Aventures en Guyane — Praise of a fatal adventure
This is the story of a book that happened to fall into my hands by chance. I found it on the ground in the hallway of my building, and after a week without anyone claiming it, I decided to read it.
And what a wonderful surprise! This book, Aventures en Guyane, is the deeply personal journal of a French explorer in the late 1940s who set out to encounter the Guianese jungle and its “Indians.” The only thing that remains of this adventure is this notebook, found in the forest, as its author, Raymond Maufrais, vanished without a trace — his body was never recovered.
This book fascinated me for several reasons.
First, it speaks of adventure — the real kind. The kind that pits itself against the elements, in a time when maps were either nonexistent or inaccurate, a time without satellite or mobile phones, without GPS… It took immense courage to embark on such an exploration into the unknown, facing difficult conditions (humidity, dangerous animals, dense vegetation, insects…). This adventure is all the more remarkable because Raymond Maufrais undertook it alone, with very few resources or assistance. It is, in fact, quite surprising to see how he invested almost all his savings into the journey to French Guiana, only to find himself with nothing upon arrival.
This book is remarkably well-written. Originally, his notebook was not intended for publication — it was merely meant as a basis for his future books. The text is highly irregular: sometimes prolific, sometimes minimalist. One can easily recognize the style of a traveler, jotting down notes in a hurry when time is scarce (hence the minimalist style), but also the style of a traveler at rest, with more time to put thoughts, experiences, and observations onto paper. These notes were written during the second half of 1949. The language is quite formal, but there are also words that have since disappeared from contemporary usage due to their now-racist connotations.
I love the way Raymond Maufrais describes his experience of adventure, his need for solitude and immersion, but also how, at times, it weighs heavily on him. I particularly appreciate this passage:
“Adventure and feelings are two words that hardly rhyme. One’s own suffering is nothing; it can be conquered. But thinking of the suffering of those we love leaves us powerless, suffering doubly from their pain.”
And then, there is this relentless progression into the jungle, its tragic end known from the outset, which intensifies everything. It is impossible not to think about it with every word, every sentence. As readers, we find ourselves helpless spectators — part voyeur, part morbidly curious — trying to spot the warning signs that should have alerted the author. We can feel the suffocating humidity, the discomfort, the hunger, the solitude…
