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.
No comments:
Post a Comment