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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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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As the sun slipped below the tree line, dinner smells drawing us together; good Surinam rum was cracked and everyone gravitated to the bluff above the river to watch the long wooden canoes that had all day been bustling up and down the river. A year before someone of rank had died and now on the anniversary, a celebration was to be held. Partygoers were gathering from all points along the river and the boats were flat out ferrying them. As night fell the boats just kept on passing, despite the inky darkness and the lurking rocks beneath the water. |
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There is no jetty. Piling clumsily from muddy banks into wobbling dugout canoes, held steady by strong arms, hairy, sinewy, unhesitating; helping one aboard. Black Bushmen, raised in the ways of river and jungle are our guides. Sitting on wooden planks without cover and under blazing midday sun we shove off. Turning up stream there is thick Amazonian jungle on both sides of the river. Huge trees with vibrant yellow flowers draw attention as do flocks of screeching parrots. At first bend, great excitement; a caiman is eating a giant anaconda and slowing, we turn in for a closer look.
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Travelogue