing nude in the Paraguay River, Brazil, 1930.

In the Amazon jungle Aloha tries her hand at traditional Indian face painting, Mato Grosso, Brazil, 1931.

The villagers prepared a celebration that included transforming their guests into “extraordinary beings.” While Aloha sat cross-legged on a mat, three village men fixed her hair and painted her face with black genipap dye and brilliant red annatto. The colour red and black were significant, with red representing goodness, power, and fertility, while black denoted spiritual power and life after death. When her make-up was in place, Aloha donned a small beak, completing her transformation to bird. Walter was likewise painted on his face, chest, and arms by a young Bororo woman — and judging by the expression on Walter’s face, he was doing what he loved best in life, encountering people with drastically different world views and being made welcome among them.

The expedition spent several weeks at Bobore before Aloha continued east and north to the Rio das Mortes, or River of Death, where she began her search for Colonel Fawcett. In a postcard to his brother Janec, Walter tells how Aloha spent nearly two months flying around the Pantanal, making films of the Indian peoples. “We have worked hard,” he wrote “on producing a better film with our limited means so that the WAWEC project will have a healthy foundation.” He told how an advance party had driven Unit N^o II along the east coast to Buenos Aires, since there were no roads to the country’s interior, and then stated, with seeming nonchalance, that he “didn’t see Aloha for almost a month while I sat waiting in an Indian village and burned smoke signals for the ‘Iron Bird,’ as the Bororos have christened the airplane.”13 His card made no mention of Colonel Fawcett or of the plane crash Aloha would later describe. Aloha was later adamant that she really did make flyovers of the areas Fawcett had been.

Many theories suggest Fawcett’s expedition was killed by some jungle tribe. Aloha, however, said she learned little from the natives, mostly because they couldn’t see why anyone would care, and what information she did get pointed to natural rather than human disaster. According to a Bororo chief, whom she called Taboré, Fawcett and his crew had been drowned in a whirlpool — a major menace to transportation in the Mato Grosso.

Aloha also suggests that Fawcett’s disappearance may have had something to do with his mental state at the time.

It seems the colonel’s actions were most irregular prior to his starting out . . . . The only word that Fawcett had given to the outside world was that he was going into the Brazilian wilderness to make a more intensive study of the savages. Rumors also hinted to search for the gold of a lost race which had frequently been, over the centuries, the secret goal of explorations in South America. His departure did not indicate a long stay in the jungle. He had left practically his entire equipment at base camp, not even taking the ever essential matches, according to reports.14

Aloha’s search for Fawcett was cut short by a fuel leak that necessitated an emergency landing near another Bororo village. She managed to land the plane on the river only to have it flung against shore by a hidden whirlpool. With the help of villagers, C travelled south by canoe for fuel and parts while Aloha and Practico waited with the plane. While they waited, they began an affair that would last until their rescue, and by correspondence thereafter.15 In the film Last of the Bororos, Aloha described how the Bororo women would, after mating, rush into the river and “create a douching effect by quickly tightening the abdomen muscles and then relaxing, causing a vaginal action of intake and outflow — very simple and effective.”16

By the time Walter and Aloha were emerging from the jungles of Brazil, Margaret had once again left British Columbia (the kids remained in Miki’s care) to lead WAWEC units through Cuba and the US. Justine and her crew had reached Asia, but there had been no word in some time and fears grew that WAWEC N^o III had disbanded. This proved true, although Tibesar continued across Asia to Europe by motorcycle, achieving her own driving records.17 Other units in the US and Europe were sending successful reports to Miami. The challenge now was to recruit WAWEC members in South America.

A photograph taken on July 15, 1931, shows Aloha in front of an advertising-clad Unit N^o II, surrounded by a curious crowd in front of the Palacio de Correos, the central post office of Buenos Aires. Aside from Walter, the only other crew member in the photograph is a blurred crouching figure, still recognizable as Olga. The expedition was growing again, and while Aloha and Olga played shows, Walter interviewed and selected eight new recruits.