Sunday, November 19, 2006

I received a message a little while ago from Kristina, a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer living downriver in the village of Kabakaburi. Since I don’t have access to a telephone, Kristina often has to send messages to me by writing a note and giving it to one of her community members to pass along to me. Eventually, usually via children who paddle up and down the river every morning to go to school, the note finds its way to me at St. Monica. So one morning, as I was teaching math to a class of 8^th graders, a young boy ran up to me with an intricately folded and taped up note. In it Kristina informed me that her school’s Health Club would be taking a trip to Akawini Village, and she invited me to come along as well. After several days of frantic note-passing and radio calls (our other, newer mode of communication) we ironed out the details and I organized a small contingent of my own students to join her group for the trip. Unlike Kabakaburi or St. Monica, Akawini isn’t located directly on the Pomeroon River. Instead, it’s situated in the middle of the marshy savannah located west of our villages. There are several possible routes to get there, since so many of the waterways in our region are interconnected. We planned on taking a rather long but scenic route which seemed to offer the most exercise and fun for the children. Leaving in the morning, by the afternoon we could reach Akawini where we would set up camp for the night. Then, we planned on heading back the next day so that the children would be home by nightfall. So, one Saturday morning at around 6:30AM, I found myself sitting in a boat heading downriver, the sky and clouds turning deep shades of purple, pink, and orange just before the golden glow of the sun rose above the horizon.

We picked up a few more schoolchildren on the way, then stopped at a small church to wait for Kristina and the group from Kabakaburi. Here a small tributary called Waiwaru Creek branched off from the Pomeroon. The next leg of our journey would lead us up Waiwaru, all the way to the creek head. This posed some interesting challenges when the Kabakaburi group finally motored by in their boat. Altogether, we had about 35 travelers, and the one boat we had was a large 20-footer, big enough to hold all of us and our supplies for the weekend. The challenge lay in the fact that the boat was at least 10 feet across, and here at the widest point of Waiwaru, the waterway was only about 25 or 30 feet across. How would we fare closer to the creek head, where it was sure to get narrower? Brushing aside such concerns, and without any other option, we all clambered into the vessel, one that was normally used to haul produce to market but which now puttered upstream with a whole crew of Amerindian schoolchildren, teachers, parents, and three clueless Americans (besides Kristina and myself, we also had Shanna, another Volunteer from our group who had come up for the weekend to visit Kristina and wanted join in on the trip). The first quarter-mile or so up the creek was relatively calm and uneventful. We passed the small houses and farms of the villagers who had made their homes along the sides of the creek, and the residents looked up from their breakfasts and morning chores with bemused expressions on their faces. The children were all talking and joking excitedly with the thrill that always comes at the beginning of a trip. Shortly after we passed the last house, the lighting grew noticeably darker as the creek narrowed and the vegetation on either side of us grew thick and closed in on the little waterway. Palm trees drooped towards us and trailed their fronds in the water, while taller trees arched overhead, their branches and lush foliage intertwining in a canopy so thick that at times it blocked out the sky. Here and there shafts of morning sunlight pierced through the thick green roof of leaves, decorating the muddy brown creek water with a spackled pattern of light. Moss, vines, and branches dropped low in front of our faces, forcing us to bat them away. Some trees grew long, smooth, tube-like extensions that pointed straight down towards the creek, their tips dipping under the surface and sucking up water for much higher branches, like an elephant’s trunk. It was like a scene from Jurassic Park, and reminded me of theme park rides I had taken as a kid at Disney World or Busch Gardens. Soon, the vines and moss that hung in front of our faces became thick branches, and occasionally, entire trunks of trees that had fallen partially across the creek loomed before us. We found ourselves having to dodge, duck, and weave our bodies through the outstretched arms of the trees, and in some cases, even crouch down low in the bottom of the boat to avoid particularly low flung branches.

Sir Mirthland (all male teachers are addressed with the prefix “Sir,” while females go by “Miss”) stood on the prow with a huge log (whoopass stick) to try and break up some of the branches and vegetation before it got to us, in one case even chopping one trunk in half, a particularly large but fortunately wet and rotten tree that had threatened to block our path.

He was eventually forced to give up his position, however, as the boat kept bumping into submerged logs on the sides of the ever-narrowing creek, causing sudden jolts that threatened to topple him into the water. The whole experience--ducking under tree trunks, bouncing off the sides of the creek, the laughs and shrieks of children when someone had a particularly close call with a branch--it was like some bizarre virtual reality video game, or an obstacle course on a TV game show. It occurred to me how funny it was that the only points of reference I could come up with from my old life back in the States were artificial scenarios, like amusement parks, movies, video games, or TV shows. Meanwhile, for the Amerindians in the boat with me, even the ones who had never taken this trip before, this was all taking place not 5 or 10 miles from their own houses. In any case, after many more minutes of bouncing, jostling, and ducking, we finally reached a huge, massive tree that had fallen all the way across the creek. We could go no further. So we all piled out of the boat with our bags and onto the tree trunk, crossing over it to far bank, where we trudged through mud the rest of the way to the creek head.

At the creek head, the land had been cleared somewhat, and several bamboo groves were clustered. We stopped under one for a group photo and then continued on.

There was a trail here that led through the rainforest and would eventually take us to Akawini. Most of the group set off at a brisk pace, with some of the older boys even trying to race each other while carrying heavy loads and wearing only flip flops or running on their bare feet. Being more sane (and lazy), and wanting to take my time to enjoy the sights and sounds of the rainforest, I slowed down and brought up the rear with the other PCVs. The trail was pretty overgrown in some areas, and occasionally we had to cut through the bush to get around big trees and piles of branches that had fallen across the path, but for the most part it was fairly well traveled. We trudged up hills and down slopes, crossed a couple small streams, emerged every now and then into sandy clearings, and trekked through heavily forested areas where the ground was wet underneath my shoes, the canopy overhead blocked out the sun, and the calm quiet amidst all the leaves and branches cast an almost respectful silence. Every now and then we would stop to take deep breaths of the fresh, slightly sweet-smelling forest air, or to snap photos of any plants, flowers, or mushrooms that caught our eyes. Butterflies with wings that opened up to reveal iridescent blue patches fluttered across our path, and little lizards darted off the trail to the side as we approached. I managed to delay on of the little guys long enough to pose for a picture before he was off and scurrying away again.

Despite the other routes available, it was clear that many villagers still used this trail to get to and from Akawini. There were logs cut to clear the path, or placed to prevent erosion. At one point, we even passed a huge tree that had been felled, and whose trunk was being carved to make a dugout canoe--which I jumped in for any impromptu photo shot.

Finally, after a few miles and nearly two-and-a-half hours of hiking, we emerged from the forest into a vale, where a wide, brightly lit field had been cleared from the jungle surrounding it.

The raised dirt path in the middle told us that this was the Akawini cricket ground, and we could hear the distant sounds of a group of villagers singing together in unison. Perhaps due to the Discovery Channel-ish trek we had just completed, I had a sudden vision of a group of villagers joining hands, singing, and coming out to greet us, the children rushing forward to place garlands around our necks. Fortunately, nothing that cheesy happened, and we walked forward to see that the singing was coming from a local church service being held at a house nearby.

Meanwhile, the rest of our group was gathered at a small shop, waiting patiently for the slow-ass Americans to catch up. After breaking for lunch, we walked over to a stand of trees, where a long dock had been built, about a hundred meters in length. Walking out along the dock, I emerged from the clump of trees and beheld a breathtaking site. Before me, as far as the eye could see, lay an immense, wide open plain. Only far, far away, at a distance that must’ve been a mile or two, I could see the rough outline and multilayered hues of grays and greens that marked the edge of the rainforest. In the vast space in between this horizon and myself lay an expanse of tall green grass, waving softly in the wind. Peering over the edge of the dock, I now saw that I stood not over solid ground, but a body of dark water. What I had mistaken for a field of grass was actually this same body of water, with tall reeds and river grass growing from it and forming broad swaths of green. Only here and there had a current formed, carving a winding ribbon of water through the expanse of reeds, off which the sun reflected in glittering sparkles of light. In the distance, an occasional crane or egret flapped lazily--a graceful white form moving slowly above the sea of green. This was the savannah.

It was amazing, and when we had to stop and wait on the dock for a boat to come and pick us up, I was more than happy to sit down and take in the incredible scenery.

Eventually, a boat came by to take us to our next stop. The village of Akawini is actually spread out among 9 “islands” scattered across the Savannah. To get from one island to the next, villagers use boats or paddle themselves in dugout canoes, taking as their path the ribbons of water that cut through the weeds. Thus, though we had technically reached Akawini, we were only on the first island, called Wikinepa, and still had a little ways to go until we reached our final destination, the island of Villerama. There the villagers had established the community’s central structures and meeting places, such as the health post, village office, and primary school (in which we would be bunking for the night). After a packed but mercifully short boat ride, we pulled up to this central compound. I was surprised to see that many of the buildings were actually in pretty good shape, and a few, such as the village office and an extension to the primary school, looked brand new. Signs proclaimed the work as part of a government development project funded by the Ministry of Finance and various NGO’s. Though the people of Guyana have many legitimate complaints about their government, which is often inefficient or corrupt, one does see the occasional heartening sign that SOME good work is being done by the higher-ups. After arriving, most of the kids rushed to claim their sleeping spots and tie up their hammocks. Kristina, Shanna, and I opted to take a little stroll around the compound and check out the island first. Here, the buildings were set up high on a hill, offering an even better view of the surrounding savannah. Unfortunately, our little tour was cut short while we were perusing a small snack stand. One of the parents who had come along on the trip walked by, and, seeing us, stopped to let us know that a girl had just had an accident while swimming down by the dock.

“She took a plunge and busted up she head,” was the message relayed to us. Sighing, we exchanged exasperated glances, wondering to ourselves if it was ever possible for something NOT to go wrong out here. Here it was, not more than an hour after we had arrived, and already we had an injury. Fortunately, one of the village health workers, an experienced lady called Auntie Sophie (Auntie being used as a term of respect for any woman of middle-age or older), had decided to come along on the trip, and we were told she was attending to the child at the local health post. Still, we decided to drop by and see if she needed any help. As soon as we reached the door of the health post, our initial exasperation suddenly gave way to alarm and concern. I first noticed a small crowd of wide-eyed young children gathered at the entrance to the health post, looking inside. Then, looking down, I saw a trail of large blood drops leading along the path to the health post, and just inside the door, several bloody footprints. I felt a sinking sensation in my stomach, and thought to myself: “Uh oh. This is not good,” as I followed the bloody marks into the main room and my eyes trailed upwards to the source. There, in an open tiled shower stall in the back, stood a young girl of about 15 or 16. Her hair was matted with blood, and her face was smeared with it, heavy clots and trickles still running down the temples and cheeks. At first I thought she had on a dark red shirt, then I realized it was actually a white blouse, only soaked completely in blood. Kristina had arrived before me, and had already donned gloves and was holding the wound closed as Auntie Sophie tried to suture it back together. As I approached closer, I could see that the blood was coming from a long, 5 inch gash at the top of her forehead, and crossing over her hairline. The wound was crescent-shaped, and its curve had essentially cut a semicircular flap from her scalp, which peeled away to reveal the thin layer of membrane and tissue covering her skull. The good news, if there was such a thing, was that her skull appeared to be intact--the injury was limited to the skin of her scalp, leaving the thick bone of her forehead unbroken. The bad news, of which there was plenty, was that she had obviously lost a lot of blood, we were far from any advanced medical care, and the lone health worker who usually manned the Akawini Health Post was young, inexperienced, and looked straight-up scared by the mess before her. Fortunately, Auntie Sophie was a pretty good hand at suturing, and had already taken charge and was working on her second or third stitch when we arrived to help. Kristina held the flap of skin in place as Sophie continued to suture, while I went in search of antiseptic to sterilize the instruments, which were lying in a bloody tin at the patient’s feet. The poor Akawini health worker, who couldn’t have been more than 20 or 21 years old, scurried about her health post, rooting through the disorganized mess of the supply closet to fetch requested items. She had the same wide-eyed expression as the children standing in clusters around the door (whom I promptly shooed away) and often appeared at a loss to find even the most basic items, such as scissors. I shuddered to think what would happen when similar or worse emergencies arose in the village, with only this lone health worker to handle them, a young woman who had only just recently completed the meager 2 months of training that was all the Ministry of Health provided to such remote workers. Perhaps born out of necessity produce by such dire circumstances, most Amerindians have incredibly high tolerances for pain. This was evidenced by our current patient, who was leaning quietly against the wall of the shower, grimacing slightly when the needle pierced or tugged at her skin, but otherwise remaining fairly calm, composed, and most shocking of all--still standing upright. She had been given several shots of Lidocaine to dull the pain, yet it was still an ordeal that I could not imagine having to go through myself. Indeed, though we have found that the Amerindians amazing calm in the face of such calamities sometimes carries over to ourselves, Shanna, Kristina, and I later remarked to each other that it seemed as if we had felt more pain and anguish just looking at the wound than the patient had felt herself. Finally, after what must’ve been at least TWENTY stitches, the wound was closed up. We had been forced to cut off a good chunk of her hair to clear the skin around the injury, and the stitches certainly weren’t a pretty sight, but at least the bleeding had subsided somewhat.

Even more amazing, the patient, whose name we learned was Othel, was still perfectly calm, cognizant, and composed. Her behavior belied the same strength and fortitude that I had observed in other Amerindian women, such as when they gave birth without the benefit of any analgesics or painkillers. In fact, she even appeared in good spirits, and smiled and laughed with us as we cleaned, disinfected, and bandaged up her head, joking about the fashionable new style she displayed with her gauzed headband. A picture from our “salon”:

If anything, the emergency had certainly answered our previous dilemma of what we would do to occupy us all afternoon. After mopping up the blood, I emerged from the health post with only a couple hours before dark, so I made my way down to the dock to bathe in the river. I also decided to have a little swim too, and found the water surprisingly warm and quite refreshing. It was a surreal moment, backstroking in the current, with the reeds of the savannah stretching out to the distant, forested horizon.

Despite all the excitement and tension of the day, I found a calm peace settling over me, which not even the half-joking warnings of electric eels in the water could disturb (though you can be damn sure I avoided diving or jumping in the water, after seeing Othel’s injury!). Later that night, after dinner, we all gathered around a cleared area in front of the school and set up a big bonfire, using logs of dead, dry bamboo the children had gathered.

A large crowd of local Akawini villagers and children, as well as the headmaster of the school, gathered together on rows of benches arranged before us. Several speeches of official welcome and thanks were exchanged between our two groups, and then the assembly of Akawini villagers formed our audience as the Kabakaburi and St. Monica Health clubs staged an impromptu concert. The children gave informative health talks on filarial, DEC salt, malaria, etc. A group of small kids from Akawini then chimed in with some of their school songs and memorized nursery rhymes. Soon the concert devolved into an improvised “Night at Akawini” talent show, with anyone and everyone jumping up to perform songs, tell jokes, etc. Othel, the girl who had busted her head, stood and sang a rendition of Dido’s song “White Flag.” I was impressed that she knew such a contemporary pop hit, and even more impressed that she was on her feet and performing for an audience just a few hours after receiving 20 stitches and losing a good deal of blood. I had some of the students perform a humorous skit I had seen at a National Youth Health Camp that I’d helped out at in December, about a doctor and his four patients, who each pass on to him their illnesses, with the last patient being a pregnant woman. At one point in the night, the children and some of the teachers began clamoring for the three strange foreigners to jump in and perform. We tried to refuse but were practically pushed out into the center of the circle. At a loss for what to do, I started breaking out the theme song from the TV show The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. “In West Philadelphi, born and raised,” Kristina and Shanna joined in with me, and we started pantomiming the songs lyrics—“Got in one little fight and my mom got scared, she said ‘You’re moving to your Auntie and Uncle’s in Bel-Air!” By the end we were cracking up at the absurdity of the situation--three Americans: two white chicks and an Asian dude--out in the middle of the savannah somewhere in South America, rapping the theme song to The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air in front of about 50 Amerindian villagers. After we finished, we took a bow and looked up to see the entire audience staring at us with rather puzzled and bewildered faces. There was a smattering of polite applause, but mostly we hurried out of the spotlight to a confused silence, wanting to get off the stage before a lynch mob formed and the torches and pitchforks came out to drive the crazy Americans out of town. Needless to say, the concert broke up shortly thereafter, and we formed a big circle near the campfire to play games with the children.

I had fun joining in on some of the call-and-response games, and the assorted variations of duck-duck-goose and musical chairs that seem to compose nearly all campfire games. The cool, clean, fresh night air smelled wonderful, and I stepped back for a moment to breath it in deep and gaze with a smile at the scene before me--a ring of schoolchildren, holding hands and singing by the warm, flickering glow of a campfire, the stars and moon shining brilliantly overhead. We called it a night around 10pm, and tried to get some sleep in the hammocks strung up inside the school building--not an easy task with all the mosquitoes, bats, and typical late-night adolescent sleepover high jinks (fart noises, snickering, loud pretend-snoring, etc.) By 4am the next morning, people were rising and bustling about, and I forced my tired and aching body up and out to take one last swim in the savannah as the sun rose pink and gold above the horizon.

After breakfast and some encounters with local wildlife

We cleaned and packed up, heading back to the first island for lunch and to watch a community cricket game. Around 12:30pm or so, Kristina, Shanna, and I set out early for the hike back to Waiwaru Creek. A good thing too, as our tired and sleep deprived asses moved even slower and more painfully on this second day, taking us 3 hours for this return trip. At the creek head, we were supposed to by picked up in the same oversized produce boat, but the water level was low and we had a long delay as we waited for our ride to come. I used the opportunity to break out some of my authentic Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon poses among the tall stalks of the bamboo grove--a setting that reminded me of a Zhang Yimou period martial arts flick.

Finally, a scouting party we had sent out returned, having commandeered a small motorboat and two paddle boats to take us down the creek. Thus, broken up into a small floating convoy, we headed back out down the cramped, narrow waterway through which we had first arrived. The day was rapidly darkening, especially under the heavy canopy that overhung the creek. There was still enough light, however, for me to see when some of the children pointed and cried out “sloth, sloth!” about halfway down the creek. I looked over, and just a few feet away saw a large, fuzzy ball of white and gray drooping down from a low hanging branch over the creek. At first I thought it was a huge sack of cobwebs, it looked so still and lifeless. Then, a long piece of the sack detached itself from the rest of the mass and stretched out towards the water. Now I could see that this was the sloth’s arm, with a hook-like clawed hand at the end, which it was slowly extending down towards the water’s surface. Before I could study the strange, silent, peaceful creature further, we had puttered on through the deep green darkness of the approaching twilight. At the creek mouth, I bid goodbye to Kristina, Shanna, and the rest of the Kabakaburi group. The St. Monica schoolchildren switched boats with me, and together we motored and floated back down to our own village, dropping off students along the way. I looked out over the prow of the boat at the setting sun, feeling exhausted but happy.