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.
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