Latest update April 25th, 2024 12:34 AM
Sep 07, 2014 News
Countryman – Stories about life, in and out of Guyana, from a Guyanese perspective
By Dennis Nichols
Unexpectedly simple pleasures abound in life, but you need to know how and where to find them. An open and curious mind is a prerequisite, along with a thirst for new and sometimes fortuitous encounters. Like the ‘PPP’ stall I discovered at Bourda Market, so labelled because there I can enjoy some of the best puri, phulourie and potato ball my taste buds ever savoured. Or like the ten months I spent in the pristine Region 5 enclave of Moraikobai in 1993.
The journey along the Mahaicony River, in March of that year, from the East Coast Demerara Bridge was a long one, boring in parts, but with enough of that elemental ambience I crave in riverine settings. After about four hours, and more than 80 miles later, I noticed the river branching off into a tributary, the Francois Creek, a meandering stream with waters of darkish amber deepening to black that would take us to Moraikobai, a village of about 1,000 people, nestled in the arms of the waterway.
As the boat carrying me and my two sons gurgled to a stop at a small landing, I breathed deeply of that unmistakable forest air that I’d soaked up 17 years before in the North West District when I arrived there as a teacher fresh out of training school. Here I would be taking up my second headmastership in a similar hinterland milieu, sans electricity, potable water, telephone, and served medically by a tiny, provincial clinic, staffed by a nurse.
We were met and welcomed by the village captain, Martin Adrian, and a few of his aides, who showed us to the headmaster’s cottage, a wooden two-bedroom building with only the most basic furniture – two tables, an aging suite of chairs and a bed, ‘bachy’ style. The first few days we shared it with an American fellow, I think an artist, who’d gone there to do some kind of research. I remember clearly the very first night there I was invited, and went, to a party under the schoolhouse where I drank a beverage I thought I’d forgotten about – Piwari. It tasted bad but felt good, if you know what I mean.
Moraikobai is an Amerindian word that means ‘heart of the mora tree’. The people there are Arawak, or Lokono, which appears to be their more authentic name. I’d always wanted to live amongst a community of Arawaks, and this seemed a rich opportunity to understand and absorb at least a part of their culture. I would become a sort of amateur ethnographer, something I had tried to do while living and working among the Warrau in the North West, without much success. Now it would be different I told myself.
The months I spent there were remarkable for many things, not the least of which was a strengthening of the bond with my three sons (another came later) whom I enrolled as pupils of the primary school, interaction with several singular village characters, and great rapport with the children I taught and mentored. It was there that my sons really got into some ‘jungle skills’ like swimming and diving, fishing, canoeing, trekking through miles of bush trails. And girls.
The village is strikingly laid out against a central open area, around the perimeter of which lay the school buildings (All Age and Nursery) a church, the Health Centre and several cottages. On full-moon nights this open area was so bright that my sons and I were able to play cricket with some of the locals – a surreal experience, made more exotic by the atmosphere of a natural amphitheatre framed by a stunning vista of palm trees and other forest flora.
On moonlit nights also, people would gather to have a gaff, imbibe liquor and maybe listen to some old Charley Pride or Wesley Hamilton songs. Tales could be told of spirit folk in the bush, and of other-worldly experiences, not for the weak-hearted. I loved them, especially when the older folks got going, their tongues loosened by drink, so that you didn’t know where the real story ended and the fanciful one began.
It was in Moraikobai that I heard about people who could disappear from behind a single leaf, and of such invisible, preternatural beings communicating by eerie whistling while morphing into wild animals, of strange lights that hovered in the distance and vanished at will. It was there, while trekking the six miles from Yarida Landing to the village, that we saw the impressive paw prints of large jaguars and heard the weirdly echoing cries of howler monkeys.
There too I was introduced to perai on the wrong side of the food chain, cassava bread (called Kali) dipped in white pepperpot and served with freshly-caught fish, and water coconuts that tested the liquid-holding capacity of my stomach. And in the primordial creeks, my sons and I would occasionally paddle and explore, feeling for all the world like authentic pioneers in virgin territory, until our stomachs led us back to the teacher’s house, maybe half a mile away, and an often unwelcome return to ‘civilization’.
On Saturdays we washed clothes; rather I did, on the bank of the creek, while my sons swam, dived, and cavorted with their friends not 20 yards away, and I was teased about not having a woman to do my washing for me. I don’t know if it was my feminine side kicking in, but I enjoyed washing and afterward seeing the clothes billowing in the wind on my makeshift clothesline
But all was not joy and fairy-tale fancy. During the day I would be absorbed with schoolwork and preparing meals for me and my sons. But some nights, especially when the moon was hidden, the hours would drag by as I sat by my doorstep, the mosquitoes would start a mini war, and the little radio I listened to would broadcast what seemed to be the most tedious and mundane programmes imaginable. Ah, that was when I missed the lights and the lunacy of Georgetown, and the warmth of conjugal closeness.
This kind of monotony was however transient, for as I alluded to earlier, I mixed easily with the local residents and with my school family of seven teachers and about 150 children, so that I was never truly lonely. (How could I be, also, with two teenaged sons and one pre-teen?) And there was always the opportunity to walk along the sandy paths and visit new friends.
Next week I’ll tell you more about this beautiful little paradise (now electrified, but hopefully not too modernized) You’ll meet an old woman who drank to stay healthy, a man who came to the village to play cricket and never left, and a group of schoolchildren who did something to ‘make my day’.
LISTEN HOW JAGDEO WILL MAKE ALL GUYANESE RICH!!!
Apr 25, 2024
Kaieteur Sports – The Guyana Mixed Martial Arts Karate Association successfully held its Third Annual Epic Clash Martial Arts Championship last Sunday at the Guyana National Gymnasium. With...Kaieteur News – Dr. Bharrat Jagdeo, the General Secretary of the People’s Progressive Party, persists in offering... more
By Sir Ronald Sanders Waterfalls Magazine – On April 10, the Permanent Council of the Organization of American States... more
Freedom of speech is our core value at Kaieteur News. If the letter/e-mail you sent was not published, and you believe that its contents were not libellous, let us know, please contact us by phone or email.
Feel free to send us your comments and/or criticisms.
Contact: 624-6456; 225-8452; 225-8458; 225-8463; 225-8465; 225-8473 or 225-8491.
Or by Email: [email protected] / [email protected]