These mini travelogues are the result of an exercise I once tried; writing one hundred words a day for one hundred days, the point being to gain discipline and economy with the written word. Once started, it became addictive. A terse sort of prose is the usual result; in which one tries capturing the essence of time and place. Although I may have been a little liberal with the facts in some, it’s only to better express the spirit of the experience. Some over the one hundred word parameter have been added, just for mischief. Maybe you’d care to count?
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ON FLYING INTO SURINAME AT NIGHT |
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With the aircraft droning on in suspended velveteen darkness people chat, attempt to read, snooze listlessly, a nervous quiet falling over the cabin; then sudden rustlings, flurries of excitement, everyone readying for landing as the plane follows suit, diving unexpectedly. What here, in the middle of jungle? But - like tiny fireflies the dim, flickering fluorescent lights of Paramaribo, sporadic, barely discernable in the all engulfing night, appear, strung out towards Zanderij and the tiny runway that lies amidst rampant uncut elephant grass. Everyone claps when safely down; the heat hitting like hammer-blows before we even reach the opened doors. |
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One sees only a quick flash of iridescence as wings flushed prawn red in afternoon sunlight take flight against a background of rice paddy green; lumbering Brahmin bulls adding brown to the mix of hues, topped off by cloudless blue skies. These birds catch the eye and draw them in as Firebirds in a Russian fable; only this is Suriname with its savannah and the mighty Amazonian jungle just beyond, all riddled by rivers with exotic names such as the Marowinje and Saramacca. These, Surinam’s Scarlet Ibis, elegant shrimp eaters of the waterways turn wondrous boiled pink from their food.
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The plane’s rear opens like a gaping sphincter from which we walk across the tarmac; our way illuminated only from lights in dimly lit concrete reception buildings still riddled with bullet holes, reminders of their civil wars. Desultory groups of people await friends and family but I must take my place in a separate queue, hoping like mad my name will be on the list of those lucky enough to be granted entry permits. Sweating in the visa office the laggardly pace at which the three men write out my visa papers in triplicate slows me down into Suriname time.
Colonial architecture – Paramaribo |
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Negotiating the Feroelasie Falls, biggest on the Saramacca; a large canoe laden to the gunnels with cargo was stuck on the rocks. Stopping to help, the two crews were only just able to free it. We passengers were with good reason, forbidden to assist. Rocking it violently to set it free, the over weighted craft suddenly bounded loose. One of the lads then had to very quickly snatch his leg out from underneath. Luckily he did. Had he not, it would have been dragged under and crushed terribly. There are no hospitals out here; just mission clinics open only to those compliant villages willing to submit to proselytizing representatives of Christ’s message of universal charity. But the recalcitrant inhabitants of Yao Yao cling proudly still to their age old animism and decline Christ’s clamorous invitation, so there would have been no mercy dash or clean hospital bed waiting that nifty young lad had he not been so nimble footed!
Village Baker - YauYau |
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We come out from the scrubby cover of bush and trees onto an open plain where the road suddenly stops at the banks of a broad stretch of river. Having traveled hours bouncing over rough tracks across open savannah it’s a relief to get out and stand straight. This is the end of the road; the start of our river trek which will take us to the village of YaoYao and the Sarammaca Bush Negroes who live there. With local blacks come to trade all is bustle, excitement, filled with laughter and shouting as canoes and busses arrive and depart.
Suriname Savannah |
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Travelogue