A paradise for stranding the gullible

Conmen
and their
hoaxes I
Barbara Millar's Lives

It sounded utterly idyllic – a sun-drenched archipelago set like a jewel in the Indian Ocean. Little wonder that Guardian readers kept the newspaper's phones hot for days, as they tried to find out how they could book a holiday to the magical islands of San Serriffe, featured in a 7-page supplement.
     Who wouldn't want to explore the two main islands, Upper Caisse and Lower Caisse, separated by the Shoals of Adze, dominated by Cap Em? Or wander through the streets of the enchanting capital, Bodoni, struggling to cope with local currency, the Corona (divided into 100 ems), hoping to catch a glimpse of the national bird, the kwote? Or engage in conversation at a local bar (where Guinness is white, with a black froth), perhaps with some of the indigenous Flongs, or with descendants of the original colonists, known as the colons, maybe even daring to ask their opinion of the San Serriffe leader, General Pica?
     But perhaps those so keen to get the first plane out to these 'semi-colon shaped' islands should have paid more attention to the newspaper's date: 1 April 1977. And to the fact that everything about the islands was named after printers' terminology. Philip Davies, special reports manager at the Guardian at the time, was responsible for the clever April Fool hoax. 'My original idea was to take the mickey out of the Financial Times who were publishing long reports on obscure emerging nations that nobody had ever heard of,' he later explained. 'So I decided to invent one of my own.'
     But while the San Serriffe stunt was harmless and cost no-one more than the price of a phone call, some hoaxes are far from benign.

General 'Sir' Gregor MacGregor, born in Edinburgh on Christmas Eve 1786, signed up for the Royal Navy in 1803 and spent some time fighting in the Peninsular War in Spain, before heading off in 1811 to Venezuela, where South American liberator Simon Bolivar was so impressed with the Scotman's skill as a military leader that he awarded him the rank of general and allowed him to marry his niece, Josefa.
     Between 1817 and 1820 MacGregor became a pirate, attacking Spanish strongholds in the Caribbean and along the Florida coast. Then he returned to Britain – having hatched a plan designed to bring him fame and fortune – and announced to London high society that he had been created 'cazique' or prince of 'Poyais', an independent nation on the Bay of Honduras. The king, George Frederic Augustus I of the Mosquito Shore and Nation, had given him over eight million acres of land and this, he claimed, was fertile country with untapped gold and silver mines, a small number of settlers of British origin and cooperative natives. He had already created a civil service, army and democratic government, he said – now he needed settlers and investment.
     His claims for Poyais became even more extravagant – it had glorious cathedrals, public buildings and banks, even a splendid opera house in its capital St Joseph. Gold nuggets, diamonds and pearls were 'as plentiful as pebbles' and grain could grow without the need for sowing.
     It was well known to MacGregor that British merchants were keen to enter the South American market previously denied to them by Spain, and he took liberal advantage of being feted by all and sundry, who were eager to get a slice of the action. The Lord Mayor of London, Christopher Magnay, even organised an official reception at the Guildhall, with MacGregor convincing everyone that he was a direct descendant of Rob Roy and also claiming to have had an ancestor who was a rare survivor of the ill-fated Darien scheme, a failed Scottish attempt of colonisation in Panama in the 1690s.
     In order to compensate for this, he said, he had decided to take most settlers for Poyais from Scotland and he opened offices in Edinburgh, Stirling and Glasgow to raise capital of £200,000 (millions in today's money) by issuing 2,000 bearer bonds at £100 each. He also sold land rights for a reasonable 3 shillings and 3 pence per acre (at a time when a worker's weekly wage was about £1), sold commissions in the Poyais army, issued his own currency and published a guidebook, which concentrated on how much profit one could expect to make from the country's plentiful resources.
     In 1822 the 'Honduras Packet' left London with 70 would-be settlers aboard, including doctors, a lawyer and a banker. The following year 200 more people left Leith on the 'Kennersley Castle'. Eventually the newcomers happened upon the 'Honduras Packet' settlers, who told them there was nothing but swampy jungle, a few natives, poisonous snakes and some ruins of an earlier 18th century attempt at settlement. The would-be settlers began to argue among themselves, the 'Kennersley Castle' sailed away (the 'Honduras Packet' had been lost in a storm), tropical diseases began to afflict them and one settler committed suicide.
     Some settlers were picked up by a British Honduras vessel and brought home, but many died on the voyage. Altogether fewer than 50 of the original would-be settlers made it back to Britain. And when they returned MacGregor had already fled – to France, where he tried the scheme again. This time round Poyais was a republic and he was its head of state. However, he was quickly rumbled by French officials and, eventually, arrested and jailed, though he was acquitted on appeal. He returned to London and managed to talk his way out of a prison sentence, eventually moving back to Edinburgh, still trying to sell plots of land he did not own, in a kingdom that did not exist. Finally he returned to Venezuela, where he died on December 3 1845.

More conmen and their hoaxes on Tuesday