It’s been a long time since I last wrote. A great deal has happened during that time, and I will try to recount to you some of what has transpired here in Suriname to the best of my abilities. I now live in the capital city, Paramaribo, but I’ll go back a few months.
In April, I took my first in-country plane flight from Laduani, near Gunsi, to the city. It was amazing! There were five of us plus the pilot in a Cessna. The flight took 45 minutes, 5-6 hours less than the usual trip. I was so thankful that day for the work the Wright brothers did so many years ago, as I enjoyed the much faster trip, after 1 ½ years of taking the long road to and from the city. We saw all the villages along the Upper Suriname River down to Atjoni, the road, the bauxite and gold mining areas, the lake, and the city from the sky. The forest was gorgeous to see from above. Miles and miles of lush, beautiful green. I have flown twice since then, and the trip never fails to amaze.
April 27th, I went to visit the volunteers in Tutu. Before returning to Gunsi on the 28th, Fifi (a lady living near Viki, one of the volunteers) and I were discussing cheese and meat. I told her how I thought goat meat and cheese are very good. She retorted that she does not, nor will not, eat goat, called kaabita (kah-bee-tah) in Saramaccan, because, and this made me laugh, she doesn’t like how it moves its mouth. “Ma lobi fa a ta buli di buka feen” (Mah low-bee fah ah tah boo-lee dee boo-kah fehn). I found this extremely funny, especially as a reason not to eat it and knowing the other meats they do eat. Fifi does not like how goats move their mouths; so she will have none of it. You can’t really argue with that.
On April 29th, Basja Dududu took some medicine of which she detests the taste. She told me so in advance. Then, she proceeded to take her medicine and to scrunch up her face in absolute disgust. It was very funny and made me feel like we’re not so different after all. Medicine is the same all over the world, and apparently, we all seem to scrunch up our faces the same way.
On May 3rd, Viki, Margot, some Saramaccans, and I took a boat from Gunsi, past Atjoni, to the lake, crossed over, and went to Lebidoti, where Nathan Snyder (who has also extended a third year) was living. Nathan was holding his birthday party on the 4th. Before we arrived at the lake, we saw a lot of cranes, gray and brilliant white ones, which really stood out against the dark, forest green. The weather along the way could not have been better, and after a full-day’s trip, we settled into Lebidoti for the night. The next day, we prepared everything for the party: popcorn, cake, balloons, the meals, etc. In the evening, we had singing, dancing, drinking, and eating until the very wee hours of the morning. I think I went to sleep around 4:00 AM. It was a lot of fun, probably too much so.
TeleSur, the phone company here, did a great deal of work in Gunsi in May, as they have been doing in other parts of the country. TeleSur is trying to create a better telephone/cell phone communication system around Suriname. Carefully stacking one 3 meter piece at a time, they built a new 140 meter tower in Gunsi—quite the spectacle in the interior. People from other villages along the river flocked to see the looming structure. Armed with climbing gear and cables, the workers did an amazing job in constructing one of the interior’s tallest towers. We can only hope the communication system for everyone will indeed, over time, improve.
Around May 8th, Basja (under captain) Dennis, provided me with another great saying, which I have since used several times. He and another man were talking to me at the same time. As I couldn’t listen to both effectively, Dennis perceived the difficulty I was having. He proceeded to tell me, “Dagu abi fo futu, ma de an sa waka a fo pasi” (Dah-goo ah-bee foh footoo, mah day ahn sah wah-kah ah foh pah-see). Dogs have four feet, but they can’t walk on four paths. I love it! Just like a dog can’t walk on four separate paths, I can’t listen to more than one person at a time, despite the fact I have two ears. Saramaccan sayings, I must say, are priceless.
My trip to the city in May included my first Jewish service ever. We went to the synagogue here, which is right next door to a mosque….not common in the world these days by any means. The floor inside was all sand—in a literal sense, grounding all of us. The men and women sat separately, as is the tradition. I cannot say I understood everything said or done, but it was a nice service. I stood when others stood, sat when others sat, and listened to the wonders of Hebrew. Afterwards, we all went to eat and drink together in another meeting hall off to the side of the synagogue. Everyone was very warm and welcoming. I was extremely happy to attend a Jewish service, at long last, as I have been hoping to go for years.
On May 18th, the new trainees arrived. It was very exciting for all of us to welcome the new group, Sur13, to Suriname. Fresh faces. Fresh ideas. Fresh spirits. Since then, I have noticed they are a great asset to the Suriname program. It’s been good to have them here. Watching them adjust to Suriname, as I saw the Sur12s do, is a real joy. I guess that it makes it more pleasant when I have already been through it all myself. Don’t know if they shared my sentiments at the time, but I’m sure that they will.
On May 27th, I ate my first sloth. I had seen my Captain and his son with it the day prior, and on the 27th, well, we dined. Like many bush meats, it was very tasty. That same day, I taught my last English class. We learned two songs: Footprints by TOK and Different Colors by Lucky Dube, who just recently was sadly killed. He was a true spokesman for issues of humanity, and his loss will be felt all over the world.
As I looked around the class while they were intently listening to the music and words, I couldn’t help but feel sad about its being the last class, happy about how intent they were, and a little nostalgic looking back on our 1 ½ years together in class. It truly was one of my best outlets for exchange with the village. I will miss the children from my village. I cannot even begin to quantify how much.
Around June 12th, a young lady from my village told me a tale of three children who lost their mother. Their father took another wife. They lived so for years. One day, the stepmother said that the three children had to tell her her name, or they wouldn’t be fed. The children asked everyone they knew. No one seemed to know, and the children all but lost hope. Then, they came across this crab, who just so happened to know the stepmother’s name. It was a very long name, and, in turn, very difficult to remember. Cleverly, one of the children wrote the name under a tree. Later, the stepmother asked if they knew her name. The first child could no longer remember. The second remembered only a part of it. The third said he/she needed to go untie one of the animals and would return. He/she went to the tree, looked over the name several times, and returned. When he/she told the stepmother, she fainted. The children then joyfully ate everything in the house, having got the best of the stepmother. Later, after the stepmother had recovered, she found out that the crab had told the children. So, she took a stick and smacked the crab on its back. That is why crabs’ backs are lower than their fronts. The crab then quickly snatched the stick away from the stepmother and retaliated with a blow of his own, and that is why older people have problems with their backs later in life. I love stories! What a great explanation for why crabs and people have become what they are today!
Near the end of June, I cooked and ate my first stingray. One guy caught it in the river. It was huge! I had seen small ones scuttling around in the sand off the shore of Gunsi. This one, however, had a diameter of about 3 feet! Didn’t know they grew that large in the river. With stingrays, electric eels, and piranhas with very sharp teeth, you may wonder how people can be so daft as to go swimming. I have, at times, wondered that about myself, in fact. ☺ Once cooked, the stingray, I must admit, was not my favorite meat. Granted, it could have been my inexperience with cooking stingray, but I found out that I’m not the only one who is not thrilled with the taste. Good experience, though. How many people can say they’ve eaten stingray from the Suriname River?
On July 11th, I took someone along the path from Gunsi to Laduani, where he was to take a plane to Paramaribo. The plane attempted to make a turn to align itself with the grass runway. It only made the turn part way before one wheel, unexpectedly, sunk deep into the ground. I have to say I’ve never seen that before. After some intense discussion of how to solve this problem, in which really none of us had any experience, some of us grabbed shovels and proceeded to dig the wheel out, as you would with a car. Then, we cleared off the runway and let the pilot see if he could take off. No success. In fact, the wheel sunk even lower in the ground, the wing almost touching the ground. So, with renewed determination, we began to dig the wheel out a second time. This time, about 8 Saramaccans and I carefully lifted the wing up, just high enough for the plane to be able to move forward out of the hole. Now, I’ve helped dig cars out a few times. That was the first time, perhaps the only time, I will have helped dig a plane out. Don’t know when I’ll have the chance again. Everyone came together, and it was actually great fun. The strength and basic ingenuity of Saramaccans continues to amaze. I love moments in life that take you out of the normal routine. This was definitely one of those times.
In July, I was in the city finalizing plans for the education event we held in Gunsi and Tutu. It was a little hectic with some cancellations, scrambling to find replacements, buying food, etc. Event planning sure can be stressful. They’re not without moments of humor, though. I bought five packages of chicken. I put one pack in my backpack and carried the four others in a cardboard box. Being cheap, I chose not to take a taxi but rather the bus back to the Peace Corps office. As I was sitting on the bus, waiting to go, the heat from the sun, conveyed into the interior of the bus, started thawing out the chicken. We sat in the hot sun for a few minutes before we started moving. Along the way to the office, I noticed that the box was getting wet from the moisture and there was a bit of a trickle on the floor of the bus. As we drove further, the box got wetter and wetter and the trickle started to move along the floor. Finally, we approached the office. I pushed the buzzer to let the driver know I needed to stop. As I got off, and the reality I hoped to avoid came true, the box fell apart, and the chicken went flying out the door of the bus. I’m not sure what people out on the street thought as they saw a bus stop and four bags of chicken come flying out first, but I imagine it was quite a sight. The chicken, with a flare for the dramatics, landed all over the sidewalk. With as much dignity as I could muster, I picked up the bags of chicken and placed them back in what was left of the soggy cardboard box, to carry them across the street to the office. I found that adventures in event planning can be better than you ever imagined. Well, at least the chicken still tasted good.
On the 26th, I brought volunteers to Gunsi and Tutu. The next day, we started the Hoi i seei ku tja di konde go a fesi (Hoy ee say koo cha dee kohnday go ah fehsee: Hold yourself and carry the country forwards) education event in Tutu. The other volunteers taught about HIV/AIDS, nutrition, exercise, teamwork, community, basic health, business, etc. I helped coordinate to make sure things ran smoothly, with the hopes that the event would not turn into a flying box of chicken. Later that day, the U.S. Ambassador joined us. That night, we hired a band of drummers, and we all (including the Ambassador) danced. The next day, we walked around Gunsi, talking about some of the same issues with the villagers and had fun playing sports with the children of the village, which included Red Rover and the great wheelbarrow race. In the evening, we sat peacefully, listed to music, and enjoyed each other’s company. The event, after some stress, ended up being quite successful and actually a lot of fun.
On August 7th, I helped transport the new group of volunteers going to the river. The next few days, I visited with some people in Gunsi, said goodbye to some in Tutu—as my time was running short, helped the new Gunsi volunteer settle in, and was busy running around all over the place. On the Sunday night before I left, the villagers held a small party for me. I was really glad because I wasn’t feeling like I had enough time to say goodbye, as I had hoped. The women made cake. The children sang Dutch school songs, some Saramaccan tunes, and even the Hokey Pokey, which we had learned in English class. A few speeches were made. I made one speech myself about how the 2 years had gone for me, which was full of mixed emotions, some of which the villagers had perhaps not seen before. Koosus and calabash bowls were piled on me. One of the young village girls gave me something she had hand-sewn, something I had asked her to do for me months prior and thought she had forgotten. When she gave me her hand-sewn art, I was left speechless. The gesture meant so much to me, probably more than she’ll ever know. Later, we danced seketi, the traditional Saramaccan dance. The children played some drums. It was all so very overwhelming after 2 years. For me, it was a very sad, nostalgic, joyful moment in time, a moment I will never forget for as long as I live.
The next morning, several villagers came to the shore with me to bid farewell. Donned with some of the koosus given to me the night before, I boarded the boat, emotions welling up inside of me. I will truly miss my home away from home, and the place where I made a new name for myself, a name known to few in the world but that holds a very dear place in my heart…that of Gunsipai Donoe.
I now live in the city with two roommates from the Netherlands. There is a great deal of adjustment to city life. My roommates are making it easier, helping me feel at home here. I took the koosus given to me in Gunsi and decorated my room. It is, needless to say, quite Saramaccan, as I cannot possibly let go of what the two years meant to me. It feels like I brought a part of Gunsi with me. I will miss my life there in that small village along the shore of the Suriname River, even though I am also enjoying and looking forward to my time here in the city.
Since that time, I have been fortunate enough to travel around the country, including to two preserve areas. 3 volunteers and I went to Brownsberg, in the hills outside of Bronsweg, to the west of the lake. It was beautiful. We hiked on all of the trails—to the views from the top, to the waterfalls, to the cool swimming holes at the base of the falls. Howler monkeys could be heard all over the place. Agouti ran rampant. It was a good final trip for those of us left in my group. 2 of us have extended. The others have now gone.
In early October, one of my roommates and I went with 10 Surinamese to Voltzberg, in the National Preserve area (Raleigh vallen). We took a two hour bus ride west to Boskamp, where we boarded a boat on the Coppename River for a 6 hour journey to Fungu Eiland (fuun-goo island), the tourist camp. Fungu is in a beautiful location along a bend in the river. No villages are near the camp. In fact, only 3 or 4 villages lie along the Coppename River, and they are quite a distance downstream. As a result, the area is extremely peaceful, and the wildlife roams free.
The first full day, we went to some falls, hiking in pristine forest. The macaws and toucans were in full force, beautiful birds indeed. We also played a great deal in the river during the day, letting out some of the inner child that some had been hiding for some time in order to act grownup in the workplace. Of course, that was part of my normal routine. ☺ The second day, we went to see many more beautiful areas, including Anyumara Falls, which was a rather forceful waterfall, good for soaking and a strong back massage.
Monkeys were all around the tourist camp. We saw them climbing mango trees, traversing clothes lines rather adeptly—using their tales for counterbalance, and even for visits in the kitchen, where we were cooking.
The third full day, we took the hike up Voltzberg (240 meters tall), which wound its way along a forested trail through the magnificent Suriname wilderness. The last section of the trail, as the mountain has a rounded rock face, was a little steep. Upon reaching the top, we could see for miles in every direction. I could even see Juliana Top (you-lee-ah-nah Top), the highest peak in Suriname. The views were incredible, a sight that takes your breath away. After our descent, we ended the hike with a well-deserved, much-needed second trip to the massage of Anyumara Falls.
It was a wonderful trip. The boat ride was a little long, as we were surrounded by coolers, boxes of food, bags, and each other, a rather large group for the size boat we had. The Sranan Tongo mixed with Dutch was a little taxing on the brain at times, as I only know some of each. However, all in all, it was an extremely worthwhile trip.
Since then, I have been to my first mosque in Suriname, where I went to a call to prayer, and I have now been for my first time ever to a Hindu temple. A trainer from Washington, who led us in diversity sessions, took me there to make a couple of prayers. We were unable to attend a service. However, we prayed by rotating a tray of candles, incense, and flowers clockwise in circular motion. For me, it was a very moving experience, and I hope to have more of them as time goes on.
Other than that, I have been enjoying dancing in the city, having visitors, running, biking, working at the Peace Corps office, going to see volunteers at their sites, going to concerts, and just loving life. It will be exciting to see what this extension year has in store.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
April 07 - Trinidad & Tobago
April 25, 2007
Trinidad and Tobago were phenomenal. I was so tired when I got off the plane, as we had had little sleep. After a short nap in our Bed & Breakfast, we went for a walk. Though tired, we were ecstatic to be there. The lady who ran the Bed & Breakfast was rather difficult to get along with, unaccommodating, and even reduced one other guest to tears. As a result, we made it a point to be out of the house as much as possible. The first few days we spent site-seeing, looking at the children’s parade portion of Carnival, and going out dancing at evening concerts.
The fourth day of Carnival is when we went from observers to participants. People in Trinidad ask you if you’re going to play. This means that you are going to participate in the events. So, you’d respond, “Yes, I’m playing.” We became part of a large group of people who took part in the parading. We arrived at the leader’s / costume designer’s house around 12:00 am. We ate, drank, and dressed for J’ouve (or J’ouvert). According to the BBC news website, “In Trinidad, revelers daub paint and mud on themselves...It is seen as a way of driving away demons. Once washed off it reflects baptism.” In this tradition, we painted and put mud on each other before and throughout the parade, which began at 4:00 am. Loud music and good spirits guided us for hours. At the end, the sun had baked the paint and mud, and I could barely move my face. With many of the participants, you kind of knew what mood they had been in all day as the mud dried their faces in matching expressions. It was fantastic to see everyone let out their inner child, and I mean really let it out. When we returned to the house, we got cleaned up, which was quite a feat, as mud and paint were just caked on. We rested a couple of hours, only to parade again with fresh, clean shirts and shorts. Our whole day was spent walking, dancing, drinking, eating, and loving being alive in Trinidad for Carnival.
The fifth day, still tired from the fourth, we got dressed up in our finest, pre-purchased costumes. Everyone was in full glory for the full day parade. The costumes were just incredibly gorgeous, with an array of colors and styles. The music carried us all forward through the streets and the glory that is Carnival. I am so glad I spent the time and money to be replaced with such a magnificent memory.
The next day, we boarded a ferry for Tobago. I felt a little queasy on the ride, uncertain whether the rocking was solely responsible or coupled with the massive amount of sugar (cake) and coffee I had consumed that morning. After the boat and my stomach settled, I came to realize that I had just arrived in one of the most incredibly beautiful places in the world.
Immediately, we rented a couple of cars. I hadn’t driven in a while, much less on the left side of the road. However, I only managed to knock off one hubcap, which happened right after we rented it. Fortunately, that was the only damage incurred while we were there. We drove to our, what turned out to be, cheap but luxurious accommodations with a great host. It proved to be such a thankfully different experience.
We used the cars to their full potential, seeing the whole island with its waterfalls, curvy narrow roads, foliage, and beautiful seascapes.
One day, we went to a series of falls called Argyle Falls, where we waded, swam, climbed, and even jumped off one area into a pool. The water was cool and refreshing. The falls were everything we had hoped for. The jump was a little scary, as it was a high-dive height jump, but I’m extremely happy I did it all. Then, we drove out to Pirates’ Bay on the northeast side of the island (our B&B being on the western coast). Pirates’ Bay is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. The waves were strong but not forbidding, and it was enlivening to be in paradise.
The next day, we drove out to a place called Speyside to go snorkeling (one volunteer went diving, as he was certified). Those of us snorkeling first went on a short, guided hike on one of the islands, which was being used as a bird sanctuary. Then, we went snorkeling in an area they call Angel Reef. I have never seen such vibrant fish in my life…greens, blues, reds, golds…colors more vibrant than any I’ve seen in my life. Once I got used to the flippers and mask, I totally immersed myself in my underwater wonderland. It was absolutely incredible. Afterwards, three of us went to another waterfall called Rainbow. The others went to the beach. Rainbow Falls was not a series of falls and not quite as fun as Argyle Falls. However, it was beautiful nonetheless.
Another day, we went out to Englishman’s Bay on the north side of the island and spent hours swimming, walking, eating homemade ice cream, and loving life. Englishman’s Bay is also very beautiful, the waves much calmer than those at Pirates’ Bay. The blue and green oceanic mixture there and, in fact, anywhere along the coast simply captivates the eye with its splendor.
The following day, we split up again. I went with three others on a bike ride along the northwest side of the island. The hills made for a challenge, but the ride was wonderfully intoxicating.
Another day, we spent at a beach called Pigeon’s Point, which was within walking distance of us on the western side of Tobago. We watched wind surfers and jet skiers. We relished the warm water and basked in the sun on the soft white sand for hours.
Our final day put us back on the ferry for a smoother ride back to Trinidad. We took a little time in Trinidad before heading to the airport, all very sad to leave. It was, all in all, one of the best, if not THE best, vacations I’ve ever had, and I would recommend it to anyone. I may even go again.
Since I last wrote, we have started building the Gift Shop in Gunsi. We have put the frame in, some wood prep on the frame, and started putting boards on the frame. I’m excited about the prospects after seeing how much can be accomplished in a day. The problem is finding good days to work, when villagers can actually come help build. However, I’m hoping we have it completed soon. In the next few months, we have to work on getting some training for those who will work in the store. It’s good to be getting some actual, hands-on, Peace Corps project work done, and I hope to do more soon.
In March, I ate my first kapasi (kah-pah-see), which is Saramaccan for armadillo. The armadillo here is very tasty, especially the way Saramaccans cook it. On April 2nd, I ate tapir, known to Saramaccans as bofo (boh-foe). Though I’ve eaten it before, this is the first time it was killed by someone in Gunsi. My basia (under captain) shot it. That night, they cut it all up and divided it among the villagers. With an animal the size of a tapir, every single person in Gunsi was able to find some meat. The first I heard of the tapir was one woman running through the village, shouting that bofo had been killed, all the while running with the tapir’s ear in her hand. It was a great moment. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the image of her running through the village, ear in hand, letting everyone know that, after a long wait, some meat had finally arrived. The bofo was delicious.
On March 23rd, I took a canoe down river just a little ways to go fishing. Well, I didn’t catch anything before the line got caught on a stone or submerged log and snapped when I pulled. At the time, I had no hook or line left to make reparations. So, I returned to Gunsi. Once I arrived, I rinsed the borrowed boat and one other one with water. As I was washing the second one out, a fish jumped up and landed right in the middle of the boat. I do not know whether it was divine intervention, the river nymphs feeling sorry for me, or perhaps I just catch fish better with a canoe rather than a pole. In any case, I gave my catch to a lady in the village. Next time, I probably won’t even bother with the pole.
On March 24th, I started my first lesson in a separate class which involves arts and crafts and, hopefully, will extend into other realms of knowledge, such as the solar system. The English class is going well. However, I wanted to start a completely distinct, fun class. So, on the 24th, we learned a little about shading…chiaroscuro, in fact, an artistic method of distributing light and shade in a picture. I learned it in high school. Shading, on something like a sphere, can be done by drawing the pencil across the page repeatedly, more heavily in darker places, or by repeatedly dotting the page. Teaching kids to draw stick figures would be easy, but I had to choose chiaroscuro…and in Saramaccan, nonetheless. Not an easy task. I don’t think it went over quite like I’d hoped, but so it goes. In another class more recently, we did collages, which turned out to be a great success. It was a little simpler and a whole lot of fun. I’m hoping to do more, along the lines of mask-making, creating snowflakes out of paper, and painting in watercolor. I love to see children do a craft or learn something new, and I hope that eventually they, themselves, will find more value in it.
On April 6th, I heard it for about the third time that week. I thought that the villagers just didn’t understand what I was saying. However, I’m told they understand; I just talk quickly. I talk Saramaccan fast. Who would have thought? I guess that, in my struggle to learn the language as I’ve been learning it, I’ve started to talk faster. I thought that maybe just the increased rate of Ameri-maccan (what I call my American version of Saramaccan) was confusing to them, but I am told that they understand. I suppose I’m just so happy to get the words out that it’s like an explosion. I still have some problems understanding, especially when they go into deeper Saramaccan or mix a lot of Dutch words into what they’re saying. However, when I understand, I seem to respond in Saramaccan hesi (heh-see), meaning fast. I, myself, never would have thought it possible in two years.
On March 26th, one of the village women came to sit down in my house. We talked about America, my family, working in gardens here, and about the possibility of my staying another year. I asked her what she thought she would like the next volunteer to be like. Mainly, I was asking whether she thought a male or female would be good to have in the village. She turned to me and said, without choosing either, that the next one she would want to be of “di wan fa” (dee wahn fah), meaning of the one fashion, the one manner. She went on to say that some people see themselves as being higher in status than others, “moon hei” (moh hey), more high…higher in social status, even too good for people. She said that I do not act like this. In other words, unlike many tourists, city people, etc. who come to Gunsi, I live like I actually believe we’re equal.
Whatever work with the class, with the gift shop, with whatever I may do here and is visible to the eye, if I were to come away with just that, with the knowledge that I was seen by the people here as living with them like an equal, I will truly be a happy man. Sometimes, it’s difficult to assess if you make any difference at all. The little things you do may not appear to create a ripple, and the larger projects may never get done like you would like or even at all. However, I guess that wherever you go, whatever you may do, whether you see it or not, there’s some influence, some effect you have on others. It made me very happy to hear that, however small, I have made a positive impact on at least one member of the community. Her words, though simple, proved to be a wondrous gift to me. It truly is the little moments in life that count.
Trinidad and Tobago were phenomenal. I was so tired when I got off the plane, as we had had little sleep. After a short nap in our Bed & Breakfast, we went for a walk. Though tired, we were ecstatic to be there. The lady who ran the Bed & Breakfast was rather difficult to get along with, unaccommodating, and even reduced one other guest to tears. As a result, we made it a point to be out of the house as much as possible. The first few days we spent site-seeing, looking at the children’s parade portion of Carnival, and going out dancing at evening concerts.
The fourth day of Carnival is when we went from observers to participants. People in Trinidad ask you if you’re going to play. This means that you are going to participate in the events. So, you’d respond, “Yes, I’m playing.” We became part of a large group of people who took part in the parading. We arrived at the leader’s / costume designer’s house around 12:00 am. We ate, drank, and dressed for J’ouve (or J’ouvert). According to the BBC news website, “In Trinidad, revelers daub paint and mud on themselves...It is seen as a way of driving away demons. Once washed off it reflects baptism.” In this tradition, we painted and put mud on each other before and throughout the parade, which began at 4:00 am. Loud music and good spirits guided us for hours. At the end, the sun had baked the paint and mud, and I could barely move my face. With many of the participants, you kind of knew what mood they had been in all day as the mud dried their faces in matching expressions. It was fantastic to see everyone let out their inner child, and I mean really let it out. When we returned to the house, we got cleaned up, which was quite a feat, as mud and paint were just caked on. We rested a couple of hours, only to parade again with fresh, clean shirts and shorts. Our whole day was spent walking, dancing, drinking, eating, and loving being alive in Trinidad for Carnival.
The fifth day, still tired from the fourth, we got dressed up in our finest, pre-purchased costumes. Everyone was in full glory for the full day parade. The costumes were just incredibly gorgeous, with an array of colors and styles. The music carried us all forward through the streets and the glory that is Carnival. I am so glad I spent the time and money to be replaced with such a magnificent memory.
The next day, we boarded a ferry for Tobago. I felt a little queasy on the ride, uncertain whether the rocking was solely responsible or coupled with the massive amount of sugar (cake) and coffee I had consumed that morning. After the boat and my stomach settled, I came to realize that I had just arrived in one of the most incredibly beautiful places in the world.
Immediately, we rented a couple of cars. I hadn’t driven in a while, much less on the left side of the road. However, I only managed to knock off one hubcap, which happened right after we rented it. Fortunately, that was the only damage incurred while we were there. We drove to our, what turned out to be, cheap but luxurious accommodations with a great host. It proved to be such a thankfully different experience.
We used the cars to their full potential, seeing the whole island with its waterfalls, curvy narrow roads, foliage, and beautiful seascapes.
One day, we went to a series of falls called Argyle Falls, where we waded, swam, climbed, and even jumped off one area into a pool. The water was cool and refreshing. The falls were everything we had hoped for. The jump was a little scary, as it was a high-dive height jump, but I’m extremely happy I did it all. Then, we drove out to Pirates’ Bay on the northeast side of the island (our B&B being on the western coast). Pirates’ Bay is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. The waves were strong but not forbidding, and it was enlivening to be in paradise.
The next day, we drove out to a place called Speyside to go snorkeling (one volunteer went diving, as he was certified). Those of us snorkeling first went on a short, guided hike on one of the islands, which was being used as a bird sanctuary. Then, we went snorkeling in an area they call Angel Reef. I have never seen such vibrant fish in my life…greens, blues, reds, golds…colors more vibrant than any I’ve seen in my life. Once I got used to the flippers and mask, I totally immersed myself in my underwater wonderland. It was absolutely incredible. Afterwards, three of us went to another waterfall called Rainbow. The others went to the beach. Rainbow Falls was not a series of falls and not quite as fun as Argyle Falls. However, it was beautiful nonetheless.
Another day, we went out to Englishman’s Bay on the north side of the island and spent hours swimming, walking, eating homemade ice cream, and loving life. Englishman’s Bay is also very beautiful, the waves much calmer than those at Pirates’ Bay. The blue and green oceanic mixture there and, in fact, anywhere along the coast simply captivates the eye with its splendor.
The following day, we split up again. I went with three others on a bike ride along the northwest side of the island. The hills made for a challenge, but the ride was wonderfully intoxicating.
Another day, we spent at a beach called Pigeon’s Point, which was within walking distance of us on the western side of Tobago. We watched wind surfers and jet skiers. We relished the warm water and basked in the sun on the soft white sand for hours.
Our final day put us back on the ferry for a smoother ride back to Trinidad. We took a little time in Trinidad before heading to the airport, all very sad to leave. It was, all in all, one of the best, if not THE best, vacations I’ve ever had, and I would recommend it to anyone. I may even go again.
Since I last wrote, we have started building the Gift Shop in Gunsi. We have put the frame in, some wood prep on the frame, and started putting boards on the frame. I’m excited about the prospects after seeing how much can be accomplished in a day. The problem is finding good days to work, when villagers can actually come help build. However, I’m hoping we have it completed soon. In the next few months, we have to work on getting some training for those who will work in the store. It’s good to be getting some actual, hands-on, Peace Corps project work done, and I hope to do more soon.
In March, I ate my first kapasi (kah-pah-see), which is Saramaccan for armadillo. The armadillo here is very tasty, especially the way Saramaccans cook it. On April 2nd, I ate tapir, known to Saramaccans as bofo (boh-foe). Though I’ve eaten it before, this is the first time it was killed by someone in Gunsi. My basia (under captain) shot it. That night, they cut it all up and divided it among the villagers. With an animal the size of a tapir, every single person in Gunsi was able to find some meat. The first I heard of the tapir was one woman running through the village, shouting that bofo had been killed, all the while running with the tapir’s ear in her hand. It was a great moment. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the image of her running through the village, ear in hand, letting everyone know that, after a long wait, some meat had finally arrived. The bofo was delicious.
On March 23rd, I took a canoe down river just a little ways to go fishing. Well, I didn’t catch anything before the line got caught on a stone or submerged log and snapped when I pulled. At the time, I had no hook or line left to make reparations. So, I returned to Gunsi. Once I arrived, I rinsed the borrowed boat and one other one with water. As I was washing the second one out, a fish jumped up and landed right in the middle of the boat. I do not know whether it was divine intervention, the river nymphs feeling sorry for me, or perhaps I just catch fish better with a canoe rather than a pole. In any case, I gave my catch to a lady in the village. Next time, I probably won’t even bother with the pole.
On March 24th, I started my first lesson in a separate class which involves arts and crafts and, hopefully, will extend into other realms of knowledge, such as the solar system. The English class is going well. However, I wanted to start a completely distinct, fun class. So, on the 24th, we learned a little about shading…chiaroscuro, in fact, an artistic method of distributing light and shade in a picture. I learned it in high school. Shading, on something like a sphere, can be done by drawing the pencil across the page repeatedly, more heavily in darker places, or by repeatedly dotting the page. Teaching kids to draw stick figures would be easy, but I had to choose chiaroscuro…and in Saramaccan, nonetheless. Not an easy task. I don’t think it went over quite like I’d hoped, but so it goes. In another class more recently, we did collages, which turned out to be a great success. It was a little simpler and a whole lot of fun. I’m hoping to do more, along the lines of mask-making, creating snowflakes out of paper, and painting in watercolor. I love to see children do a craft or learn something new, and I hope that eventually they, themselves, will find more value in it.
On April 6th, I heard it for about the third time that week. I thought that the villagers just didn’t understand what I was saying. However, I’m told they understand; I just talk quickly. I talk Saramaccan fast. Who would have thought? I guess that, in my struggle to learn the language as I’ve been learning it, I’ve started to talk faster. I thought that maybe just the increased rate of Ameri-maccan (what I call my American version of Saramaccan) was confusing to them, but I am told that they understand. I suppose I’m just so happy to get the words out that it’s like an explosion. I still have some problems understanding, especially when they go into deeper Saramaccan or mix a lot of Dutch words into what they’re saying. However, when I understand, I seem to respond in Saramaccan hesi (heh-see), meaning fast. I, myself, never would have thought it possible in two years.
On March 26th, one of the village women came to sit down in my house. We talked about America, my family, working in gardens here, and about the possibility of my staying another year. I asked her what she thought she would like the next volunteer to be like. Mainly, I was asking whether she thought a male or female would be good to have in the village. She turned to me and said, without choosing either, that the next one she would want to be of “di wan fa” (dee wahn fah), meaning of the one fashion, the one manner. She went on to say that some people see themselves as being higher in status than others, “moon hei” (moh hey), more high…higher in social status, even too good for people. She said that I do not act like this. In other words, unlike many tourists, city people, etc. who come to Gunsi, I live like I actually believe we’re equal.
Whatever work with the class, with the gift shop, with whatever I may do here and is visible to the eye, if I were to come away with just that, with the knowledge that I was seen by the people here as living with them like an equal, I will truly be a happy man. Sometimes, it’s difficult to assess if you make any difference at all. The little things you do may not appear to create a ripple, and the larger projects may never get done like you would like or even at all. However, I guess that wherever you go, whatever you may do, whether you see it or not, there’s some influence, some effect you have on others. It made me very happy to hear that, however small, I have made a positive impact on at least one member of the community. Her words, though simple, proved to be a wondrous gift to me. It truly is the little moments in life that count.
Feb 07 - Christmas & New Year's
February 12, 2007
Thanksgiving at the Ambassador’s house opened with the second coming of the Suriname floods of 2006. At first, everything seemed calm and festive in the sweet comforts of the new U.S. Ambassador to Suriname’s home. Coming in from the rain, we were warmly welcomed by the Ambassador and her husband, as well as their three-legged dog. Hardly had we started settling in to this inviting atmosphere, the very lap of luxury, enshrouded by the glorious, enticing smells of Thanksgiving wafting in from the kitchen, when the rain transformed from a light pitter-patter to a mighty onslaught….so mighty, in fact, that the rain started to come through one large section of the Ambassador’s roof. For a moment, we all froze. Now, for some volunteers, leaky thatch roofs are normal. I would go so far as to say it’s guaranteed, a prerequisite for graduating from the Peace Corps. For some reason, I suppose, we all assumed, perhaps naively, that the U.S. Ambassador’s residence, considering her level of prominence, would, under the weight of a torrential downpour, remain dry as a bone. The rain, in fact, gushed in with stunning magnitude and created, I must say, a rather gorgeous waterfall effect that would put Japanese gardens to shame.
Fortunately, the Ambassador, I feel, could not have asked for a better trained emergency crew than the Peace Corps there present. Although transfixed at first, something clicked in the minds of these volunteers, and they went into autopilot. Immediately, rugs were rolled back, furniture moved, buckets sought to catch the leaks, the floor dried with towels, and plants strategically placed under several of the waterfalls for two very important reasons. The first reason is obvious -- to weather the deluge with as little damage done as possible. Secondly, perhaps less obvious, the plants would, after all, need watering at some point.
The Ambassador must have been trained for such scenarios. She made all of us proud to call her Ambassador, as we saw her scrambling, as well, to combat the Herculean monsoon. I couldn’t help but laugh, though, at our situation, as the volunteers mopped up water, the Ambassador and her husband frantically searched for fresh towels and buckets, the security and house staff battened down the previously undetected hatches, and the three-legged dog lapped up whatever water it could.
A few months prior, I was evacuated from Gunsi to the city due to the flooding along the upper Suriname River. As I observed the water collect on the snow-white tiles in the Ambassador’s house, I couldn’t help wondering if they would now, in turn, evacuate me back to Gunsi.
In December, a decision was made in the community to speed up the process of installing electricity in Gunsi. We have yet to have electricity, but there were a few days there when we dug holes, hauled precut electricity poles up to the sites planned for installation, hoisted a few up into the air, and let them drop, with a thud, into the depths of the holes. Lifting these massive, wooden poles into the air is a feat, I believe, rivaled only by competitors in the great Scottish Caber Toss.
As we hoisted the poles high in the air, shoulder to shoulder, I got the image of the monument of the soldiers at Iwo Jima lifting the flag and firmly placing it in the soil. With great heaves, muscles straining, hearts pounding, tense moments of suspense, followed by cheers of success, I couldn’t help feeling proud and honored to be included in the village. It was truly inspirational and empowering. At the end of the day, our bodies were weary, but our hearts were uplifted and seemed, at least for that brief moment in time, to take flight.
December is mango season. Fairly regularly, you could hear a loud thud as a ripe mango came tumbling to the ground. The mango trees here are absolutely enormous, and the mangos can fall a long way before hitting the ground. Some, I could swear, would register on the Richter scale, and I am extremely thankful one never hit me. The mangos are delicious. They’re so delicious, in fact, that when you hear one drop after school is out for the day, the thud is followed by the thundering of children’s feet as they race to take the prize. I learned to search for mangos while the children were at school and avoid the stampeding herds.
One day, while the children were away, I watched as one of the ladies of Gunsi searched for mangos in the shade of one of the large trees near my house. This lady’s knee has seen the test of time and worn under the strain. She now walks here and there with a staff. Well, on that day, as she walked around perusing the mangos, staff in hand, she held her other hand behind her back. She looked very much like a military general inspecting the troops, making sure they came up to her expectations. When school is out for the day in December, the herds run from tree to tree, ransacking as they go, but while school is in session, General Patton calmly scours the terrain for the very best of the mangos.
On December 21st, they started the broadcast of Gunsi’s Radio Mujee (Rah-dee-o Moo-yea) a little earlier than the usual 7:00 PM. When I turned on my radio to listen, they played Bing Crosby’s White Christmas. I wasn’t sure how I would feel being away from home for a second Christmas. As I listened and cooked cassava soup, I sang along with voices familiar to me from Christmases gone by. With the rain gently falling outside my house, it was, in fact, a little chilly for Suriname. I put on a long-sleeve shirt, ate my soup, drank tea, and reveled in the music of my childhood. It was a nice moment for me at this time of year away from family, snow, and hot chocolate with marshmallows.
Christmas, itself, was festive. Two volunteers from nearby villages and two others from other villages in Suriname came to visit. On Christmas Eve, we went to church in the neighboring village. Most everyone, as is tradition, wore white, and the singing in the filled-to-the-brim church service was ethereal. The church was blanketed with white: dress shirts, blouses, and traditional koosus (co-soos -- Saramaccan skirts). Near the end, candles were lit, and we sang Suriname’s version of Silent Night. I think I’ve rarely felt such inner peace. One of the volunteers stayed briefly. The other three stayed for a few days. All of us enjoyed each other’s company, and for the remainder of our time together, we wrapped ourselves in the warmth of a Saramaccan Christmas.
There is a quote I’d like to share that a man in my village shared with me on the 28th of December. He said, “Mi lobi pusipusi ma de musu bisi buuku” (Me low-be puss-ee-puss-ee mah day moo-soo be-see boo-koo). Translation: “I like cats, but they must wear pants/trousers.” At first, I didn’t know what he meant. When questioned, he informed me that he was referring to the disrespectful way the children around us were acting. In other words, “I like children, but they must be respectful.” I’ve since heard the man use this marvelous phrase, and I hope to put it to good use myself sometime.
The next day, I traveled to Paramaribo and slept one night, only to travel again the next day. I went with another volunteer out to Bigistone, which is on the Marowijne River, on the border of French Guiana. We stayed with the volunteer there in her village, which is made up partly of Okanisi maroons, while the other part is Amerindian. From the get-go, we brought in the New Year in an explosive fashion. By this, I mean that there seemed to be no end to the fireworks, eating, drinking, dancing, and wild celebration. On New Year’s Eve, a great battle of fireworks was waged. Smoke filled the air until you could barely see the houses around you. Shrapnel from the fireworks tumbled from great heights onto the rooftops. In the brief silences between explosions, it was a little eerie how much it seemed, with the night cloaked in this manmade fog, we might just as well have been standing in the middle of a great Civil War battlefield. The fleeting vision of others moving in and out of the haze. The harrowing suspense between explosions. The desire to flee into the confines of whatever shelter was at hand when the fireworks unleashed their fury, and, I could have sworn, at one point, to have heard the Battle Hymn of the Republic. It was an amazing display of sheer, raw firepower.
We continued the New Year celebrations the next day. We crossed over to French Guiana to wish those living there the very best the year could bring them. Though the differences in affluence could not go unnoticed, as Suriname is very clearly a poorer nation, we talked with them, laughed with them, and danced in a rather boisterous fashion. New Year’s seems to be a time to forget our differences, no matter where we’re from, to clean the slate, to live in the moment.
We crossed the river back to Suriname where we continued our revelry late into the night. I personally experienced my first traditional Amerindian dance. I had witnessed a Broko Kindi (Bro-co Kin-dee; Broken Knee) dance during our training here, but this time, I was, myself, drawn into the circle by a welcoming hand. The Broko Kindi is performed by repeatedly bending your knees and swinging your arms while singing. We remained in place for a portion of the dance, and we walked in a circle for another portion, rhythmically stepping and chanting all the while. The repetitive motions and enrapturing singing created a rather trance-like experience for me, very similar to the Pow Wows I’ve been honored to participate in in the U.S. No where have I felt more included, despite my humble attempts at the Broko Kindi. I no longer felt like an individual but, rather, like a piece of the whole. I felt part of me in the ground beneath my feet. I felt part of me in the night air that brushed my cheek. I felt part of me in the song. I felt part of me in the dance. I felt part of me in the hearts and minds of those around me. For me, that moment in time was like tasting the ambrosia of the gods, the sweet nectar of life-everlasting.
Recently, I’ve had a great many visitors in Gunsi, as was the case over Christmas. Many of them, as it has worked out, have been women. I realized that this is how life has been working out up to this point, even though I’ve since had men visit and will undoubtedly host more. What I didn’t realize is the reputation I have built inadvertently. On January 15th, a woman from a neighboring village asked me if I fished with a net. I responded that I do not have a net, but I do go fishing with a pole. One of the Gunsi women cut in, remarking that I do actually have a net, which I cast wide around my house, and with it, I catch women. This is not true in any sense, but nevertheless, I could not stop laughing. The villagers here have a marvelous sense of humor, and as I come to understand more, my days are increasingly filled with laughter and memories to take with me when, ultimately, I must go.
The posts we needed to start building the gift shop in Gunsi have finally been cut. I am hoping we can begin building it soon, and I hope people come together like they did when raising the electricity poles. I really believe the shop is a good opportunity for Gunsi to make money necessary to pay for future community development efforts, as well as provide an outlet for people all along the river to sell their crafts. Also, perhaps, young people will see more value in learning the trades. That is, in any case, my dream, which I hope to wake up to one of these days.
On January 23rd and 24th, some of the villagers in Gunsi collected at the faaka pau (fah-kah pow), the ancestor shrine. Together, we prayed for the well-being of the people here and the progress of Gunsi. We prayed for the Captain of the village. He’s been fairly sick lately, with high blood pressure. We prayed for a lady in the village who has a bad case of diabetes; her foot will not heal. Her husband, before I arrived, died from diabetes, and we hope the case will not be the same for her. We prayed for a young man from the village who, apparently, has lost his vision. It is rumored he will be sent to Cuba for medical help. We prayed for others throughout the community. We also asked God and the ancestors to help us in this new year.
At the end, we sprayed the Captain and Basia (Bah-see-ah; under captain) with rum from our mouths, and prayed over them. Afterwards, we placed our hands on the wooden representations of the ancestors. Pieces of cloth were tied around our wrists. We, in turn, were sprayed with rum, and some final prayers were spoken. The cloth is like a symbol of what transpired. It is like taking a piece of the day, the events, the prayers with you wherever you go. Eventually, the cloth falls off. Once this happens, I am told, it is good to put it in the leaves of your thatched roof. I imagine that it is so you can carry the events with you while you live there. Personally, I believe, that I will carry the day, itself, with me forever.
On January 28th, when a basia asked me how I awoke, I chose to respond with a new phrase I learned recently. “Me weki taanga kuma sitonu” (Me way-key than-gah koo-mah see-toe-nu). In other words, “I woke up strong like a stone.” When I asked how she woke, the basia immediately responded with another I had not heard. She said, “Mi weki moimoi kuma siponsu” (Me way-key moy-moy koo-mah see-pon-sue). She awoke soft as a sponge. There are so many ways to say how you awoke. As I learn more, I increasingly enjoy the exchanges. They can be a lot of fun.
On January 29th, I was talking with one young boy here named Api, who had a day off from school. I was doing my best to talk to him about the solar system, quite a test for me in Saramaccan. We talked about the planets, stars, the moon, the sun, and satellites. We talked about men walking on the moon. We talked about the Mars Rover. The best I could manage, unfortunately, was a remote control van, but I think he understood the concept. At one point, we crossed over into the topic of religion. We talked about heaven. Using the paper on which I had drawn the solar system, I tried to explain that outside of the system lies heaven. I told him that some people believe in heaven, while others do not. My aim was to explain to him that, for believers, heaven lies beyond what we know…that is, outside the physical realm. I believe I managed to get most of my point across, but not before Api smartly took my paper which had the solar system and heaven drawn in rudimentary fashion, and he turned my lesson upside down. He pointed out to me a straight line from the earth, past the other planets, right to heaven. He looked up at me and asked me whether you can cut through the solar system and arrive in heaven by way of rocket travel. I could not help but smile as I got the image of someone in a rocket, blasting his way to heaven. Well, after all, why not? I, personally, can’t imagine a better way to go.
Api is a smart young boy. When he grows up, he wants to be a lawyer. He has an inquisitive mind, and I think that he will do well for himself given the right opportunities. I enjoy talks with Api, and while I live here, I really enjoy moments like this one.
Soon, I am off for a vacation in Trinidad and Tobago. I’m going to Carnival. Woohoo!!! I’m extremely excited about the trip. The vacation, along with the remainder of my time in Gunsi, will go by quickly, I’m sure. As the time since I arrived in Suriname draws out, I feel that the time for being with those here, my Saramaccan family, is too short. I don’t feel there’s nearly enough time to do all I hope for. I suppose I’ll just have to make the most of it.
On February 5th, I made some spicy pumpkin soup. It was really delicious, if I do say so myself. Saramaccans, apparently, do not eat pumpkin without meat….at least, that’s what several have told me. At any rate, I told some of the village men, while at the river bank, that I was making pumpkin soup. They all laughed. One of the men, when he could control his laughter, said, well, without meat, I could at least“feifi” (fay-fee) my rice with it. When I realized that he was saying that I could paint my rice with the soup, I too found myself laughing. We have differences here, and I truly embrace mine, while enjoying the everyday cultural exchange. I WILL eat my pumpkin soup, and on the following day, I decided to eat my leftovers. As I was on my way to my house, I told one of the men, that I had been conversing with on the previous day, that I was on my way to paint my rice again.
With moments like these, I feel extremely fortunate to be living and breathing this chapter of my life here in Gunsi…here in Suriname. The sweet nectar of memories here is rich and invigorating, and I’d have to say that here, in Suriname, my cup truly runneth over.
Thanksgiving at the Ambassador’s house opened with the second coming of the Suriname floods of 2006. At first, everything seemed calm and festive in the sweet comforts of the new U.S. Ambassador to Suriname’s home. Coming in from the rain, we were warmly welcomed by the Ambassador and her husband, as well as their three-legged dog. Hardly had we started settling in to this inviting atmosphere, the very lap of luxury, enshrouded by the glorious, enticing smells of Thanksgiving wafting in from the kitchen, when the rain transformed from a light pitter-patter to a mighty onslaught….so mighty, in fact, that the rain started to come through one large section of the Ambassador’s roof. For a moment, we all froze. Now, for some volunteers, leaky thatch roofs are normal. I would go so far as to say it’s guaranteed, a prerequisite for graduating from the Peace Corps. For some reason, I suppose, we all assumed, perhaps naively, that the U.S. Ambassador’s residence, considering her level of prominence, would, under the weight of a torrential downpour, remain dry as a bone. The rain, in fact, gushed in with stunning magnitude and created, I must say, a rather gorgeous waterfall effect that would put Japanese gardens to shame.
Fortunately, the Ambassador, I feel, could not have asked for a better trained emergency crew than the Peace Corps there present. Although transfixed at first, something clicked in the minds of these volunteers, and they went into autopilot. Immediately, rugs were rolled back, furniture moved, buckets sought to catch the leaks, the floor dried with towels, and plants strategically placed under several of the waterfalls for two very important reasons. The first reason is obvious -- to weather the deluge with as little damage done as possible. Secondly, perhaps less obvious, the plants would, after all, need watering at some point.
The Ambassador must have been trained for such scenarios. She made all of us proud to call her Ambassador, as we saw her scrambling, as well, to combat the Herculean monsoon. I couldn’t help but laugh, though, at our situation, as the volunteers mopped up water, the Ambassador and her husband frantically searched for fresh towels and buckets, the security and house staff battened down the previously undetected hatches, and the three-legged dog lapped up whatever water it could.
A few months prior, I was evacuated from Gunsi to the city due to the flooding along the upper Suriname River. As I observed the water collect on the snow-white tiles in the Ambassador’s house, I couldn’t help wondering if they would now, in turn, evacuate me back to Gunsi.
In December, a decision was made in the community to speed up the process of installing electricity in Gunsi. We have yet to have electricity, but there were a few days there when we dug holes, hauled precut electricity poles up to the sites planned for installation, hoisted a few up into the air, and let them drop, with a thud, into the depths of the holes. Lifting these massive, wooden poles into the air is a feat, I believe, rivaled only by competitors in the great Scottish Caber Toss.
As we hoisted the poles high in the air, shoulder to shoulder, I got the image of the monument of the soldiers at Iwo Jima lifting the flag and firmly placing it in the soil. With great heaves, muscles straining, hearts pounding, tense moments of suspense, followed by cheers of success, I couldn’t help feeling proud and honored to be included in the village. It was truly inspirational and empowering. At the end of the day, our bodies were weary, but our hearts were uplifted and seemed, at least for that brief moment in time, to take flight.
December is mango season. Fairly regularly, you could hear a loud thud as a ripe mango came tumbling to the ground. The mango trees here are absolutely enormous, and the mangos can fall a long way before hitting the ground. Some, I could swear, would register on the Richter scale, and I am extremely thankful one never hit me. The mangos are delicious. They’re so delicious, in fact, that when you hear one drop after school is out for the day, the thud is followed by the thundering of children’s feet as they race to take the prize. I learned to search for mangos while the children were at school and avoid the stampeding herds.
One day, while the children were away, I watched as one of the ladies of Gunsi searched for mangos in the shade of one of the large trees near my house. This lady’s knee has seen the test of time and worn under the strain. She now walks here and there with a staff. Well, on that day, as she walked around perusing the mangos, staff in hand, she held her other hand behind her back. She looked very much like a military general inspecting the troops, making sure they came up to her expectations. When school is out for the day in December, the herds run from tree to tree, ransacking as they go, but while school is in session, General Patton calmly scours the terrain for the very best of the mangos.
On December 21st, they started the broadcast of Gunsi’s Radio Mujee (Rah-dee-o Moo-yea) a little earlier than the usual 7:00 PM. When I turned on my radio to listen, they played Bing Crosby’s White Christmas. I wasn’t sure how I would feel being away from home for a second Christmas. As I listened and cooked cassava soup, I sang along with voices familiar to me from Christmases gone by. With the rain gently falling outside my house, it was, in fact, a little chilly for Suriname. I put on a long-sleeve shirt, ate my soup, drank tea, and reveled in the music of my childhood. It was a nice moment for me at this time of year away from family, snow, and hot chocolate with marshmallows.
Christmas, itself, was festive. Two volunteers from nearby villages and two others from other villages in Suriname came to visit. On Christmas Eve, we went to church in the neighboring village. Most everyone, as is tradition, wore white, and the singing in the filled-to-the-brim church service was ethereal. The church was blanketed with white: dress shirts, blouses, and traditional koosus (co-soos -- Saramaccan skirts). Near the end, candles were lit, and we sang Suriname’s version of Silent Night. I think I’ve rarely felt such inner peace. One of the volunteers stayed briefly. The other three stayed for a few days. All of us enjoyed each other’s company, and for the remainder of our time together, we wrapped ourselves in the warmth of a Saramaccan Christmas.
There is a quote I’d like to share that a man in my village shared with me on the 28th of December. He said, “Mi lobi pusipusi ma de musu bisi buuku” (Me low-be puss-ee-puss-ee mah day moo-soo be-see boo-koo). Translation: “I like cats, but they must wear pants/trousers.” At first, I didn’t know what he meant. When questioned, he informed me that he was referring to the disrespectful way the children around us were acting. In other words, “I like children, but they must be respectful.” I’ve since heard the man use this marvelous phrase, and I hope to put it to good use myself sometime.
The next day, I traveled to Paramaribo and slept one night, only to travel again the next day. I went with another volunteer out to Bigistone, which is on the Marowijne River, on the border of French Guiana. We stayed with the volunteer there in her village, which is made up partly of Okanisi maroons, while the other part is Amerindian. From the get-go, we brought in the New Year in an explosive fashion. By this, I mean that there seemed to be no end to the fireworks, eating, drinking, dancing, and wild celebration. On New Year’s Eve, a great battle of fireworks was waged. Smoke filled the air until you could barely see the houses around you. Shrapnel from the fireworks tumbled from great heights onto the rooftops. In the brief silences between explosions, it was a little eerie how much it seemed, with the night cloaked in this manmade fog, we might just as well have been standing in the middle of a great Civil War battlefield. The fleeting vision of others moving in and out of the haze. The harrowing suspense between explosions. The desire to flee into the confines of whatever shelter was at hand when the fireworks unleashed their fury, and, I could have sworn, at one point, to have heard the Battle Hymn of the Republic. It was an amazing display of sheer, raw firepower.
We continued the New Year celebrations the next day. We crossed over to French Guiana to wish those living there the very best the year could bring them. Though the differences in affluence could not go unnoticed, as Suriname is very clearly a poorer nation, we talked with them, laughed with them, and danced in a rather boisterous fashion. New Year’s seems to be a time to forget our differences, no matter where we’re from, to clean the slate, to live in the moment.
We crossed the river back to Suriname where we continued our revelry late into the night. I personally experienced my first traditional Amerindian dance. I had witnessed a Broko Kindi (Bro-co Kin-dee; Broken Knee) dance during our training here, but this time, I was, myself, drawn into the circle by a welcoming hand. The Broko Kindi is performed by repeatedly bending your knees and swinging your arms while singing. We remained in place for a portion of the dance, and we walked in a circle for another portion, rhythmically stepping and chanting all the while. The repetitive motions and enrapturing singing created a rather trance-like experience for me, very similar to the Pow Wows I’ve been honored to participate in in the U.S. No where have I felt more included, despite my humble attempts at the Broko Kindi. I no longer felt like an individual but, rather, like a piece of the whole. I felt part of me in the ground beneath my feet. I felt part of me in the night air that brushed my cheek. I felt part of me in the song. I felt part of me in the dance. I felt part of me in the hearts and minds of those around me. For me, that moment in time was like tasting the ambrosia of the gods, the sweet nectar of life-everlasting.
Recently, I’ve had a great many visitors in Gunsi, as was the case over Christmas. Many of them, as it has worked out, have been women. I realized that this is how life has been working out up to this point, even though I’ve since had men visit and will undoubtedly host more. What I didn’t realize is the reputation I have built inadvertently. On January 15th, a woman from a neighboring village asked me if I fished with a net. I responded that I do not have a net, but I do go fishing with a pole. One of the Gunsi women cut in, remarking that I do actually have a net, which I cast wide around my house, and with it, I catch women. This is not true in any sense, but nevertheless, I could not stop laughing. The villagers here have a marvelous sense of humor, and as I come to understand more, my days are increasingly filled with laughter and memories to take with me when, ultimately, I must go.
The posts we needed to start building the gift shop in Gunsi have finally been cut. I am hoping we can begin building it soon, and I hope people come together like they did when raising the electricity poles. I really believe the shop is a good opportunity for Gunsi to make money necessary to pay for future community development efforts, as well as provide an outlet for people all along the river to sell their crafts. Also, perhaps, young people will see more value in learning the trades. That is, in any case, my dream, which I hope to wake up to one of these days.
On January 23rd and 24th, some of the villagers in Gunsi collected at the faaka pau (fah-kah pow), the ancestor shrine. Together, we prayed for the well-being of the people here and the progress of Gunsi. We prayed for the Captain of the village. He’s been fairly sick lately, with high blood pressure. We prayed for a lady in the village who has a bad case of diabetes; her foot will not heal. Her husband, before I arrived, died from diabetes, and we hope the case will not be the same for her. We prayed for a young man from the village who, apparently, has lost his vision. It is rumored he will be sent to Cuba for medical help. We prayed for others throughout the community. We also asked God and the ancestors to help us in this new year.
At the end, we sprayed the Captain and Basia (Bah-see-ah; under captain) with rum from our mouths, and prayed over them. Afterwards, we placed our hands on the wooden representations of the ancestors. Pieces of cloth were tied around our wrists. We, in turn, were sprayed with rum, and some final prayers were spoken. The cloth is like a symbol of what transpired. It is like taking a piece of the day, the events, the prayers with you wherever you go. Eventually, the cloth falls off. Once this happens, I am told, it is good to put it in the leaves of your thatched roof. I imagine that it is so you can carry the events with you while you live there. Personally, I believe, that I will carry the day, itself, with me forever.
On January 28th, when a basia asked me how I awoke, I chose to respond with a new phrase I learned recently. “Me weki taanga kuma sitonu” (Me way-key than-gah koo-mah see-toe-nu). In other words, “I woke up strong like a stone.” When I asked how she woke, the basia immediately responded with another I had not heard. She said, “Mi weki moimoi kuma siponsu” (Me way-key moy-moy koo-mah see-pon-sue). She awoke soft as a sponge. There are so many ways to say how you awoke. As I learn more, I increasingly enjoy the exchanges. They can be a lot of fun.
On January 29th, I was talking with one young boy here named Api, who had a day off from school. I was doing my best to talk to him about the solar system, quite a test for me in Saramaccan. We talked about the planets, stars, the moon, the sun, and satellites. We talked about men walking on the moon. We talked about the Mars Rover. The best I could manage, unfortunately, was a remote control van, but I think he understood the concept. At one point, we crossed over into the topic of religion. We talked about heaven. Using the paper on which I had drawn the solar system, I tried to explain that outside of the system lies heaven. I told him that some people believe in heaven, while others do not. My aim was to explain to him that, for believers, heaven lies beyond what we know…that is, outside the physical realm. I believe I managed to get most of my point across, but not before Api smartly took my paper which had the solar system and heaven drawn in rudimentary fashion, and he turned my lesson upside down. He pointed out to me a straight line from the earth, past the other planets, right to heaven. He looked up at me and asked me whether you can cut through the solar system and arrive in heaven by way of rocket travel. I could not help but smile as I got the image of someone in a rocket, blasting his way to heaven. Well, after all, why not? I, personally, can’t imagine a better way to go.
Api is a smart young boy. When he grows up, he wants to be a lawyer. He has an inquisitive mind, and I think that he will do well for himself given the right opportunities. I enjoy talks with Api, and while I live here, I really enjoy moments like this one.
Soon, I am off for a vacation in Trinidad and Tobago. I’m going to Carnival. Woohoo!!! I’m extremely excited about the trip. The vacation, along with the remainder of my time in Gunsi, will go by quickly, I’m sure. As the time since I arrived in Suriname draws out, I feel that the time for being with those here, my Saramaccan family, is too short. I don’t feel there’s nearly enough time to do all I hope for. I suppose I’ll just have to make the most of it.
On February 5th, I made some spicy pumpkin soup. It was really delicious, if I do say so myself. Saramaccans, apparently, do not eat pumpkin without meat….at least, that’s what several have told me. At any rate, I told some of the village men, while at the river bank, that I was making pumpkin soup. They all laughed. One of the men, when he could control his laughter, said, well, without meat, I could at least“feifi” (fay-fee) my rice with it. When I realized that he was saying that I could paint my rice with the soup, I too found myself laughing. We have differences here, and I truly embrace mine, while enjoying the everyday cultural exchange. I WILL eat my pumpkin soup, and on the following day, I decided to eat my leftovers. As I was on my way to my house, I told one of the men, that I had been conversing with on the previous day, that I was on my way to paint my rice again.
With moments like these, I feel extremely fortunate to be living and breathing this chapter of my life here in Gunsi…here in Suriname. The sweet nectar of memories here is rich and invigorating, and I’d have to say that here, in Suriname, my cup truly runneth over.
Oct 06 - Booko Didija
October, 2006
Here's a picture of what happens after a couple of years in the Peace Corps. :)
Here's a picture of what happens after a couple of years in the Peace Corps. :)
After the flooding of my garden three times, I replanted some fruits and vegetables. I recently ate my first corn and watermelon. The corn was decent; the watermelon was ambrosia—absolutely delicious. I also had my first home-grown coffee. I roasted it, crushed it in a mortar, and drank my first cup. I think I have a little to learn yet, but I was happy to find some reward for my work.
At the end of August, I helped “jasa” (yah-sah – fry, or in this case, heat up to widen) my first boat. The boat base is placed on stick supports, holding the boat a foot or so above the ground. Then, a fire is built underneath. The trick is to heat up the boat and loosen it but not to burn holes in it. After some burning, sticks are placed between the sides of the boat to widen it gradually. The fire gets very hot. I should remember to wear long pants next time, as the heat of the fire almost fried my leg hair. Occasionally, with the use of a banana tree trunk with one end loosened up to resemble a brush, some water is smacked on the sides of the boat to keep it from burning too much.
If the boat refuses to widen to what is desired, it must be removed and the thick sections thinned out with an axe and machete. Then, it is returned to the fire until widened completely. Another day, the sides and seats are placed on the boat. They can be painted or left in their natural wood color. Finally, a paddle is made or a motor is placed on the stern. It’s an amazing process. Before coming here, I tended to think very little about what goes into making a boat. Now, at least, I know a little about the Saramaccan way. It takes a lot of work, and it’s so satisfying to put one in the water for the first time. In a way, it’s a little like seeing a baby walk for the first time. You all feel so proud of your work.
I’ve described the burial process already in previous updates. At the beginning of September, we had another segment of the process called limba uwii (limb-bah oo-we – clean leaves). This lasts for three days. In preparation, we cleaned up a little around the village. Then, on a Friday, it all started. I was made a temporary basia (bah-see-ah – under-captain) for the process. Different people can be made temporary basias when help is needed for these events. The village honored me with the title. Granted, with the title comes a lot of work….but an honor, nonetheless. On Friday night, we started a Booko Didija (bow-ko-dee-dee-yah), which means “break the day”. For me, this entailed serving drinks all night to everyone who came, dancing, talking, and not sleeping. I stayed up all night.
The next day, there was a type of play acting, accompanied by drumming. By play acting, I mean that some acted possessed by spirits, some observed, some danced. I was convinced to participate in the dancing. I knew very little of what was being done. However, I, like the others, wore traditional clothing, rubbed dirt on my face, and danced. At a few points during the play acting, we went around the village collecting rice, coconuts, sugar cane, whatever villagers left out for collection. I couldn’t help feeling slightly self-conscious in not knowing what I was doing. However, at the same time, I felt very honored and fully supported by the Saramaccans surrounding me. It is amazing that despite history’s treatment of the Saramaccans through slavery/colonialism, civil war, and the struggles of rural life that continue in Suriname, they welcomed me in their culture with open arms. It left me inspired and truly humbled.
That night, we performed the traditional ritual of tuwee njanjan (too-way nyan-nyan – throwing food), and the next day we performed tuwee wata (too-way wah-tah – throwing water/rum), both in honor of the dead, the ancestors, and God.
The night following the tuwee of water, some of us washed at the river. We followed this with traditional seketi (she-keh-tee). In seketi, you clap, bend over slightly, and sing, while others dance in a traditional seketi fashion. This dance is a combination of moving your hands gracefully through the air and your feet playfully carrying you around within the circle of singers. At the end of seketi, the dancers are often hugged by the singers. I participated, to the best of my ability, in the clapping and dancing. Needless to say, I had a great time. Seketi turned into reggae and Surinamese music, and the celebration continued late into the evening, completing the festivities for the limba uwii.
Following on the heels of the limba uwii, some of us volunteers on the river, a couple from the city, and a few Saramaccans went on a trip to Gaama Konde (Gah-mah kon-day). Gaama is the word used for the leader of all clans, the chief Saramaccan. The headquarters are located in Asindohopo, a village further south, located on the Pikilio (pick-ee lee-o – little river). The Pikilio branches off from the Gaanlio (gahn lee-o – big river) at the point of Tapa Wata (Tah-pah wah-tah), a large and beautiful, cascading waterfall.
We actually stayed in a village called Semoisi (Seh-moy-see) for three nights. On the first full day after traveling, we went to meet the Gaama in Asindohopo. We sat down and talked with him for a while. He was made Gaama about a year ago. So part of what we did was explain Peace Corps’ purpose. Afterwards, we went to swim and play at Tapa Wata. The vegetation in the falls is amazing. There are long, green stems throughout the falls, preventing the stones from being slippery and dangerous while providing a network of flora rope ladders, enabling the adventurous to climb to the top. At the top of the falls lie large green leaves that reminded me a lot of lettuce and made me long for a hearty salad. Sitting at the base of the waterfall, the pounding water provided us all with a nice massage, easing all our traveling pains.
The following day, we met with some of the leaders and villagers of Semoisi, explaining the purpose of Peace Corps to them as well. We proceeded to walk around the village to the cool, crystal-clear creek back in the forest. Later that evening, we returned to the wonders and comforts of Tapa Wata before retiring for the night. The next day, we returned to our own villages, but I will never forget our journey to Gaama Konde. I am hoping to take another trip in the new year, to experience the distinct wonders of the Gaanlio.
A few days later, one of the ladies in my village, Baba, came up to me while I was eating oatmeal for breakfast, drinking tea, and reading an issue of our Peace Corps distributed Newsweeks. She said, “You have the same sickness I have.” Curious as to her meaning, I asked what she was referring to. She replied, in good spirits, “When I get up in the morning, I really need to eat, too.” I enjoy, as I understand more, catching the little pieces of humor the villagers choose to share with me.
Recently, we celebrated the birthday of one of the other volunteers. She is a city volunteer and wanted to experience a birthday in a village. Here, if you want to have a birthday party, you throw it yourself. We worked together, with the help of two others from the neighboring village, to host the entire village. Some of the villagers were nice enough to help out with technical issues, too. We made three cakes, a lot of popcorn, a meat bucket full of juice (like Gatorade), and a little bit of alcohol for those who cared to indulge. The children of the village helped decorate the meeting hall with flowers. When the birthday girl arrived, the kids sang to her, as is a tradition. They crowded around and sang practically every song they knew beyond the birthday songs. We then watched a music video provided by one of the villagers. Following that, we played music and danced. It all lasted for about 4 1⁄2 hours.
Some of the children got a little out of hand with all of the sugar consumed. It was not disastrous but, rather, truly humorous as the normally sweet children went from asking for food and drink respectfully morphing into sugar-saturated little monsters, as they bellowed out, “CAKE! CAKE!” and “JUICE! JUICE!”. I’ve never seen the effect that that much sugar can have on people, and, honestly, I hope, in the interest of safety and peace of mind, never to see it again. It was truly a frightening transition. As for the birthday party, we felt it was a tremendous success.
That’s about it for now. However, I’d like to leave you with another image from a moment in my life. Near the end of August, I went to visit the two volunteers in the nearby village. That night, the storm clouds rolled in. Not just any rain clouds. Dark, ominous ones. One man, who lives near one of the other volunteers, claimed the rain would not fall. He was extremely adamant. In fact, he took out his chair, set it in the middle of the cluster of houses, facing the thundering clouds and lightning, and stared the storm down. As he faced the impending onslaught, he bellowed out repeatedly, “It won’t fall. It won’t fall.” I got the image of Captain Ahab, very sure of himself, saying he would find and kill the white whale.
In the face of a fast-approaching storm and despite my meager claims that I believed the rain was coming, Biga (the man’s nickname) remained steadfast in his chair, determined to defeat the raging skyline with chest swelled and a forbidding stare. “It will NOT fall!”
The rain fell long and hard that night. At one point, he picked up his chair and retired into the shelter of his abode. However, I fancy that, when all the other people were wrapped in their bed sheets or swaying in their hammocks, Captain Biga returned to the storm front, cursing the skies, laying claim that he would, in the face of disbelief, defeat his white whale.
Aug 06 - A Funeral
August 04, 2006
I will do my best to recount what has happened to me over the past couple of months. It's been a while since I wrote an update like this one. I hope this finds you all well. We had our first funeral in Gunsi. I did not know the man, as he went to the city before I arrived in the village. However, he was brought to Gunsi to be buried. As the boat arrived with the casket, those of us who didn't make it to Atjoni (where the river meets the road that goes into the city) emerged from the village to stand on the shore. As the boat pulled into the shore, one of the villagers pushed the boat back two times before he allowed the boat to land on the third approach. This is a tradition for the final arrival of an individual coming to rest in Gunsi. Two men then took the casket on their heads, did a series of spinning, walking back and forth, and walking towards members of the village. As they approached a villager, the villager would stop them with his hand and respond verbally to what I found out later to be the spirit of the deceased talking and controlling the movements of the casket bearers.
We washed the body over a freshly dug, shallow hole. We prepared the open-air shelter for the deceased by tying leaves along the sides and back of the structure. Then, a platform for the body was built. Large cloths and two large hammocks were placed on the platform. The body was then placed on top, and each cloth was wrapped around the body, left hand side of each cloth on top of the right side. Villagers tied the body's big toes together and tied the jaw to the head. A large cloth was then placed over the front of the shelter. During the course of all of this, those of us who had touched the body washed our hands several times with alcohol. This served as a form of cleansing.
On the second day, the casket they brought the body in was broken. In church communities, this is not done. The body is buried in the original casket. However, in villages like mine, the casket is broken and a larger, differently shaped one is built. It's just tradition. Much of the wood from the original was used, but several changes were made. The body was wrapped in more cloths. Before the body was placed in the casket, a few men sprinkled the outside of the
casket with several colors. Following this, the body was placed inside, the lid was closed, and a long, twisted cloth was wrapped and tied around the casket. A few decorative cloths were then placed over the top of the casket and nailed down. Then, the casket was placed on the platform in the shelter.
On the third day, we all prepared to go dig the grave. As we did for the grave digging in Nieuw Aurora/Tutu, I tied a type of grass to the inside of my shorts, as this protects me from reproductive system difficulties. You may be skeptical about this tradition. However, I chose to be on the safe side and tie the piece of grass rather than running the risk. Then, all the men who were going to dig boarded the boats to head down river. In other villages, the graveyard is within walking distance. However, in Gunsi, it is necessary to go down river to a somewhat hidden forest path that leads to the burial ground. As we walked through the forest, several members of our group lightly knocked some of the trees with their work tools. This was later explained to me, once I had inquired. I was told that just as you knock on the door to someone's house before you enter, you knock on the trees as you enter an area of spirits. Everything was, in very precise fashion, marked for digging. Two of the young men then acted out a type of almost plowing form of digging. One bent down while the other held onto his back as they traversed the future grave. First they dug out chunks of dirt with a stick. They repeated this twice more, once with a hoe and then with a shovel. Following this ritual, everyone began digging the grave. We had carried a live chicken with us. This was killed at the head of the grave, and some of the blood was allowed to flow. The head and feet were charred over a fire that had been built under a temporary shelter. These blackened pieces of chicken were then laid on cassava at the head of the grave, a ritualistically spiritual presentation.
At one point, I needed to go to the restroom, if you will. I was told that you must squat as you do so. It is a way also of protecting yourself. So, again, I followed suit rather than running the risk. I believe this is the best policy when clearly unknowledgeable about any of it.
During the course of the digging, men took turns with the shovels. Others, meanwhile, knocked sticks together and sang. Others took turns dinging a metal piece of a hoe like a bell. This dinging rhythm was carried out the entire day at the gravesite, creating almost a trance-inducing atmosphere to the process. It was amazing, especially with the singing, which is the closest I have come to very genuine, unadulterated spiritual music, along the lines of Old Man River, Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, and Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen. I'm not sure if I can provide words that can effectively explain the feeling of calm, joy, awe, and warmth that surged through me. I think that it was the closest I've come to God in my life. We ate, drank, and dug for hours. Of course, there was wrestling, as usual. This first day, I did not compete, as I did the last time I went to a gravesite. However, I watched as the others, sinews throbbing, sheer muscular power pulsating, hurled each other around the gravesite.
Before we left for the day, as darkness was approaching fast, I was informed that the work tools were to be left at the site. However, all else must leave with you, as you would not be able to retrieve them later. Traditions are traditions for a reason. I took my shoes, and we started the walk back. On the return to Gunsi in the boat, a few of the men played drums until we arrived at the shore, where villagers left behind awaited our arrival.
A couple of the men took a board with a wrapped package of nails and pieces of hair from the body tied to it, placed the board on their heads, and their spirit once again directed their movements and communicated with the villagers. Traditional play acting followed, tales of the hardship encountered by those digging the grave. "We did hard work for the village and for our lost family member. We are starving, weary, really cold.." It ran along those lines. The villagers responded by telling us what they had for us to eat and drink that they had prepared for us. Some was playful, while some was a little more on the serious side. The Captain (leader) of the village had to explain himself a little about why he was not at the grave digging. His mother has been quite sick. He explained himself, and an elder leader of Gunsi gave a voice from the village that the Captain had some right in the matter.
A great deal of praying ensued. Then, we went to wash ourselves at the river, making sure to remove the blades of grass we had attached in the morning. That night, I danced until about 2:30, not managing to stay awake all night, as I was worn out from the day's activities.
The fourth day brought a return to the grave site to finish the digging. At the foot of the grave, we dug a rounded out extension which I was told is the "cookhouse" for the person who died. It was to serve as a place to cook in the afterlife. The rest of the day was very similar to the one preceding, though this time I participated in the wrestling a little, actually pulled into the thick of it by a man I work with in the village. We'll just say that neither of us really got the better of the other, and, in that, I find comfort. I stayed up and danced past 4:00 in the morning this time, at which point I passed out in my hammock again.
The fifth day began with some of the gravediggers hoisting the casket and carrying it to the boat. On the way down river, a man with a gun in the boat fired shots. We then carried the casket along the forested path, an extremely difficult task, as we strained under the weight. Unused pieces of the former coffin were cut up and thrown in the woods at the path's edge. We lowered the casket into the grave, covered it with boards and leaves, and started piling dirt into a mound. A post was placed at each corner of the mound, and a cross with dates of birth and death painted on it was placed at the head of the grave. As they stamped down the mound of dirt, they circled the grave, clapped, and chanted. It was a very touching way to say our final goodbye. We then prayed and poured a little rum on the grave to give our respects. As usual, we returned to the village, reported to the villagers something of the day's proceedings, and washed ourselves.
At one point during the course of the fifth day, one woman gave me some cassava and peanut butter to eat. I washed the dish and took it to where the women cook for the funerals. As I approached, I heard them informing each other. I was told to wash my hands, walk around to the front of the cookhouse, and that they would tjuma (chu-mah - burn) me. Needless to say, I was a little concerned. Lacking knowledge of cultural traditions, I imagined this would be some form of punishment for doing something incorrectly. I was told to hold out my hands over a plate. The next thing I knew, a clump of hot pinda njanjan (peen-dah nyanyan - peanut rice) was placed directly in my hands. I was told to drop the rice in the plate, take it, and go enjoy it. Punishment-no way. Far from it. Very tasty rice! By tjuma, they meant the process of putting hot food in my hands. I was relieved. I also quickly became very full and chose to wait before returning with the dish again, as I could eat no more. The gravediggers built a fire by the shore, dressed in what we wore at the gravesite, and enveloped ourselves in smoke-another form of cleansing. We also smoked the work tools. Then, all the villagers gathered together. A few of the young men piled peanut and white rice, fish broth, etc. on one huge, round platter. Then, some of the food was tossed out on the ground in honor of the deceased and their god. This is called tuwee njanjan (tu-way nyan-nyan – throw food). The remainder of the food was divided among the villagers. Food was put in my hands, as before. Chicken and turtle were other options brought in for meat. I had a little chicken. This was all followed by more praying.
In the morning of the sixth day, I missed the pouring of rum (tuwee wata - throw water) on the ground and praying. I was with one of the other volunteers for this event. During the day, the hammocks and other cloths associated with the burial were all washed clean.
Three days later, we tuwee'd water again. That evening, we ate, drank, danced, and shared each other's company again. The following day, we tuwee'd water in the morning and tuwee'd njanjan in the evening. For a final time, we talked with the spirit of the deceased. The board was then cut up, we prayed, and completed the burial process. It was a long and tiring process, but there were some marvelous humorous moments, some awe-inspiring, spiritual ones, and some moments of sheer beauty. I cannot imagine a better, more respectful, loving way to be buried. I can only hope to be so fortunate.
On a lighter note, I watched a great deal of the World Cup in another village and the city. Many were broken-hearted by the loss of Brazil. According to Saramaccans, those who lose "go a wosu" (go home). I watched up to the end to see Italy's triumphant victory over France. Despite Brazil's loss, I enjoyed every moment.
Two more of the volunteers along the Suriname River have now returned to the US. At the first party, we went to a Roman Catholic Church service, where we were given cultural gifts, despite my protest that we weren't leaving yet. Merely being associated with the village's volunteer was enough to warrant gifts. Following the service, we started dancing and eating.
In the middle of the day, we went across the river to watch some school soccer matches. We returned to more dancing in the evening. It was one of the most fun parties I've ever been to. I was completely worn out. The party for the other volunteer also started with a service, but this time in a Moravian Church. More soccer and dancing ensued. Along the shore of the river in the morning, all of the school children and teachers filled the banks of the river, sang, and waved goodbye to their volunteer. The boat circled three times, people crying, and carried their volunteer away for the last time. It was a very moving experience for all of us. Goodbyes such as these make it extremely difficult for volunteers to pull themselves away from the place they've called home for two years and the friends they've come to think of as family. Cherished memories. Fairly recently, we celebrated Emancipation Day here, known as Masi Pasi or Keti Koti (Chain Cut). Due to a couple of people's deaths at the time, the celebrations did not commence as planned. However, in Tutu (many of Gunsi villagers wanted to go to the neighboring, larger village), there was some soccer and dancing during the day, followed by more dancing at night. Some masks were involved in the festivities, too..those who had them. The following morning, Sunday, children and a few teachers carrying torches walked around the village asking for food or money. The masks, coupled with the trick-or-treat like community walk, reminded me a little of Halloween. Some of us then went to church. During the course of the service, a couple of children were chased, screaming, around the church by a masked person. The church people were not very pleased by this. However, I, secretly, found it hilarious, and it wrapped up the holiday perfectly.
English classes are still going strong. I have taught Ray Charles' Hit the Road, Jack, and we had our first English exam. If you've never given an English exam in a small, Saramaccan village, let's just say that, "Sit down, be quiet, and don't cheat" seems to translate to "Hop up out of your seat every five seconds, talk as much as possible including telling the teacher out loud repeatedly that you do not know the answer to a question, hide a few of your notebooks in select places around the room, and walk across the room to try to look at other students' answers". I never realized it, but that must have been exactly that I was saying. Who knew? Having only taken classes once a week for a few months, though, the students did remarkably well.
A couple of the new group of trainees came up to visit me for a few nights. I showed them around the village, we cooked all kind of great food, including mango pancakes, we bought a piece of large, edible rodent someone had killed and carried it with us when we went to visit the young women volunteers and trainees in Tutu. We were very proud of the meat we brought them, and when the two guys swore in as volunteers last night, I kind of felt like I was watching my own children graduate. I was very proud. On July 8th, we celebrated the 4th of July at the Ambassador's house. Leave it to the government to celebrate the 4th on the 8th. In any case, there was a lot of great food, volleyball, games for kids (and volunteers), and fireworks. It was a good way to celebrate our independence in a foreign country. I didn't experience so much fanfare from the British while I was in England. I don't know. Maybe some of my friends are still a little bitter. The one here was a lot of fun, though.
I took a trip to Galibi, on the eastern side of the country, to go see the sea turtles. We were awakened at 3:15 am in the morning, took a boat to the beaches of French Guiana. There, we were met by some extremely large Leatherback Sea Turtles. On average, these turtles weigh 600-1000 pounds. One of the turtles laid some eggs in the sand while we were there. Using its back feet or flippers, the turtle very precisely dug a deep hole in the sand, laid its eggs, and buried them. Meanwhile, some French researchers took blood and fatty tissue samples. When the turtle had buried its eggs, the researchers hoisted it up with a tripod structure to take the weight measurement. 350 kilograms. Once released, the turtle pulled itself along the shore to the water, where it then, very quickly, swam into the depths of the sea. As the sun rose, we departed to return to Suriname. It was an amazing experience. The rest of the time in Galibi was relaxing: walks on the beach, eating, sleeping, enjoying the seascape. I have now helped pull my second boat through Gunsi. Again, we had a large crew of people gathered together, gripping the vine tied to the bow of the boat tightly, yelling out "Let's go!", and walking, or running, through the forest and village, followed by a very large freshly cut boat. As we approached the outskirts of the village, I lost my flip-flops in the murky creek bed. As I stepped into the water, my feet sank into the soft mud, and the flip-flops never returned. I was left without for the remainder of the haul. I guess I'm getting village feet now, as I managed to make it the rest of the way without doing serious damage on the stones, twigs, and thorns. I don't think I can quite capture the experience of this with words. Just imagine a large group of people pulling a long boat by a vine, winding their way, sweating, sometimes straining to make it up a steep hill, sometimes fearful of a villager's house as the boat approaches, sometimes fearful of their own lives as the boat approaches their feet at a faster downhill pace, ever-determined to complete their mission, and feeling a sense of glory upon arriving on the shores of the boat's new home. There's no experience like it in the world.
I went to another concert the other night. I went to listen to a German reggae artist named Gentleman. The cattle call to get through the entrance was a little trying. However, the concert proved well worth the compression of vital bodily organs. So, we bought the cheap tickets, but some of us managed to work our way up to the front. I had two people between me and the stage. It was a dance party that surged with energy. Surrounded by sweating, electrified, jumping Surinamese, I felt a little like I had become enveloped by roaring flames. The music was astounding, and there was never a break in the energy, but rather a gradual swell that burst open in the end, leaving us breathless as we worked our weary way home. Last night, as mentioned before, the new group swore in. They are now full-fledged volunteers. They have put a great deal of hard work into the training, and deserve great commendation. I look forward to living and working with them in this coming year, as I approach my mid-service mark. As of the end of September, I will have been in Gunsi for a year. Through all the ups and downs so far, I am left with high hopes for the year to come. I can feel myself change by the day, as the effects of my Peace Corps service and the Surinamese people become a part of the man I am to be. I love my service here, despite the difficulties in dealing with politics, language barriers, and losing many in our group of volunteers. Tomorrow, I return to my village. As I approach Gunsi, I always feel like I'm arriving home.
I will do my best to recount what has happened to me over the past couple of months. It's been a while since I wrote an update like this one. I hope this finds you all well. We had our first funeral in Gunsi. I did not know the man, as he went to the city before I arrived in the village. However, he was brought to Gunsi to be buried. As the boat arrived with the casket, those of us who didn't make it to Atjoni (where the river meets the road that goes into the city) emerged from the village to stand on the shore. As the boat pulled into the shore, one of the villagers pushed the boat back two times before he allowed the boat to land on the third approach. This is a tradition for the final arrival of an individual coming to rest in Gunsi. Two men then took the casket on their heads, did a series of spinning, walking back and forth, and walking towards members of the village. As they approached a villager, the villager would stop them with his hand and respond verbally to what I found out later to be the spirit of the deceased talking and controlling the movements of the casket bearers.
We washed the body over a freshly dug, shallow hole. We prepared the open-air shelter for the deceased by tying leaves along the sides and back of the structure. Then, a platform for the body was built. Large cloths and two large hammocks were placed on the platform. The body was then placed on top, and each cloth was wrapped around the body, left hand side of each cloth on top of the right side. Villagers tied the body's big toes together and tied the jaw to the head. A large cloth was then placed over the front of the shelter. During the course of all of this, those of us who had touched the body washed our hands several times with alcohol. This served as a form of cleansing.
On the second day, the casket they brought the body in was broken. In church communities, this is not done. The body is buried in the original casket. However, in villages like mine, the casket is broken and a larger, differently shaped one is built. It's just tradition. Much of the wood from the original was used, but several changes were made. The body was wrapped in more cloths. Before the body was placed in the casket, a few men sprinkled the outside of the
casket with several colors. Following this, the body was placed inside, the lid was closed, and a long, twisted cloth was wrapped and tied around the casket. A few decorative cloths were then placed over the top of the casket and nailed down. Then, the casket was placed on the platform in the shelter.
On the third day, we all prepared to go dig the grave. As we did for the grave digging in Nieuw Aurora/Tutu, I tied a type of grass to the inside of my shorts, as this protects me from reproductive system difficulties. You may be skeptical about this tradition. However, I chose to be on the safe side and tie the piece of grass rather than running the risk. Then, all the men who were going to dig boarded the boats to head down river. In other villages, the graveyard is within walking distance. However, in Gunsi, it is necessary to go down river to a somewhat hidden forest path that leads to the burial ground. As we walked through the forest, several members of our group lightly knocked some of the trees with their work tools. This was later explained to me, once I had inquired. I was told that just as you knock on the door to someone's house before you enter, you knock on the trees as you enter an area of spirits. Everything was, in very precise fashion, marked for digging. Two of the young men then acted out a type of almost plowing form of digging. One bent down while the other held onto his back as they traversed the future grave. First they dug out chunks of dirt with a stick. They repeated this twice more, once with a hoe and then with a shovel. Following this ritual, everyone began digging the grave. We had carried a live chicken with us. This was killed at the head of the grave, and some of the blood was allowed to flow. The head and feet were charred over a fire that had been built under a temporary shelter. These blackened pieces of chicken were then laid on cassava at the head of the grave, a ritualistically spiritual presentation.
At one point, I needed to go to the restroom, if you will. I was told that you must squat as you do so. It is a way also of protecting yourself. So, again, I followed suit rather than running the risk. I believe this is the best policy when clearly unknowledgeable about any of it.
During the course of the digging, men took turns with the shovels. Others, meanwhile, knocked sticks together and sang. Others took turns dinging a metal piece of a hoe like a bell. This dinging rhythm was carried out the entire day at the gravesite, creating almost a trance-inducing atmosphere to the process. It was amazing, especially with the singing, which is the closest I have come to very genuine, unadulterated spiritual music, along the lines of Old Man River, Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, and Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen. I'm not sure if I can provide words that can effectively explain the feeling of calm, joy, awe, and warmth that surged through me. I think that it was the closest I've come to God in my life. We ate, drank, and dug for hours. Of course, there was wrestling, as usual. This first day, I did not compete, as I did the last time I went to a gravesite. However, I watched as the others, sinews throbbing, sheer muscular power pulsating, hurled each other around the gravesite.
Before we left for the day, as darkness was approaching fast, I was informed that the work tools were to be left at the site. However, all else must leave with you, as you would not be able to retrieve them later. Traditions are traditions for a reason. I took my shoes, and we started the walk back. On the return to Gunsi in the boat, a few of the men played drums until we arrived at the shore, where villagers left behind awaited our arrival.
A couple of the men took a board with a wrapped package of nails and pieces of hair from the body tied to it, placed the board on their heads, and their spirit once again directed their movements and communicated with the villagers. Traditional play acting followed, tales of the hardship encountered by those digging the grave. "We did hard work for the village and for our lost family member. We are starving, weary, really cold.." It ran along those lines. The villagers responded by telling us what they had for us to eat and drink that they had prepared for us. Some was playful, while some was a little more on the serious side. The Captain (leader) of the village had to explain himself a little about why he was not at the grave digging. His mother has been quite sick. He explained himself, and an elder leader of Gunsi gave a voice from the village that the Captain had some right in the matter.
A great deal of praying ensued. Then, we went to wash ourselves at the river, making sure to remove the blades of grass we had attached in the morning. That night, I danced until about 2:30, not managing to stay awake all night, as I was worn out from the day's activities.
The fourth day brought a return to the grave site to finish the digging. At the foot of the grave, we dug a rounded out extension which I was told is the "cookhouse" for the person who died. It was to serve as a place to cook in the afterlife. The rest of the day was very similar to the one preceding, though this time I participated in the wrestling a little, actually pulled into the thick of it by a man I work with in the village. We'll just say that neither of us really got the better of the other, and, in that, I find comfort. I stayed up and danced past 4:00 in the morning this time, at which point I passed out in my hammock again.
The fifth day began with some of the gravediggers hoisting the casket and carrying it to the boat. On the way down river, a man with a gun in the boat fired shots. We then carried the casket along the forested path, an extremely difficult task, as we strained under the weight. Unused pieces of the former coffin were cut up and thrown in the woods at the path's edge. We lowered the casket into the grave, covered it with boards and leaves, and started piling dirt into a mound. A post was placed at each corner of the mound, and a cross with dates of birth and death painted on it was placed at the head of the grave. As they stamped down the mound of dirt, they circled the grave, clapped, and chanted. It was a very touching way to say our final goodbye. We then prayed and poured a little rum on the grave to give our respects. As usual, we returned to the village, reported to the villagers something of the day's proceedings, and washed ourselves.
At one point during the course of the fifth day, one woman gave me some cassava and peanut butter to eat. I washed the dish and took it to where the women cook for the funerals. As I approached, I heard them informing each other. I was told to wash my hands, walk around to the front of the cookhouse, and that they would tjuma (chu-mah - burn) me. Needless to say, I was a little concerned. Lacking knowledge of cultural traditions, I imagined this would be some form of punishment for doing something incorrectly. I was told to hold out my hands over a plate. The next thing I knew, a clump of hot pinda njanjan (peen-dah nyanyan - peanut rice) was placed directly in my hands. I was told to drop the rice in the plate, take it, and go enjoy it. Punishment-no way. Far from it. Very tasty rice! By tjuma, they meant the process of putting hot food in my hands. I was relieved. I also quickly became very full and chose to wait before returning with the dish again, as I could eat no more. The gravediggers built a fire by the shore, dressed in what we wore at the gravesite, and enveloped ourselves in smoke-another form of cleansing. We also smoked the work tools. Then, all the villagers gathered together. A few of the young men piled peanut and white rice, fish broth, etc. on one huge, round platter. Then, some of the food was tossed out on the ground in honor of the deceased and their god. This is called tuwee njanjan (tu-way nyan-nyan – throw food). The remainder of the food was divided among the villagers. Food was put in my hands, as before. Chicken and turtle were other options brought in for meat. I had a little chicken. This was all followed by more praying.
In the morning of the sixth day, I missed the pouring of rum (tuwee wata - throw water) on the ground and praying. I was with one of the other volunteers for this event. During the day, the hammocks and other cloths associated with the burial were all washed clean.
Three days later, we tuwee'd water again. That evening, we ate, drank, danced, and shared each other's company again. The following day, we tuwee'd water in the morning and tuwee'd njanjan in the evening. For a final time, we talked with the spirit of the deceased. The board was then cut up, we prayed, and completed the burial process. It was a long and tiring process, but there were some marvelous humorous moments, some awe-inspiring, spiritual ones, and some moments of sheer beauty. I cannot imagine a better, more respectful, loving way to be buried. I can only hope to be so fortunate.
On a lighter note, I watched a great deal of the World Cup in another village and the city. Many were broken-hearted by the loss of Brazil. According to Saramaccans, those who lose "go a wosu" (go home). I watched up to the end to see Italy's triumphant victory over France. Despite Brazil's loss, I enjoyed every moment.
Two more of the volunteers along the Suriname River have now returned to the US. At the first party, we went to a Roman Catholic Church service, where we were given cultural gifts, despite my protest that we weren't leaving yet. Merely being associated with the village's volunteer was enough to warrant gifts. Following the service, we started dancing and eating.
In the middle of the day, we went across the river to watch some school soccer matches. We returned to more dancing in the evening. It was one of the most fun parties I've ever been to. I was completely worn out. The party for the other volunteer also started with a service, but this time in a Moravian Church. More soccer and dancing ensued. Along the shore of the river in the morning, all of the school children and teachers filled the banks of the river, sang, and waved goodbye to their volunteer. The boat circled three times, people crying, and carried their volunteer away for the last time. It was a very moving experience for all of us. Goodbyes such as these make it extremely difficult for volunteers to pull themselves away from the place they've called home for two years and the friends they've come to think of as family. Cherished memories. Fairly recently, we celebrated Emancipation Day here, known as Masi Pasi or Keti Koti (Chain Cut). Due to a couple of people's deaths at the time, the celebrations did not commence as planned. However, in Tutu (many of Gunsi villagers wanted to go to the neighboring, larger village), there was some soccer and dancing during the day, followed by more dancing at night. Some masks were involved in the festivities, too..those who had them. The following morning, Sunday, children and a few teachers carrying torches walked around the village asking for food or money. The masks, coupled with the trick-or-treat like community walk, reminded me a little of Halloween. Some of us then went to church. During the course of the service, a couple of children were chased, screaming, around the church by a masked person. The church people were not very pleased by this. However, I, secretly, found it hilarious, and it wrapped up the holiday perfectly.
English classes are still going strong. I have taught Ray Charles' Hit the Road, Jack, and we had our first English exam. If you've never given an English exam in a small, Saramaccan village, let's just say that, "Sit down, be quiet, and don't cheat" seems to translate to "Hop up out of your seat every five seconds, talk as much as possible including telling the teacher out loud repeatedly that you do not know the answer to a question, hide a few of your notebooks in select places around the room, and walk across the room to try to look at other students' answers". I never realized it, but that must have been exactly that I was saying. Who knew? Having only taken classes once a week for a few months, though, the students did remarkably well.
A couple of the new group of trainees came up to visit me for a few nights. I showed them around the village, we cooked all kind of great food, including mango pancakes, we bought a piece of large, edible rodent someone had killed and carried it with us when we went to visit the young women volunteers and trainees in Tutu. We were very proud of the meat we brought them, and when the two guys swore in as volunteers last night, I kind of felt like I was watching my own children graduate. I was very proud. On July 8th, we celebrated the 4th of July at the Ambassador's house. Leave it to the government to celebrate the 4th on the 8th. In any case, there was a lot of great food, volleyball, games for kids (and volunteers), and fireworks. It was a good way to celebrate our independence in a foreign country. I didn't experience so much fanfare from the British while I was in England. I don't know. Maybe some of my friends are still a little bitter. The one here was a lot of fun, though.
I took a trip to Galibi, on the eastern side of the country, to go see the sea turtles. We were awakened at 3:15 am in the morning, took a boat to the beaches of French Guiana. There, we were met by some extremely large Leatherback Sea Turtles. On average, these turtles weigh 600-1000 pounds. One of the turtles laid some eggs in the sand while we were there. Using its back feet or flippers, the turtle very precisely dug a deep hole in the sand, laid its eggs, and buried them. Meanwhile, some French researchers took blood and fatty tissue samples. When the turtle had buried its eggs, the researchers hoisted it up with a tripod structure to take the weight measurement. 350 kilograms. Once released, the turtle pulled itself along the shore to the water, where it then, very quickly, swam into the depths of the sea. As the sun rose, we departed to return to Suriname. It was an amazing experience. The rest of the time in Galibi was relaxing: walks on the beach, eating, sleeping, enjoying the seascape. I have now helped pull my second boat through Gunsi. Again, we had a large crew of people gathered together, gripping the vine tied to the bow of the boat tightly, yelling out "Let's go!", and walking, or running, through the forest and village, followed by a very large freshly cut boat. As we approached the outskirts of the village, I lost my flip-flops in the murky creek bed. As I stepped into the water, my feet sank into the soft mud, and the flip-flops never returned. I was left without for the remainder of the haul. I guess I'm getting village feet now, as I managed to make it the rest of the way without doing serious damage on the stones, twigs, and thorns. I don't think I can quite capture the experience of this with words. Just imagine a large group of people pulling a long boat by a vine, winding their way, sweating, sometimes straining to make it up a steep hill, sometimes fearful of a villager's house as the boat approaches, sometimes fearful of their own lives as the boat approaches their feet at a faster downhill pace, ever-determined to complete their mission, and feeling a sense of glory upon arriving on the shores of the boat's new home. There's no experience like it in the world.
I went to another concert the other night. I went to listen to a German reggae artist named Gentleman. The cattle call to get through the entrance was a little trying. However, the concert proved well worth the compression of vital bodily organs. So, we bought the cheap tickets, but some of us managed to work our way up to the front. I had two people between me and the stage. It was a dance party that surged with energy. Surrounded by sweating, electrified, jumping Surinamese, I felt a little like I had become enveloped by roaring flames. The music was astounding, and there was never a break in the energy, but rather a gradual swell that burst open in the end, leaving us breathless as we worked our weary way home. Last night, as mentioned before, the new group swore in. They are now full-fledged volunteers. They have put a great deal of hard work into the training, and deserve great commendation. I look forward to living and working with them in this coming year, as I approach my mid-service mark. As of the end of September, I will have been in Gunsi for a year. Through all the ups and downs so far, I am left with high hopes for the year to come. I can feel myself change by the day, as the effects of my Peace Corps service and the Surinamese people become a part of the man I am to be. I love my service here, despite the difficulties in dealing with politics, language barriers, and losing many in our group of volunteers. Tomorrow, I return to my village. As I approach Gunsi, I always feel like I'm arriving home.
May 06 - Flood
May 10, 2006
So, almost exactly a year after having to leave Uzbekistan, those of us on the upper Suriname river have been evacuated to the city.
The rains (and whatever else contributing) hit abnormally hard this year, and the water level in the river rose higher than the last recorded mark set in the late 1940s.
My village had three houses flooded and some people's gardens. Not too bad. However, other villages on the river did not have the good fortune to be on a hill. Several others were completely flooded, including one that a volunteer is leaving because his time in Peace Corps has come to a close. He lived in the back of the village, a few minute walk from the shore. Now, you can take a motor boat to his house. The village near me where two other volunteers live, Nieuw Aurora (or Tutu), has also been partially flooded. I helped clear out the school of books, papers, supplies. I also helped clear out some houses. In Gunsi, I helped those flooded there. A big concern is the health in the area with all that is being washed down into the river and creeks where people bathe. We're also concerned a little about food and drinking water for those villages fully flooded. In the long run, we're concerned with the loss of the gardens, where everyone grows what they need for the year. More immediately, there are reports of more rain coming in, which is common for this time of year, but with the current level of the river, it could make things worse. Already, many of the 60 something villages along the upper part of the river have been affected.
We arrived in the city late yesterday evening, went to the Red Cross here and reported on the situation on the ground along the river. We are hoping to work with them and the Crisis Corps in the city. I'd like to help along the river, but I will do what is needed and what the Peace Corps will allow.
So, almost exactly a year after having to leave Uzbekistan, those of us on the upper Suriname river have been evacuated to the city.
The rains (and whatever else contributing) hit abnormally hard this year, and the water level in the river rose higher than the last recorded mark set in the late 1940s.
My village had three houses flooded and some people's gardens. Not too bad. However, other villages on the river did not have the good fortune to be on a hill. Several others were completely flooded, including one that a volunteer is leaving because his time in Peace Corps has come to a close. He lived in the back of the village, a few minute walk from the shore. Now, you can take a motor boat to his house. The village near me where two other volunteers live, Nieuw Aurora (or Tutu), has also been partially flooded. I helped clear out the school of books, papers, supplies. I also helped clear out some houses. In Gunsi, I helped those flooded there. A big concern is the health in the area with all that is being washed down into the river and creeks where people bathe. We're also concerned a little about food and drinking water for those villages fully flooded. In the long run, we're concerned with the loss of the gardens, where everyone grows what they need for the year. More immediately, there are reports of more rain coming in, which is common for this time of year, but with the current level of the river, it could make things worse. Already, many of the 60 something villages along the upper part of the river have been affected.
We arrived in the city late yesterday evening, went to the Red Cross here and reported on the situation on the ground along the river. We are hoping to work with them and the Crisis Corps in the city. I'd like to help along the river, but I will do what is needed and what the Peace Corps will allow.
March 06 - Holi Phagua
March 22, 2006
I recently went to Nieuw Nickerie (on the west side of the country, across the river from Guyana) for Holi Phagua. Rather than try to explain it all myself, I have looked some up and want to share it with you. It was a fun holiday, as you will see by the pictures. :)
This information I found on The Hague Online. It was posted for The Netherlands, but as you see, it says most of the people are from Suriname, and the others are here. What a fantastic holiday! Hope you enjoy!
I recently went to Nieuw Nickerie (on the west side of the country, across the river from Guyana) for Holi Phagua. Rather than try to explain it all myself, I have looked some up and want to share it with you. It was a fun holiday, as you will see by the pictures. :)
This information I found on The Hague Online. It was posted for The Netherlands, but as you see, it says most of the people are from Suriname, and the others are here. What a fantastic holiday! Hope you enjoy!
Next week, on March 15 Den Haag will turn red and green as the city's Hindu community gathers to celebrate Holi Phagua. Holi Phagua is the Hindu New Year's festival that celebrates the triumph of good over evil making it a lively, colourful event.
Holi Phagua is celebrated on the last day of the last month of the Hindu calendar thus marking the beginning of a new year. The festival's activities relate to various legends such as that of Prahlad and Hiranyakshyap. Once upon a time, the legend goes, there lived a devil and powerful king, Hiranyakshyap, who considered himself a god and insisted on being worshiped as one. To his great anger, his son, Prahlad began to worship Lord Vishnu. Hiranyakshyap thus decided to get rid of his son. He asked his sister, Holika, to enter a blazing fire with Prahlad in her lap, a feat she was willing to undertake because she was immune to fire. However, the Gods intervened and Prahlad was saved for his extreme devotion Lord Vishnu, while Holika perished in the flames. Today, on the eve of the Holi, a plant called the Holika, or an effigy of the legendary Holika, is burned in a large bonfire. The fire is a cleansing ritual which symbolises the victory of good over evil, of renewal and of hope, and of good things to come in the New Year.
But why throw coloured powders? Holi also celebrates the legend of Radha and Krishna, a story which recounts Krishna's delight in a prank in which he coloured Radha, one of the gopi (cow-herding women) that Krishna grew up with. The red and green colours used during the festival signify friendship, hope and love.
We've all seen images of the mayhem in the streets of northern India with people throwing buckets of coloured water and powder at each other. The festivities are celebrated differently in various parts of the world. Here in the Netherlands, the 160,000 strong Hindu community, primarily from Surinam, celebrate in style. At 13:30 on Wednesday afternoon, a parade will depart from the Wijkpark Transvaal, make its way to the Hobbema Plein, to return to the Wijkpark by around 14:30. There, performances of music, dance and song will enliven the neighborhood until 18:00. Bring children, friends and family to what promises to be a boisterous celebration.
-Dianne Lemieux
Feb 06 - Mice, Termites & Men
February 15, 2006
John Steinbeck, in regards to my life in my house here, would probably have changed his famous title to Of Mice, Termites, and Men. Just as the first war with the mice and rats drew towards armistice, a second war hastily began to brew. The evil empire began invading, one termite at a time. Of course, they would have to choose my books. With the attempted gluttonous destruction of my Peace Corps requisitioned supply, I, for a moment admittedly, considered making the sacrifice. However, when they started to invade my personal supply, which includes The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, the latest Harry Potter, and a pristine edition of Dr. Seuss' Mr. Brown Can Moo! Can You?, not even my copies of D.T. Suzuki's Introduction to Zen Buddhism or Thich Nhat Hanh's ANGER: Wisdom for Cooling the Flames could help calm me. Immediately, I geared up for battle again, hoping, probably naively, that this will indeed be the war to end all wars. Only time will tell. We have begun English lessons in Gunsi, as requested.
I am working with one man consistently and another on occasion. I am relying on them to help me teach, as I am aiming for sustainability here. My hope is that, after me or at least after the Peace Corps' full term of service in Gunsi, there will be no need for an imported English teacher. There will be people already living here who can teach.
The lessons have at times been very challenging and at times been exhilarating. We teach two classes, one for the adults and one for the young people. There is a fairly significant disparity in the adult class, in reference to formerly attained knowledge. Most of the men can read and write. Most of the older women were, unfortunately, never really given the opportunity or incentive to learn, much like it used to be in the United States. A few have remained in the class, struggling away, while others, sadly, have dropped out, asking for a tape to listen to on the radio, which I hope to provide as the time and means present themselves.
The young group is a different story altogether. While boys and girls are provided much more equal opportunity, the level of opportunity and incentive for all are still lacking (something we also still need to work on in the U.S.). As typical of young people (I guess I'm somehow placing myself in an older-age bracket, but I STILL LIKE TO PLAY!), they are a little difficult to contain. I can almost imagine what it's like to contain a centipede the size of the Empire State Building. Teaching class is a little like leaving my nucleic abode and getting swept up in the whirlwind of an electron cloud.
We have our moments where we are able to harness that energy (usually with song, dance, a game), and it is amazing to see the focus, to see their faces light up. Then, the boys get distracted by the girls; the girls by the boys; the younger ones, who could care less, get caught up in abusing each other, looking outside to see if there is something more inviting to do; and then, all hell breaks loose. It's one exciting hour, for sure! Though it's difficult sometimes to control this hyperactive conglomerate of Saramaccans, the little moments of focus when at their zenith; when all eyes appear hungry for knowledge; as well as the shared, soul-enriching fits of laughter..these, indeed, are the moments I treasure.
Outside of the lessons, I have finally started fishing some. In the time it takes me to catch one with my stick, line, and hook, a Saramaccan will have caught 20. Still, that is one aspect of the life on the river which I was not fulfilling and knew required remedy.
My ground (goon, pronounced almost like the English word "gone") is beginning to produce. I have been fortunate enough to harvest long asparagus beans, cucumber, shorter green beans, pinto beans, something they call Taja uwii (pronounced Ta-ya oowee, meaning Taja leaf), another they call bita uwii (bitter leaf), bananas, and plantains. I am awaiting the arrival of my watermelon, pumpkin, zucchini squash, okra, sopropo (I've only come across this here. It's bitter, but can be mixed in with other flavors), cantaloupe, papaya, and cocoa. The ground has taken a little beating by the rain, but it is starting to thrive, and I have happily shared some of the produce with the villagers and devoured the rest.
Some of the larger-scale projects I am becoming involved in are the installation of a water system (Villagers, at the moment, go to a creek or the river to wash) and one for electricity. They may be slow in the coming, but I am making contacts and am determined to see them through to the end. One thing I personally would like to do is provide Gunsi with a small library of informational books, which I hope will come to fruition. I have been contacting organizations such as UNICEF, plan to work with the Peace Corps in some of my searches, and will scour the bookstores in the city, as time permits. I am also hoping to put together a multiple-volunteer camp, perhaps even something along the lines of a traveling group. I want us to teach about health (exercise, physical maintenance, prevention, risks) and perhaps about business opportunities (what work can be done outside of school), as well. These are some of my goals now, though I am learning about other dreams through conversations with the villagers. I am hoping we can fulfill those dreams together.
The language is still a bit of a struggle at times, rendering people utterly speechless, their eyes hazed with confusion. However, these moments occur less frequently, and for me, I can be somewhat satisfied with the pockets of clarity, smiles, and occasional ripples of laughter. I am starting to understand and pick up on some of the sound effects (ideophones) that pepper the language. It feels a little like I'm in an old Batman episode, with words like gbemm (ideophone for being hit and falling), gbai (for the sound of a gunshot), gbolou (for person or animal falling), and zengezenge (for rough water) being thrown in the mix. It all makes story time that much more exciting.
The river has risen considerably since the rain started to fall. I no longer have my stone peninsula on which I can walk, wash, and gaze admiringly up and down stream. I will content myself, for now, by washing on the shore, though I can hardly suppress the anticipation of my rock's return when we come into the drier seasons.
The river and forest are as beautiful as ever. New flowers are blooming every day. Slithering and scurrying little friends, on occasion, still manage to catalystically jolt my blood flow into hyperdrive. The butterflies are astounding, the toucans are tasty (Yes, I've had a bit of one someone gave me to try), and the monkeys are leaving no tree top or banana untouched.
I'd like to leave you with something I wrote while I was still in training. Though I see no cats out here in the jungle (as they would undoubtedly make a nice meal), I find it helps describe the piece of my life in which I now find myself enshrouded. Following a cool, gentle rain, a lush, enriching aroma surges from the earth, awakening my senses. A light breeze whispers the secrets of the rainforest through the outstretched arms of the papaya tree. A cat paces, gleaning the landscape for a foolishly confident toad, unaware of its impending doom. The moon glistens in the orbs of moisture clinging to the blades of grass, which bow to the sky in reverence to their silvery goddess. A solitary light shines from within a solitary abode--the only hint of civilization in this otherwise untamed land. With the aid of the nocturnal life's rhythmic, pulsating lullaby, a sweet soothing serenity envelops me.
John Steinbeck, in regards to my life in my house here, would probably have changed his famous title to Of Mice, Termites, and Men. Just as the first war with the mice and rats drew towards armistice, a second war hastily began to brew. The evil empire began invading, one termite at a time. Of course, they would have to choose my books. With the attempted gluttonous destruction of my Peace Corps requisitioned supply, I, for a moment admittedly, considered making the sacrifice. However, when they started to invade my personal supply, which includes The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, the latest Harry Potter, and a pristine edition of Dr. Seuss' Mr. Brown Can Moo! Can You?, not even my copies of D.T. Suzuki's Introduction to Zen Buddhism or Thich Nhat Hanh's ANGER: Wisdom for Cooling the Flames could help calm me. Immediately, I geared up for battle again, hoping, probably naively, that this will indeed be the war to end all wars. Only time will tell. We have begun English lessons in Gunsi, as requested.
I am working with one man consistently and another on occasion. I am relying on them to help me teach, as I am aiming for sustainability here. My hope is that, after me or at least after the Peace Corps' full term of service in Gunsi, there will be no need for an imported English teacher. There will be people already living here who can teach.
The lessons have at times been very challenging and at times been exhilarating. We teach two classes, one for the adults and one for the young people. There is a fairly significant disparity in the adult class, in reference to formerly attained knowledge. Most of the men can read and write. Most of the older women were, unfortunately, never really given the opportunity or incentive to learn, much like it used to be in the United States. A few have remained in the class, struggling away, while others, sadly, have dropped out, asking for a tape to listen to on the radio, which I hope to provide as the time and means present themselves.
The young group is a different story altogether. While boys and girls are provided much more equal opportunity, the level of opportunity and incentive for all are still lacking (something we also still need to work on in the U.S.). As typical of young people (I guess I'm somehow placing myself in an older-age bracket, but I STILL LIKE TO PLAY!), they are a little difficult to contain. I can almost imagine what it's like to contain a centipede the size of the Empire State Building. Teaching class is a little like leaving my nucleic abode and getting swept up in the whirlwind of an electron cloud.
We have our moments where we are able to harness that energy (usually with song, dance, a game), and it is amazing to see the focus, to see their faces light up. Then, the boys get distracted by the girls; the girls by the boys; the younger ones, who could care less, get caught up in abusing each other, looking outside to see if there is something more inviting to do; and then, all hell breaks loose. It's one exciting hour, for sure! Though it's difficult sometimes to control this hyperactive conglomerate of Saramaccans, the little moments of focus when at their zenith; when all eyes appear hungry for knowledge; as well as the shared, soul-enriching fits of laughter..these, indeed, are the moments I treasure.
Outside of the lessons, I have finally started fishing some. In the time it takes me to catch one with my stick, line, and hook, a Saramaccan will have caught 20. Still, that is one aspect of the life on the river which I was not fulfilling and knew required remedy.
My ground (goon, pronounced almost like the English word "gone") is beginning to produce. I have been fortunate enough to harvest long asparagus beans, cucumber, shorter green beans, pinto beans, something they call Taja uwii (pronounced Ta-ya oowee, meaning Taja leaf), another they call bita uwii (bitter leaf), bananas, and plantains. I am awaiting the arrival of my watermelon, pumpkin, zucchini squash, okra, sopropo (I've only come across this here. It's bitter, but can be mixed in with other flavors), cantaloupe, papaya, and cocoa. The ground has taken a little beating by the rain, but it is starting to thrive, and I have happily shared some of the produce with the villagers and devoured the rest.
Some of the larger-scale projects I am becoming involved in are the installation of a water system (Villagers, at the moment, go to a creek or the river to wash) and one for electricity. They may be slow in the coming, but I am making contacts and am determined to see them through to the end. One thing I personally would like to do is provide Gunsi with a small library of informational books, which I hope will come to fruition. I have been contacting organizations such as UNICEF, plan to work with the Peace Corps in some of my searches, and will scour the bookstores in the city, as time permits. I am also hoping to put together a multiple-volunteer camp, perhaps even something along the lines of a traveling group. I want us to teach about health (exercise, physical maintenance, prevention, risks) and perhaps about business opportunities (what work can be done outside of school), as well. These are some of my goals now, though I am learning about other dreams through conversations with the villagers. I am hoping we can fulfill those dreams together.
The language is still a bit of a struggle at times, rendering people utterly speechless, their eyes hazed with confusion. However, these moments occur less frequently, and for me, I can be somewhat satisfied with the pockets of clarity, smiles, and occasional ripples of laughter. I am starting to understand and pick up on some of the sound effects (ideophones) that pepper the language. It feels a little like I'm in an old Batman episode, with words like gbemm (ideophone for being hit and falling), gbai (for the sound of a gunshot), gbolou (for person or animal falling), and zengezenge (for rough water) being thrown in the mix. It all makes story time that much more exciting.
The river has risen considerably since the rain started to fall. I no longer have my stone peninsula on which I can walk, wash, and gaze admiringly up and down stream. I will content myself, for now, by washing on the shore, though I can hardly suppress the anticipation of my rock's return when we come into the drier seasons.
The river and forest are as beautiful as ever. New flowers are blooming every day. Slithering and scurrying little friends, on occasion, still manage to catalystically jolt my blood flow into hyperdrive. The butterflies are astounding, the toucans are tasty (Yes, I've had a bit of one someone gave me to try), and the monkeys are leaving no tree top or banana untouched.
I'd like to leave you with something I wrote while I was still in training. Though I see no cats out here in the jungle (as they would undoubtedly make a nice meal), I find it helps describe the piece of my life in which I now find myself enshrouded. Following a cool, gentle rain, a lush, enriching aroma surges from the earth, awakening my senses. A light breeze whispers the secrets of the rainforest through the outstretched arms of the papaya tree. A cat paces, gleaning the landscape for a foolishly confident toad, unaware of its impending doom. The moon glistens in the orbs of moisture clinging to the blades of grass, which bow to the sky in reverence to their silvery goddess. A solitary light shines from within a solitary abode--the only hint of civilization in this otherwise untamed land. With the aid of the nocturnal life's rhythmic, pulsating lullaby, a sweet soothing serenity envelops me.
Nov 05 - Birthday in Gunsi
November 26, 2005
So, I have been in Paramaribo briefly for an Emergency Action Drill. All went smoothly, and somehow Peace Corps managed to coordinate the drill around the time that the Ambassador invited us over for Thanksgiving. Not a bad deal at all. :)
I had my birthday in Gunsi. For the birthdays here, if you hold one, instead of others giving you gifts, you are supposed to make or do something for the people. So, this year, I wanted to have a Saramaccan birthday. I made popcorn and a type of coolaid. I also had out pictures of America (NC, NYC, Arizona, friends, family) for people to see. Two people in Gunsi gave me some goma to help feed people. This is a type of cake.
One of my fellow volunteers was sick in Tutu. So, I took a break mid-day to go see her. I held some party in the morning and then left. When I returned, my counterpart and some others had decorated the outside of my house with flowers, balloons, and leaves. It was beautiful.
I then grabbed my big bag of popcorn and pot of goma and walked all around Gunsi. A group of kids were the first to meet me on my walk. They sang and played the drums for me with a fervor bordering on ecstatic frenzy. They then followed me around the village as I gave out more popcorn and goma, all the while singing and playing drums. I felt a little like the Pied Piper.
When I returned to my house, I found a band on my front stoop. 2 of the band members had come for my birthday from Tjali Konde, and they brought their friends. We also had some other instruments which the kids and I played. This all lasted for about 3 hours, and was fantastic! They played some traditional and more modern Surinamese music. It was so much fun.
Afterwards, my counterpart had me come on the radio in an interview. He talked a little about Peace Corps in general, asked me about my birthday, had me talk a little about training, and then I talked about what I have been doing since then (helping tie roofs on, learning how to break seeds for some cooking oil, and general Saramaccan life). It was a very fun birthday, though I'm glad holding one only happens once a year.
The next week, I helped out with one of the Tutu volunteer's birthdays. I made some garlic mashed potatoes and some coffee cake, both of which were very good. She did not tell everyone about it in her community like I had done, but she also has a massive amount of people, compared to me, in her village. So, we had more of an American type birthday.
One more person died while I was in Gunsi. I did not really go to the Booko Didija, but I did walk to Lesipaansi with the Tutu volunteer. We sat and talked with the family for a little while and gave them the gift of a few sodas (considered very kind and thoughtful). I was happy to help them a little and make them feel a little better. The path was gorgeous, too. This was the first time I made it all the way there. It was so lush and green.
I have watched a little bit of the process of how one of the Gunsi men makes canoes/boats out of trees. I helped out a little. Later, I am hoping to help more, to learn the trade.
Not a great deal more than this has happened in the past couple of weeks since I last wrote, but I am becoming more and more accustomed to life, and the people in Gunsi are becoming more and more accustomed to me. It is as beautiful as ever. The rainy season is coming closer and should be in full swing soon, I imagine consistently drenching me every day. :)
Yesterday was Suriname's 30th Independence Day. They received independence from the Netherlands on Nov. 25, 1975. The country is only about 1 year older than me. :) We ate food, watched bands play and dance, and I even danced a little myself. It was a lot of fun, a great celebration, and I was glad to be here for it.
So, I have been in Paramaribo briefly for an Emergency Action Drill. All went smoothly, and somehow Peace Corps managed to coordinate the drill around the time that the Ambassador invited us over for Thanksgiving. Not a bad deal at all. :)
I had my birthday in Gunsi. For the birthdays here, if you hold one, instead of others giving you gifts, you are supposed to make or do something for the people. So, this year, I wanted to have a Saramaccan birthday. I made popcorn and a type of coolaid. I also had out pictures of America (NC, NYC, Arizona, friends, family) for people to see. Two people in Gunsi gave me some goma to help feed people. This is a type of cake.
One of my fellow volunteers was sick in Tutu. So, I took a break mid-day to go see her. I held some party in the morning and then left. When I returned, my counterpart and some others had decorated the outside of my house with flowers, balloons, and leaves. It was beautiful.
I then grabbed my big bag of popcorn and pot of goma and walked all around Gunsi. A group of kids were the first to meet me on my walk. They sang and played the drums for me with a fervor bordering on ecstatic frenzy. They then followed me around the village as I gave out more popcorn and goma, all the while singing and playing drums. I felt a little like the Pied Piper.
When I returned to my house, I found a band on my front stoop. 2 of the band members had come for my birthday from Tjali Konde, and they brought their friends. We also had some other instruments which the kids and I played. This all lasted for about 3 hours, and was fantastic! They played some traditional and more modern Surinamese music. It was so much fun.
Afterwards, my counterpart had me come on the radio in an interview. He talked a little about Peace Corps in general, asked me about my birthday, had me talk a little about training, and then I talked about what I have been doing since then (helping tie roofs on, learning how to break seeds for some cooking oil, and general Saramaccan life). It was a very fun birthday, though I'm glad holding one only happens once a year.
The next week, I helped out with one of the Tutu volunteer's birthdays. I made some garlic mashed potatoes and some coffee cake, both of which were very good. She did not tell everyone about it in her community like I had done, but she also has a massive amount of people, compared to me, in her village. So, we had more of an American type birthday.
One more person died while I was in Gunsi. I did not really go to the Booko Didija, but I did walk to Lesipaansi with the Tutu volunteer. We sat and talked with the family for a little while and gave them the gift of a few sodas (considered very kind and thoughtful). I was happy to help them a little and make them feel a little better. The path was gorgeous, too. This was the first time I made it all the way there. It was so lush and green.
I have watched a little bit of the process of how one of the Gunsi men makes canoes/boats out of trees. I helped out a little. Later, I am hoping to help more, to learn the trade.
Not a great deal more than this has happened in the past couple of weeks since I last wrote, but I am becoming more and more accustomed to life, and the people in Gunsi are becoming more and more accustomed to me. It is as beautiful as ever. The rainy season is coming closer and should be in full swing soon, I imagine consistently drenching me every day. :)
Yesterday was Suriname's 30th Independence Day. They received independence from the Netherlands on Nov. 25, 1975. The country is only about 1 year older than me. :) We ate food, watched bands play and dance, and I even danced a little myself. It was a lot of fun, a great celebration, and I was glad to be here for it.
Oct 05 - Arrival in Gunsi
Where do I begin?....It's been a whirlwind over the past five weeks. I suppose at the beginning would be the best place to start.
The five of us going to the Upper Suriname River piled all of our belongings on a huge truck. Everything had to be covered with tarp and tied down, as there were only short walls on the sides of the truck and no roof. We also helped load the belongings of the other 4 volunteers going to other parts of the interior on another truck.
The next day, I boarded a bus with two others to head to Paramaribo to catch transportation out to Atjoni, located on the bank of the Suriname. There was not a great of support for me in the way of the seat in the wagi (term for van, bus, or small truck transportation) on the bumpy red, dusty road to Atjoni. I believe two out of four sides of the seat were connected to the frame, but I managed to make the five hour trip without serious injury.
In Atjoni, we met up with the other two volunteers, who had traveled on the truck. Two of the volunteers each took their own boat, while three of us hopped on a third boat together. Margot and Viki, heading up to Nieuw Aurora (or Tutu as they call it around here), squeezed on with our food for 2-3 months, clothes, silverware, pots, pans, hammocks, bed frames, medical
kits, mosquito nets, books, toilet paper, spices, soaps, chairs, buckets, water filters, clothes pins, shovels, rakes, machetes, nails, hammers, saws, toothbrushes....all we hoped would last us two years or at least a good portion of it, and all of which we hoped lacked nothing we vitally needed.
The boat ride up to Gunsi, my new home, was beautiful, despite the groaning of the boat under the weight of our belongings. Two years' worth of items for three people on one boat....I supposed the boat had the right to complain. The banks of the river are lined with lush green, towering trees. The rock-strewn expanse of flowing water afforded us a pleasant
journey, besides a couple of rapids where we imagined losing all of our belongings in a single blow. As we glided up the Suriname, deeper into the heart of the rain forest, I could not help feeling enlivened, that I had made the right decision. Two years in this magical realm, unlike anywhere I have lived before....awesome!!!
Margot, Viki, and the boatman dropped me off a little over an hour later along the out-stretched arms of my new home. I heard later that Viki and Margot's short ride to Tutu nearly did cost them their belongings. At the time, though, I was lost in the beauty of
Gunsi. As I, and a few others who came to help, unloaded my things, I started to carry some of my bags through a tunnel of yellow-blossomed trees. I was taken to my new house, a thatch-roofed house, located between the Captain of the village's house and that of
my counterpart, the man with whom I am supposed to work and from whom I am to seek assistance, should the need arise, though my actual counterpart is really the
entire village of Gunsi.
Since that day, I have begun to settle in. I have had my ups and downs. Beginning to live in a community where you know little of the language, little of the culture, little of the area, little of the wildlife, the humor, the taboos, the relationships....it is all so very humbling. Acceptance comes with time, and cultural differences must be coupled with some measure of flexibility for success. Patience and honesty I am finding vital, as well, as the people of Gunsi and I
learn to live together.
I have had good moments with the language and cultural exchange, where I can learn, communicate effectively, satisfactorily live in the moment, and I have had my share of confused expressions, frustration, moments of loneliness (though these usually are fairly short-lived). I have had moments of laughter, such as the moment I listed some of my tools: machete, hammer, saw, and police (sikoutu), the last of which I meant to say shovel (sikopu). I have also shared some laughter when jokes are actually conveyed adequately.
I have visited some people in their homes, and now more people are visiting me. Slowly, we are learning more of each other's culture. Slowly, I am learning the language. Sometimes slowly, but more often than not, the days pass quickly. I fill them with learning, hauling sand and stone with people, helping tie roofs on houses in the village, going to see Viki and Margot in Tutu, going on hikes, meeting new people....generally becoming assimilated into this new
world.
Among my numerous feats, I have, in five weeks managed somehow to sink one man's canoe. I was helping him haul sand. He had to leave for a short period. I thought, brilliantly I might add, that I could speed along the process by taking his boat myself. I paddled to the already filled rice sacks of sand, and loaded the canoe. It was on the return trip that I really noticed the hole in the back side of the canoe. It is usual for canoes here to have holes and allow a
little water to seep in. You simply just scoop it out with a dish. It is not, on the other hand, usual for a new person to come along, unknowledgeable of the holes specific to a certain boat, steer the hole head-on into the onslaught of the oncoming current and tempt fate. This is what I did. While hastily scooping out water, I turned around, only to find the water gushing more hastily through the hole, and the only thing I could do was yell out "Oh *#%$!" as the boat sank beneath me, sand bags and all. We are waiting for the river to go down more, as it nears the end of the dry season, before we search more for the boat. Fortunately, the owner is my friend. At least, I hope he still is. I have helped him a great deal with the sand. He visits me often during the day and night, and he is more concerned for my safety and setting my mind at ease than finding the boat right now. I'm sure all will come out in the wash, so to speak, but it was yet another humbling experience for yours truly.
As for wildlife, in case you're interested, you can probably peruse the pages of National Geographic-South America or turn the television to Animal Planet and still be amazed by what you can see in Suriname in just a few months or weeks for that matter. To name a few, I have seen spiders, snakes, a sloth, monkeys, a tarantula, a huge iguana, lizards, piranhas (not in
the water yet, though I know they're there), and a small crocodile in a nearby creek. I have seen
toucans, hummingbirds, bats, dragonflies, herons, and a beautiful array of butterflies. The forest is alive with a never-ceasing, rhythmically pulsating symphony of sounds, even deafening at times.
As you walk past people's grounds and through the villages, you can find coconut and papaya trees, okra, sugarcane, plantains, bananas, oranges, cashews, rice, cassava, and a range of other fruits and vegetables I've never encountered before in my life.
At the river, you can usually find some naked children washing and playing in the water, women wearing koosus covering their waist down, perhaps with a baby strapped on their backs, washing dishes and their clothes on rocks. You may see people fishing or maneuvering their canoes along the edges of the river. A walk through the forest (known here as matu) may
take you past some men carrying guns and machetes going to work their ground or searching for meat, or you may pass some women carrying water, stacks of wood, or piles of leaves on their heads, no small feat I can tell you. As they pass, they may ask if you've found any gwamba today. Gwamba is the all-inclusive word for fish or meat found on land. I'll usually respond with something like, "Not yet, but I'll keep searching."
You may see a couple of boys trying to knock a bird down out of a tree with a slingshot or a few girls helping their mothers crack open nuts to make cooking oil.
At night, you can hear the crickets, see a firefly light show, or gaze at the countless stars overhead, unhampered by city lights.
Lately, there have been moments of great sorrow, as within one week's time, four people in the area or in Paramaribo died. All four greatly affected Gunsi and the neighboring villages. At times, in the distance, you could hear the mournful crying of a group of family members or the lone tremulous sob of a single soul searching for a reason.
At other times, you can hear a kijoo (term for a youth, pronounced key-o) belting out the lyrics to the latest Saramaccan tune, be it based in tradition or influenced by reggae. You can also hear children laughing and knocking the bottoms of old metal cans with wooden spoons or sticks, spreading the seed for the future radio hits.
As I mentioned before, the dry season is coming to an end. The rains are starting little by little and several nights now, we have had grumbling lightning storms. The rainy season is not in full-swing yet, but he is, without a doubt, making his threatening advance.
Occasionally, we have enough oil to run a generator to light a few buildings at night. The radio station we have here runs off solar-powered batteries. However, for the most part, the houses are not wired in Gunsi yet for electricity. The government plans to get to Gunsi some day down the road; it's on the list. Until then, I will enjoy reading, writing, talking, and listening to the local radio by the glow of my lamp and luminescent flames of my candles.
So, I have had a few difficult times, as can be expected, but they do not seem to last long with the beauty of my new home, the sun on my back, and the smile of a young child as he or she yells out "U de no, Gunsipai?", meaning "How are you today, Gunsipai?" Gunsipai is the name my village has given me. It means Gunsi son-in-law, and I embrace it, along with all the splendor here, and hope, someday, to earn the name.
The five of us going to the Upper Suriname River piled all of our belongings on a huge truck. Everything had to be covered with tarp and tied down, as there were only short walls on the sides of the truck and no roof. We also helped load the belongings of the other 4 volunteers going to other parts of the interior on another truck.
The next day, I boarded a bus with two others to head to Paramaribo to catch transportation out to Atjoni, located on the bank of the Suriname. There was not a great of support for me in the way of the seat in the wagi (term for van, bus, or small truck transportation) on the bumpy red, dusty road to Atjoni. I believe two out of four sides of the seat were connected to the frame, but I managed to make the five hour trip without serious injury.
In Atjoni, we met up with the other two volunteers, who had traveled on the truck. Two of the volunteers each took their own boat, while three of us hopped on a third boat together. Margot and Viki, heading up to Nieuw Aurora (or Tutu as they call it around here), squeezed on with our food for 2-3 months, clothes, silverware, pots, pans, hammocks, bed frames, medical
kits, mosquito nets, books, toilet paper, spices, soaps, chairs, buckets, water filters, clothes pins, shovels, rakes, machetes, nails, hammers, saws, toothbrushes....all we hoped would last us two years or at least a good portion of it, and all of which we hoped lacked nothing we vitally needed.
The boat ride up to Gunsi, my new home, was beautiful, despite the groaning of the boat under the weight of our belongings. Two years' worth of items for three people on one boat....I supposed the boat had the right to complain. The banks of the river are lined with lush green, towering trees. The rock-strewn expanse of flowing water afforded us a pleasant
journey, besides a couple of rapids where we imagined losing all of our belongings in a single blow. As we glided up the Suriname, deeper into the heart of the rain forest, I could not help feeling enlivened, that I had made the right decision. Two years in this magical realm, unlike anywhere I have lived before....awesome!!!
Margot, Viki, and the boatman dropped me off a little over an hour later along the out-stretched arms of my new home. I heard later that Viki and Margot's short ride to Tutu nearly did cost them their belongings. At the time, though, I was lost in the beauty of
Gunsi. As I, and a few others who came to help, unloaded my things, I started to carry some of my bags through a tunnel of yellow-blossomed trees. I was taken to my new house, a thatch-roofed house, located between the Captain of the village's house and that of
my counterpart, the man with whom I am supposed to work and from whom I am to seek assistance, should the need arise, though my actual counterpart is really the
entire village of Gunsi.
Since that day, I have begun to settle in. I have had my ups and downs. Beginning to live in a community where you know little of the language, little of the culture, little of the area, little of the wildlife, the humor, the taboos, the relationships....it is all so very humbling. Acceptance comes with time, and cultural differences must be coupled with some measure of flexibility for success. Patience and honesty I am finding vital, as well, as the people of Gunsi and I
learn to live together.
I have had good moments with the language and cultural exchange, where I can learn, communicate effectively, satisfactorily live in the moment, and I have had my share of confused expressions, frustration, moments of loneliness (though these usually are fairly short-lived). I have had moments of laughter, such as the moment I listed some of my tools: machete, hammer, saw, and police (sikoutu), the last of which I meant to say shovel (sikopu). I have also shared some laughter when jokes are actually conveyed adequately.
I have visited some people in their homes, and now more people are visiting me. Slowly, we are learning more of each other's culture. Slowly, I am learning the language. Sometimes slowly, but more often than not, the days pass quickly. I fill them with learning, hauling sand and stone with people, helping tie roofs on houses in the village, going to see Viki and Margot in Tutu, going on hikes, meeting new people....generally becoming assimilated into this new
world.
Among my numerous feats, I have, in five weeks managed somehow to sink one man's canoe. I was helping him haul sand. He had to leave for a short period. I thought, brilliantly I might add, that I could speed along the process by taking his boat myself. I paddled to the already filled rice sacks of sand, and loaded the canoe. It was on the return trip that I really noticed the hole in the back side of the canoe. It is usual for canoes here to have holes and allow a
little water to seep in. You simply just scoop it out with a dish. It is not, on the other hand, usual for a new person to come along, unknowledgeable of the holes specific to a certain boat, steer the hole head-on into the onslaught of the oncoming current and tempt fate. This is what I did. While hastily scooping out water, I turned around, only to find the water gushing more hastily through the hole, and the only thing I could do was yell out "Oh *#%$!" as the boat sank beneath me, sand bags and all. We are waiting for the river to go down more, as it nears the end of the dry season, before we search more for the boat. Fortunately, the owner is my friend. At least, I hope he still is. I have helped him a great deal with the sand. He visits me often during the day and night, and he is more concerned for my safety and setting my mind at ease than finding the boat right now. I'm sure all will come out in the wash, so to speak, but it was yet another humbling experience for yours truly.
As for wildlife, in case you're interested, you can probably peruse the pages of National Geographic-South America or turn the television to Animal Planet and still be amazed by what you can see in Suriname in just a few months or weeks for that matter. To name a few, I have seen spiders, snakes, a sloth, monkeys, a tarantula, a huge iguana, lizards, piranhas (not in
the water yet, though I know they're there), and a small crocodile in a nearby creek. I have seen
toucans, hummingbirds, bats, dragonflies, herons, and a beautiful array of butterflies. The forest is alive with a never-ceasing, rhythmically pulsating symphony of sounds, even deafening at times.
As you walk past people's grounds and through the villages, you can find coconut and papaya trees, okra, sugarcane, plantains, bananas, oranges, cashews, rice, cassava, and a range of other fruits and vegetables I've never encountered before in my life.
At the river, you can usually find some naked children washing and playing in the water, women wearing koosus covering their waist down, perhaps with a baby strapped on their backs, washing dishes and their clothes on rocks. You may see people fishing or maneuvering their canoes along the edges of the river. A walk through the forest (known here as matu) may
take you past some men carrying guns and machetes going to work their ground or searching for meat, or you may pass some women carrying water, stacks of wood, or piles of leaves on their heads, no small feat I can tell you. As they pass, they may ask if you've found any gwamba today. Gwamba is the all-inclusive word for fish or meat found on land. I'll usually respond with something like, "Not yet, but I'll keep searching."
You may see a couple of boys trying to knock a bird down out of a tree with a slingshot or a few girls helping their mothers crack open nuts to make cooking oil.
At night, you can hear the crickets, see a firefly light show, or gaze at the countless stars overhead, unhampered by city lights.
Lately, there have been moments of great sorrow, as within one week's time, four people in the area or in Paramaribo died. All four greatly affected Gunsi and the neighboring villages. At times, in the distance, you could hear the mournful crying of a group of family members or the lone tremulous sob of a single soul searching for a reason.
At other times, you can hear a kijoo (term for a youth, pronounced key-o) belting out the lyrics to the latest Saramaccan tune, be it based in tradition or influenced by reggae. You can also hear children laughing and knocking the bottoms of old metal cans with wooden spoons or sticks, spreading the seed for the future radio hits.
As I mentioned before, the dry season is coming to an end. The rains are starting little by little and several nights now, we have had grumbling lightning storms. The rainy season is not in full-swing yet, but he is, without a doubt, making his threatening advance.
Occasionally, we have enough oil to run a generator to light a few buildings at night. The radio station we have here runs off solar-powered batteries. However, for the most part, the houses are not wired in Gunsi yet for electricity. The government plans to get to Gunsi some day down the road; it's on the list. Until then, I will enjoy reading, writing, talking, and listening to the local radio by the glow of my lamp and luminescent flames of my candles.
So, I have had a few difficult times, as can be expected, but they do not seem to last long with the beauty of my new home, the sun on my back, and the smile of a young child as he or she yells out "U de no, Gunsipai?", meaning "How are you today, Gunsipai?" Gunsipai is the name my village has given me. It means Gunsi son-in-law, and I embrace it, along with all the splendor here, and hope, someday, to earn the name.
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