Deeper Into The Heart Of Guyana by Roxanne De Cruiz

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Deeper Into The heart Of Guyana
by Roxanne De Cruiz

My aunt and I boarded the 748 Hawker Sidley aircraft at what was then Timehri International airport for our one hour flight into the Rupununi Savannahs of Guyana. It was a beautiful day in Demerara but I was looking forward to seeing Essequibo for a number of reasons beyond just the research that I was doing for the book I was writing. For one, it was a part of most of Guyana that I had never before visited and I had heard of the famous Rupununi sunset and the bewitching beauty of a moonlit Rupununi night. And two, I really wanted to experience Guyana’s multi-ethnic culture, and I had heard that unlike the coastland, Rupununi more or less, had a culture that was entirely different to Coastland Guyanese. After passing the Demerara River far below, and scattered villages to neat blocks of cultivated farmlands, the Coastlands eventually gave way to virgin territory in Guyana. It was to be the most breathtaking carpet of green I had ever seen, interrupted only by a few bush fires that the hot sun had set on the dry parts of the Guyana Amazon. The aircraft eventually climbed to fourteen thousand feet and leveled off for the duration of the flight. There was a breakfast service taking place in the aircraft cabin and I ate and drank, paying little attention to it or to my aunt’s endless chatter, which I was beginning to admit to myself, was becoming slightly too much. Within the confines of the aircraft cabin, it was almost impossible to escape it. But that was only because I had ruled out locking myself away in the toilet for the duration of the journey.

It was after 9:am when we flew out of the forested Region and into the mountainous Region of Guyana. I leaned forward in audible awe at the sight of the sun working its translucent patterns upon the bluish, intricate typography of the hills far below, overlooked by a mountain or two in the distance. As I gazed upon it, for a fleeting moment, I was held captive by the exquisite beauty of mother nature. And in that un-chartered frontier of the rockies in South America, she surrendered all to the gentle caress of the silvery morning sun.
As I gazed upon it all and marveled that we must have flown into a different world, far beyond Guyana, the fasten seat-belt signs chimed on and the pilot broke into my captive state to announce that we had flown into cowboy country in Guyana.
“Vaquiero Country,” he purred in the hand-piece.
And I was a bright enough gal to understand that in South America, there were no cowboys but there were Vaquieros!
“We’ll be landing in Lethem in about fifteen minutes,” he continued on the PA. “As we approach Lethem, on the right of the aircraft, you would be able to see the Kanuku mountains, and straight ahead, if we fly for less that two more minutes, we would be flying over the Takatu river into Brazil. The village on that side of the river is called Bomfin.”
We landed in unceremonious fashion and disembarked the aircraft and we pulled our bags beyond the fence that separated crowd from aircraft. Then we stopped to gaze around. Standing there in awe of the Kanuku mountains, overlooking the red-baked earth and the sea of tall, undulating grass sprawling endlessly all around, I felt a surreal calm envelop me.
I turned as Robert Henry walked up to take our bags in true gentlemanly fashion.
“Welcome to Lethem,” he said. “How was the flight?”
He seemed relaxed, yet smartly dressed in the blue and white uniform of Guyana Airways.
“It was nice,” I replied. Robert was the manager of Guyana Airways at Lethem. I was an International Flight Attendant with the same National Airline and I knew Robert because there was a time that he too was an International Flight Attendant and we had worked many trips around the world together. But that was before he had accepted the offer to be the Manager of Guyana Airways’ Lethem Manager. I quickly performed the introduction between Robert and my aunt, and was thankful that she promptly directed her conversation at him instead.
“I’ve made reservations at the Tacuba Hotel in Beverley Hills,” he told us, pointing in the distance to a picturesque ranch style village closer to the Brazilian border. It looked like a paradise, it smelt like paradise and in a little impish moment, I silently mused that it must be paradise! The ranch style houses were small and delightfully spontaneous, and the trees, even while laden with sweet-smelling fruits and decorated by scented flowers, still insisted on shading the narrow streets below. And while Mocha-Mocha and Tabchinga creeks bisected the vast grasslands on their meandering twenty-six-plus miles journey, closer to the foot of Guyana, the much larger trees dipped their branches into their water for a drink.
Rupununi Savannahs and the famous Pakaraima mountain range on the horizon, Guyana
Rupununi Savannahs and the famous Pakaraima mountain range on the horizon, Guyana
Giant Christmas-Tree shaped wood ants nest
The famous Rupununi Sunset

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Contd.
“What about transpee?” I asked Robert, coming out of my silent gaze around. “We would need transportation to get in and out of the savannahs.” Robert did his usual relaxed lop-sided grin and assured me that he had made the necessary arrangements.
At the hotel, my aunt and I rescued ourselves from the heat of the day with a bath, slacks, breezy blouses and flat shoes as Robert had cautioned that we do. Then we emerged to lunch which turned out to be beef in every dish. And while my aunt hungrily dug in and assured me that the food was delicious, I stared in silent distress at her. I was a Douglah I know but I was a devotee of Krishna and so like my mother, I didn’t eat beef. My aunt, of East Indian decent, didn’t seem to mind, and unlike my mother, she ate beef. I envied her this as I began to worry that up here in cattle-country of Guyana, I would starve to death. I could have saved myself the thought, for the good cook, God bless that saint of a woman, rustled up some fish and farine. I would have preferred rice, but she assured me that unlike the rest of Guyana where rice was the staple, farine was boss up on the Rupununi. To a now famished Georgetown gyal, farine tasted like heaven to me. While Mel,(my aunt) excused herself from the table, one of the male guests there took the opportunity to beam a very broad smile in my direction. He offered to show me around town and I quickly declined. Being in my early twenties then, I was less inclined to accept invitations from men who seemed old enough to be my father.
Soon after lunch, Robert arrived dressed in casuals and smelling of fresh bath soap. He was accompanied by a tall, brown-skinned man whom he introduced to us as Ted.



I remember that Ted had an Hindu last name but try as I do now, I can’t seem to jog my memory to the extent where I could remember it but I do remember that Ted was good looking and about early thirties and he was very friendly. And most of all I remember the pick-up that Robby had arranged to take us out into the Savannahs. The driver was of Scottish and African ancestry, in his late thirties, and they called him Reds. Reds looked red all over, including his hair, and that was okay with me but his white pick-up truck looked like it was up well past its bed-time.
“You sure this thing is going to carry us in and out of the Savannahs?” Mel asked, doubtfully eyeing the white vehicle, which was more red from the Rupununi dust than from the pristine white it once boasted in a show-room.
“She needs gas,” Reds said. “Once she gets that, she’ll be okay.” He hastily went on to assure us that the present gas shortage on the Rupununi would not affect us if we had the money that the additional price the gas-sellers were asking. I quickly paid, we gased up, and we were off!

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contd.

It was a glorious day on the Rupununi Savannahs of Guyana. The road was baked iron-red by the sun and there were tall, Christmas-tree shaped wood-ants nests that dotted the land at frequent intervals. They were joined by the Cayambay trees which, in other parts of Guyana, was known as the sandpaper tree. I knew this only because I had read about it back in my primary school days.
“That’s why they whisper,” Robby broke into my thoughts to explain as he saw me staring at them. “In the breeze, their rough leaves create friction with each other. Up here, you never tell a secret near a Cayambay tree. They whisper it into the winds all over the grasslands.”

We traveled for nearly two hours before we finally drove into Piwarra territory. That Big-sky country of Guyana is so vast, they measure every journey by hours instead of miles, and so a sea of cattle would have to multiply to cover the face of Guyana’s Grasslands by days, or so I mused to myself. Star and Elsa of Piwarra ranch had many beautiful children with many bloods in their veins. As they warmly welcomed us, they all looked like the combined effect of the United Nations on a General Assembly day. We were taken over to an outdoor garden area where some Grasslanders were enjoying the great, and in this case, very vast outdoors. I silently mused that here was where the European Guyanese were hiding, since they were not so evident on the Coastlands in Guyana. They were of Hungarians, Scottish, Irish and English roots up here but the sun had long ago taken care of their fairer skins. They looked closer to bronzed people than white ones.
I watched as the men reached overhead, plucked the fruits off the tree and squeezed the juice into their vodkas. I enquired about the fruit and they told me that it was a cashew and smiled when I looked puzzled.
Star indicated the nut at the end of the fruit and said, “That thing you people call cashew in Demerara, is a Malacca pear.”


Moments later, he used his pump-action shot-gun on a flock of birds flying overhead. He was a good shot, so we were soon snacking on delicious Bungal birds. Elsa made bakes in the oven which looked more like small tennis-rolls and tasted like butter-rolls. That was different. We fry bakes in Demerara and Berbice and even in some other parts of Essequibo. And it was always flat and round. Elsa assured us as she placed the large piece of Lukanani fish into the frying pan that if we eat Lukanani fish and drink fresh water from the creek, we will always return to the Rupununi.
“It’s Labba you have to eat,” I corrected.
“That’s for if you want to return to Guyana,” Elsa said. “We do things a bit different up here, like leaving the doors and windows open when we sleep at nights.”
I had no arguments with that. It would be an empty-house if anyone in Georgetown would be stupid enough to leave the doors open while they sleep at nights, so that was definitely different. Elsa chose that moment to pull out the pan of bakes from the oven and the smell was so mouth-watering, everyone began an instant chorus of coos, then we dug in and licked the platter clean.
Later, we ladies and all of Elsa’s beautiful children left the men to their vodkas and cashew juice and we descended upon Piwarra creek with much laughter and noise. The creeks in Guyana could run as far as hundreds of miles and sometimes about two hundred yards wide. In some countries they would call that a river but no so in Guyana. Yet that was only because Guyana’s rivers were huge and beautiful. The estuary of the Essequibo river is 21 miles wide and the river itself is over 270 miles long and Guyana had hundreds of rivers so you can understand why we chose to call a creek a creek, and a river a river. It was as simple as that.
“This creek flows into the Ireng river,” Elsa yelled above the merriment in the clear water all around.
Later, we ate Lukanani fish and like little girls, Mel and I giggled as we drank fresh water from Piwarra creek. Then, I sat alone under the giant mango tree to gaze at the huge orange globe as it sank slowly into the distant horizon. Upon that vast, open land, it was breathtaking!
The legend has it, “If you eat Lukanani fish and drink fresh water from the creek, no matter where you go, you will always return to the Rupununi. We in Demerara and perhaps Berbice as well as other parts of Essequibo say, “If you eat Labba and drink fresh water from the creek, no matter where you go, you will always return to Guyana." We weren’t different at all, it was destination Guyana in both instances.
I glanced across at Elsa’s children riding horses bareback around the yard and I leaned back against the trunk of the tree to watch the night drop in. Star and Elsa wanted us to spend the night but I was still trapped in my city mode. I wanted to head back to the hotel to guard my few, measly belongings, so we waved goodbye to Star and Elsa and their lovely children and set out on our midnight mid-savannah trip into Lethem.
Reds was pushing the old chevvy pick-up for all it was worth, and this time I traded placed with Ted to ride in the back of the pick-up. I wouldn’t have missed the enchantment of the moonlit Rupununi night for the world! In the middle of nowhere, as it seemed that we were that night, I gazed at that endless, moonlit, open lands, with not a house or a single light in sight. it was just us, the whispering Cuyambay trees, and the silent, distant mountains, now silhouetted by the gentle light of the moon, against the clear luminous skies.
“There are Jaguars and Pumas up here,” Robby broke into my thoughts. “ And a snake here or there. This is a dangerous time to be out on the Savannahs.”
I concluded that Robby was either teasing or that he wanted to scare me. He would have never been out here if there was danger as he never struck me as the adventurous type. He was much too responsible for that. After that I settled my newly found fearless self for the rest of the journey and wished that Reds would stop so that I could become a part of the enchanted scene all around me. As luck would have it, we broke down just one hour away from Lethem.
“What’s the problem?” My aunt disembarked the pick-up to ask.
I jumped down and quickly walked off while Reds assured my aunt that her skinny hands and fingers might be just the size to get somewhere far into the injured part of the engine to turn a screw or two. I sat on a rock, far enough away from them to get only a whisper of their voices carrying in the winds by the whispering Cuyambays, but I soon lamented that the revving of the engine and the light of the pick-up was destroying the pristine beauty of my bewitching wonderland, so I walked up-wind instead and further away until I could see and hear them no more. Then I lay there, certain that I had died and had surely gone to heaven.


In the distance, the pick-up soon revved its engines with real gusto and they were calling my name, telling me that the vehicle was fixed and ready to go but I didn’t answer. I knew it. I felt it. I was now made part of the beauty all around. I was nature then. And the humans who were now frantically, anxiously calling out my name, would have to wait a little longer. As nature that I had then become, as one with the pristine peace around, I wasn’t about to leave the Rupununi Savannahs of Guyana in anyone’s hurry, least of all my own.

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[Maya]

Loved it! Got more?

[crappo]

I tell you the girl got sugar fingers!

[storyteller]

Wow! Great writing here. I hope your aunt neve reads this!

[Zoey]

Glad to see my Rupununi honored by one of Guyana's greatest writers. Get published, Kiddo. It's about time that the world get to know you.