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.