Conquest of the Useless: Reflections from the Making of Fitzcarraldo

by Werner Herzog

  Camisea, 29 May 1981

  Laplace left today. I offered him my hand without a word, but he pulled me to him and hugged me tight, also without a word. From his expression I could tell that in his eyes I was a lost soul, done for, but he wished me luck. Yesterday he went with me to check on the steel cables, and he gave me a lengthy lecture on them: they were like rubber hoses and must not be allowed to form loops or get kinked, all things the people here know but I should know, too. He led me to an extremely taut cable and knocked on it to show me that it still sounded healthy. If the tension was increased too much, you would know from its sick sound that it was about to snap.

  Camisea, 30 May 1981

  The Campas are poking around for something in the forest. At six in the morning *** was already sitting on his porch emptying a bottle of pisco. I got up late, and carried my breakfast tea and two rolls from the kitchen to my hut. Today I cannot stand being around people, so I ate sitting on the wooden bench on my porch, my gaze fixed on the dumb green river.

  Stagnation. Laplace is gone. Gloria is gone. Kinski’s yelling pushed her over the edge. In the morning we filmed with many Indians on the afterdeck, viewed from the bridge, and all we had to do was rock the boat a bit to create the illusion on a narrow strip of the image that the background was streaming by and the ship was moving at full speed. Then a scene I had written hastily to help explain the Indians’ behavior. At noon Gloria went on the radio to order some things from Iquitos, and I happened to be in my hut when I heard a horrible bellowing. Kinski, who cannot stand her voice, screamed at her like a maniac that she should shut up, and she snapped back at him, with good reason, but screeching like a fishwife: how did he expect he would have even a measly lettuce leaf on his plate tomorrow, whereupon he kicked down the entire railing of the raised eating platform, and almost fell off. Miguel Vazquez laughed at the sight, at which Kinski was even more beside himself, and Gloria thought he was going to attack her physically. Kinski was intent only on property damage, however, and came tearing over to me, bellowing and looking for something else he could turn into kindling. In the meantime Gloria had summoned Walter from the cleared swath by walkie-talkie, and he grabbed Huerequeque’s shotgun, but had decided not to blast the maniac to hell because he saw him storming around my hut. I told Walter to leave me alone with him for a moment—I would get the situation under control—but he used the moment to pile his wife, child, and a few possessions into the speedboat. When I wanted to talk to him he shouted that he was already gone. Then he took off. At that sobriety returned, because despite all the friction with Walter, it was clear how important he was to the whole operation, and I was urged to take off after him. But to everyone’s dismay, I first lay down for an hour in my hammock, because, knowing Walter as I did, I realized that I had to let him stew in his own juice for a while. Paul came and brought me a cup of very hot tea, saying only that I should not burn my flute on it, and I laughed. Then a Campa showed up who can do wonderful bird imitations by whistling into his cupped hands, and I had him do all sorts of birds for me, and he was very proud that I was so impressed. Then I played Handel’s Halleluiah Chorus at top volume for Paul, who had asked me to, and all at once the Indian of the jungle whooped for joy, laughed, tried to sing along, and then accompanied the chorus with bird calls.

  Reassured, I set out after Walter and Gloria and found Walter in the big camp, where he had dilly-dallied, probably on purpose, on the pretext that he had things to take care of there. I sat down with him in the sand along the river, and had a long talk with him, since in the meantime he had become quiet and levelheaded. He had realized that Gloria had not been physically attacked and if she had I would not have left her undefended for even a second. We reached an understanding, and Walter told me Gloria was still flying out because her mother in Iquitos was very ill and a break from him, Walter, would do her good; after all, he was not that easy to live with. Vignati and Miguel Vazquez, both of them men with hearts of gold, accompanied me to the airfield, and I spoke with Gloria, telling her she should at least hear what had happened after her hasty departure. While we were talking, Miguel took the baby from Gloria. The moment he had her in his arms, the little girl began laughing with him, and he made a few comments that showed his innate sensitivity and decency, and that was good. I was reminded of Aguirre: when everything had fallen apart and we were all perched on a raft in the depths of the jungle, hating each other. I asked for a half-hour recess, withdrew to the very edge of the raft, sat down with my back to the others, and cried. Miguel Vazquez promptly came up to me from behind, placed his hand firmly on the back of my neck, and silently sat down beside me. He stayed there quite a while, holding my neck firmly, and the only word he said was “Courage!” And gradually my courage returned, and the people on the raft who had behaved worse than animals acted halfway human for at least a day. Gloria’s plane took off, and I made no attempt to keep her from leaving. Later Kinski was conciliatory, but I canceled the shoot planned for dusk. Quispe suddenly appeared and broke into the oppressive silence between Kinski and me by breathlessly reiterating his desire for the outboard motor.

  The deadpost on the slope is going to be sunk from scratch. Recently, when the Caterpillar dumped earth on everything on one side of its base, seepage on the other side welled up in a gush. Now I am going to have a drainage ditch put in, even if it means losing another two days.

  Toward evening I called everyone back to work after all, because it was better that way and because we had a task that was more important than we were, and Kinski was very cooperative. I had lined up many Campas by the river, who, according to a new scene I had written, stare at the water for days after an accident. Huerequeque, however, had gotten so drunk in reaction to all the turmoil that I had to carry him to his place in front of the camera, and when he missed his cue, Kinski gently stepped on his bare toes outside the frame. With this comradely support for Huerequeque Kinski was apparently trying to express his remorse.

  Camisea, 31 May 1981

  The searing realization that we are falling too far behind schedule is a slow-moving poison. Getting the anchor post installed properly is going to take days, and all the other things that have not been done yet will require technical preparations. We rode up the Camisea in the speedboat looking for a suitable spot for the blockade by Indian canoes that make it impossible for the steamboat to turn around and go back. It was important to find a place where we could fell large trees into the river from both right and left; in addition, we need a fairly long, narrow, straight stretch of river, well-bordered by jungle and with calm water, so the canoes can make good headway and not capsize. We went farther and farther upriver, and without saying anything had soon given up the idea that we were still looking for a location, because once we got a certain distance from our camp, it was clear that we would not be able to move the chata for the camera that far upstream against the current, and even if by some miracle we pulled it off, if we sent two hundred Indians upstream in canoes, we could not expect more than thirty or forty to arrive at the chosen location, because the rest would peel off into the bushes along the way to go hunting. We were merely indulging our curiosity, rounding one more bend, then risking a peek around the next one, and then came a narrows, which we had to get through to see what lay beyond. I am so used to plunging into the unknown that any other surroundings and form of existence strike me as exotic and unsuitable for human beings. I did not suggest turning back until we were approaching the spot where the Amehuacas had attacked.

  Kinski has only one problem: that in the morning a rooster crowed again. I will have the rooster served to him as soup this evening. No sooner had the disturber of the peace been slaughtered than six more arrived from Atalaya. I had them put back into the speedboat and taken to the other camp. Wild rumors circulating in the camp here about the date of our departure; to make things worse, there are widely divergent views as to what day of the month it is; no one knows for sure.

  Camisea, 1 June 1981
/>   This first of June seems like a momentous day to me because we still have not begun to haul the ship. I keep thinking, in a panic: it is June, it is June. I wish I could hold back time. Kinski paddled clumsily and unsteadily past our camp in a dugout, without any of the gentle elegance of the Indians. He was wearing his olive-green made-to-order fatigues, had girded on a machete and a knife, and had jungle and survival rations in a small, sturdy canvas backpack. He managed to go about a hundred meters, but the illusion he creates for himself that this expedition is taking him into the heart of the inscrutable but inspiring natural wonders of the jungle apparently makes him happy. Last night we went out hunting alligators for the kitchen, with Mauch the driving force, strangely enough. For days he has been annoyed that the ammunition we had obtained for the cartridge belts in the film is too small for the Winchester and too big for the Mauser. But apparently he did not want to do any shooting himself. I borrowed Huerequeque’s shotgun, and we sailed upstream, but we made the mistake of shining the flashlight too far ahead and therefore had an angle of incidence that did not match up with my sight. Nonetheless I hit the alligator on the sandbank squarely. It flicked up into the air like a trout, then threw itself into the water and dove, and even after a long search we could not locate it, so I came to my senses and called off the hunt, feeling pretty foolish.

  Wisps of smoke are eddying through our camp today, and under the large, patient trees peace reigns, but it makes me uneasy because it is a peace without work. Today the sun feels gentle for the first time, without any of its usual vicious aggression. My existence is reduced to one dimension: a cleared strip leading up a steep hillside and a ship at the bottom. Farther up is a support, not fully anchored yet, on which life and the ship depend, so to speak. White, firm clumps of foam drift quietly by on the river, and they will still be doing that long after we have left these parts, and even when there are no human beings on earth, only insects. Today the jungle seemed peaceful in the mild light, self-absorbed and resting contentedly and solemnly. On the gravel bank I saw stones into which the Campas have scratched their names. I feel as if I were in a concert hall where a little-known orchestral work is being performed, and at the end no one is sure whether it is finished and one should clap. Since no one wants to appear ignorant by clapping too soon, everyone waits for a moment to see what the others are going to do: this moment of silence and irresolution in which the applause does not set in to provide release: I have been irreversibly thrust into this moment, which, however, continues for months.

  The first balsa rafts for the scene with the blockade were done, tied together from freshly stripped balsa trunks, and drifted past me. Across from our camp a large balsa tree was felled into the river. The two men who had cut it down clambered onto the floating tree, whose crown stuck far up out of the water, and immediately began to work the floating trunk. Last night, a large leopard was spotted above the cleared strip, in the very spot where we have built a hut for Fitz, in which a group of Campas spend the night. Today its tracks could still be seen. My flashlight was stolen, a major loss here in the jungle. Today *** was so drunk that he fell flat on his face in the camp, and since he could not get up, Quispe kept watch over him for a long time. When he was able to walk again, he staggered into Paul’s hut, where I happened to be, and asked what we had to drink. The Caterpillar got stuck in a ditch, and I did not go to look, because it seems to be embarrassing to Walter, who insists on sitting next to the operator instead of attending to his real duties, to have me as an eyewitness. Are we approaching the breaking point?

  In its all-encompassing, massive misery, of which it has no knowledge and no hint of a notion, the mighty jungle stood completely still for another night, which, however, true to its innermost nature, it did not let pass unused for incredible destruction, incredible strangulation.

  Camisea, 2 June 1981

  Something must be said about the majestic misery of the jungle. I was awakened by a strange, cackling bird I had never heard before and was annoyed that Dagoberto had not recorded it, even though I had no way of knowing whether he might not have done so after all.

  Very calmly, prepared for the worst, I began the day. Delays with the muerto: work was interrupted at first, even though only a little was left to be done: one of the braces for the anchor post still had to be installed, and it had to be cut at just the right moment, so it could be inserted into the hole intended for it, which opens up for just a second, but then the chain saw operator announced that his saw was out of gas. He had stood by for hours until he was needed, and every day the motosierristas and the boatmen are reminded to have their equipment fueled up and ready. In this case, it took so long to fetch gas, because the transport boat would not start, either, that it had begun to pour, which forced them to start the entire day’s work from scratch. The world here does not seem willing to be reduced to words anymore.

  Our kitchen crew slaughtered our last four ducks. While they were still alive Julian plucked their neck feathers, before chopping off their heads on the execution block. The albino turkey, that vain creature, the survivor of so many roast chickens and ducks transformed into soup, came over to inspect, gobbling and displaying, used his ugly feet to push one of the beheaded ducks, as it lay there on the ground bleeding and flapping its wings, into what he thought was a proper position, and making gurgling sounds while his bluish red wattles swelled, he mounted the dying duck and copulated with it.

  Building additional rafts. I had the winch brought up from the Huallaga, which is completely beached below the Pongo. Hawsers for the molinettes, the Indians’ turnstiles, repair of the block and tackle’s main structural component, which the Caterpillar had run over by mistake. Miguel Camaytieri, the chief of the Oventeni, has been hurt. A post fell over and hit him on the head, leaving a large cut that required many stitches. I scalded my hand with boiling water.

  Camisea, 4 June 1981

  The camp is silent with resignation; only the turkey is making a racket. It attacked me, overestimating its own strength, and I quickly grabbed its neck, which squirmed and tried to swallow, slapped him left-right with the casual elegance of the arrogant cavaliers I had seen in French Musketeer films, who dutifully do fancy swordplay, and then let the vain albino go. His feelings hurt, he trotted away, wiggling his rump but with his wings still spread in conceited display. On a sandbank by the Pongo that the river had uncovered, a petrified turtle was found, but it must be so immensely large and heavy that it is impossible to transport. Segundo gave me a big insect, quite unusual. I heard it had been caught in Shivankoreni and nailed to a board. It has a bulge on its head like that of a crocodile, and allegedly its bite is lethal, as Segundo reveals in a whisper. During the rubber era there were many more of them, and the only way to prevent certain death was allegedly to make love to a woman right away, but a hundred years ago, when there were so many woodsmen but hardly any women, a silent understanding developed that in such a situation a woman would be lent out by her husband, and thus quite a few men who were bitten managed to survive.

  Camisea, 5 June 1981

  More landslides on the cleared strip. Paul has a fever. One of his boots was chafing, and he developed an infection in his leg, which is swollen and burning hot. A new supply of antibiotics has to be brought from Satipo. Today the rain came down at midday as God’s scourge strikes the impious. Kinski came to me, flickering like a candle about to go out. He gives the impression of someone moving steadily and inexorably toward the moment when he will go to pieces once and for all. Later a delegation, apparently organized by him, brought tea to my hut, where I was calmly watching the river flow by. They expressed the idea that everyone should be relaxed for a change. Very calm? I interrupted their preamble, pointing out that I was perfectly calm, much calmer than everyone else out here, so what did they want to say? They wanted to talk me out of hauling the ship over the mountain, protect me from my own insanity—they did not use that term, but their meaning was obvious. They asked whether I could not revise t
he script so that Fitzcarraldo did not have to pull the ship over the mountain. I said only that we had not really tried towing the ship yet, and I attempted to buck them up in their faintheartedness.

  Last night Gloria came back. I had a long discussion with Beatus about a three-dimensional game of chess that I am trying to devise, but the challenges it presents are considerable and very complex. Toward evening we towed the ship about two meters, but it listed to the left somewhat, for one thing because the tree trunks we were using as skids on that side sank deeper into the mud, for another thing because the crossbeam fastened under the ship in front was attached at a slight angle to the vertical axis of the ship. I had already noticed that when I dove under the ship, and Ramon, the cable man, had tried to correct the problem by exerting more force on the beam on one side, but that did not do the trick. At nightfall they all got into their boats and announced that that was it. But I quickly instructed the lighting people to set up floodlights, and Walter and I kept the men there, though some had already ducked into the cafeteria for a beer. Ramon explained that the man who was his diver for the steel cables had left, but since I had already been under the ship once, I tied a rope around my chest, so they could pull me out in an emergency, and helped with the cable. A current took hold of me, and I tried to dive all the way under the ship’s hull, but had not considered that heavy tree trunks were in the way. So I thought better of it and turned back before getting caught in the chaotic tangle of trunks. We certainly saved two hours of work that we would have had to do tomorrow, and that could prove very valuable if it rains.