chapter_06

- Between Order and Chaos -

Trip from Saarbrücken to Lethem. How many people know either place.


It could be about the 5th now, maybe 6th. Who knows, it is Thursday for sure. Another 12 days till we go back to the first world. So it's the 5th.

Anyhow, I'm a little whipped. Yesterday we had a little hike. That's a drive from Lethem to St. Ignitious to pick up Peter, our native guide and then a little drive through the Savannah to get to the mountain. That's where the jungle starts here.

Without 4 wheel drive, you don't get there. Unless you have a bike, motor-cross or horse. Ian tells me 90% of the Hinterland people are Amerindian. The rest aren't white.

So with pack on back, we head up the mountain, a little like any mountain, a little like any mountain path except a little rougher and steeper. It wasn't long before I realised I was in better shape a few years ago. I had at least 3 litres of water before I got to the top. And it all came out of my pours. Every pour I have. But I refused to die on the path so we got up there, deciding we better stay the night. Days are too short here. And I was beat. After an hour or whatever it was in my hammock, I sat at the edge of the cliff so I could have my name hammered into the rock lower than anyone else.

Peter and the two girls, Sharla and Odesa were back down to the last creek to get more water while Ernst had a nap and I watched the jungle from above. I was looking down on their most famous bird, the harpy eagle, soaring on the up draft, not flapping its wings once.

After the sun went down, the stars lit up the sky. With no town and no lower atmosphere, it was a brilliant performance. A few crackers and some water with sugar and chocolate powder and we settle into signalling Lethem we were up there, and watching the fire.

The trip down in the early morning after a chilly night, was enough to put me in the KO mode but now I'm taking it easy after one of Shirley's girls made me lunch.

They have a cow they are hacking up in the back yard, under the window where I sleep and it's too bloody hot anyhow. There's a workshop on the first floor, that's Don's little paradise.

Maybe I'll think to say something about them but I'm not sure yet. Shirley is strung tight and tries to have control over everything in the region; Don seems to put up with it.

Tomorrow we are off. South where it is even less civilised, which I find hard to imagine, and more beautiful.

_bunnie stop_

We aren't south yet. At least not south of Lethem, which is south compared to most places north of Lethem.

We left Shirley's place on Airport Rd. No more work shop and abattoir. Just screaming kids. Spent yesterday looking for a windows file. Just another reminder why one should use Macs. Pete, our host now, or his wife, is fixing the truck. Pete and Steve. His wife is baking bread. That's her business. And I think I need one more nap.

_bunnie stop_

Looks like rain is coming. I haven't been out of my hammock much today. Just had some ferren and there is no way away from the television. It is black and white because it only receives stations from Brazil and they have different boxes or something. Of course the TV appeals to the lowest denominator as in any land and I hope we can get on with our journey. We fly back up to Georgetown in 8 days.

We can use a half-hour rain but not too much or our road will all be mud.

Whatever.

_bunnie stop_

A couple days have gone by. We are at our last night in the south. We were one more night at Lethem before we moved on to visit Leroy. He's not the chief of his village yet but he's already on his way.

After a long journey of 25 miles or a little more (35 actually), we arrived late, late is after the sun goes down so not so late. But 25 miles is done about as fast on a bike as with a Land Rover. Especially if you have to jack out of the mud.

But that's part of it. No one has a Land Rover that doesn't have to be push started most times and any trip of more then ten miles means repairs are likely needed.

Anyhow, we dumped some water over our heads after hanging our hammocks in the priest's house.

Peter was in charge, no that was later. We had a hot chocolate or coffee and refried beans or I don't know, no, something else.

Mostly we got on the houses, the boys on their bicycles and we headed off over the savannahs and through the jungle to find Bone Mountain, otherwise called Bald Head Mountain.

The jungle part was a little slow because Leroy and his men had to cut through a little on the way.

His crew got volunteered to carry everything on their backs while we continued on horse back.

We had to climb to get to the bones.

The bones were dead ancestors in big clay pots. Not many, but there they were dead. Well preserved because it's a bit of a cave.

After an interview with the man who told us the story of how one tribe was always stealing young women and killing the men, we walked, rather climbed in the blistering sun to the top of Bald Head. There, another interview with Leroy, a look about and back down.

I blew both my sandals on the way down.

From there around the lake which was full of plant life and birds.

Then we left the horses once again to be eaten by horse flies while we hiked up one mountain, hill rather, down and around and down to a river. A little piece of paradise, even the colours on the hill were somehow different.

The river had been lain out by time and water so that one could swim a little or lay in the gentle rapids. What would be less gentle in rainy season.

The men had their bows with them and this meant we could expect fresh fish fried on the fire when we came from our swim.

And we were smart enough to bring limes and crackers. The peanut butter was the biggest hit with a couple of the crew.

Then a quick look I took to see how they fish with bow under water. It wasn't a question of finding a fish, just one big enough. They attacked me in swarms. The little pretty fishies all around my mask.

But time was up. We had to head back. My ass was not going to hold out all the way back on the horse. I know it. I told Leroy I'd ride his bike when we hit the savannah. The horse must have taken it as an insult. And let's face it, I'm no cowboy. When the fucker let lose to catch the other three horses, there was no holding him back; which I tried anyway when he was headed for the trees. I found myself taking my feet out the stirrups. My bare feet since my blown sandals didn't fit in. Then my body seemed to act on it's own, leaning back not wanting anything to do with the approaching trees.

Finally, I let go and pushed off the racing horse; it reminded me of the time I was on the back of the bike with Dean Welcome. Eight years old, maybe a little older. He was racing down the hill and I sensed he was out of control and bailed out. Which of course might have been foolish but it was automatic. I didn't want anymore to do with it and wanted to control my environment how I thought fit.

Somehow jumping off the bike had only cost me a couple of scraps. Somehow bailing out of the horse ride caused me very little pain.

And I know one should get back on his horse but it wasn't my horse and I didn't want to be sitting on him no more.

Later Leroy made beans or black-eyed peas or something and Peter the tortilla not half as good as I make them but when hungry, all food is good.

Next day a little farther south. 15 miles or so, not even two hours travelling. With a couple stops for shots. Wait, we had interviews in the morning and Sharla made Bakes; like what Joan had made up at Arrow Point, and they were nice and fatty and with re-baked beans with more onion, garlic and sardines in it, it was a beautiful breakfast.

Then we got here. The Daranawa, or how they call it, I can't remember, Ranch. Used to be the biggest in the world. At least in dry season. In rainy season most of it is under water. 3,000 square miles, no, 300 hundred. A good piece of the Rupununi. (now just over 2,000)

That was yesterday. We shot the easy stuff yesterday.

Today was shoot the cowboys. All the cowboys here are Amerindians, in fact, the, shit, I never remember names, he just had us over to his place for a visit to show us his house and wife and kids and grand children. His trophy for best lassoer in the Rupununi. One year older then me. And he likes his life here. And his kids liked our visit. One of the most pleasant things about this land is the gentle friendliness of most people.

They did a little lassoing for our camera. And cut the balls out of the bull they brought down. It was a little hard. I didn't want to watch but felt I had to if I was eating meat from a steer. The bag was sliced open and the one testicle pulled out, then the next, the cord with it. The bull, not making much sound and me feeling less well than I did when the bull had his balls.

Brutal is what it was. Growing animals to eat. And that's nothing new. I didn't enjoy watching it though and won't go to see it at the circus. The women, Sharla and the old woman who came to watch what was happening, seemed to think it almost humorous.

Anyway, off then with Ashley and Carl instead of Pete who wanted to do radio work and contact stuff during the day. We visited a village, name already forgotten, to film the picking, weaving and buying of cotton. One weaver was 11. We dragged her out of school to help us find her dad's place. He was the Chief. Tushaw. She and her grandmother showed us the weaving of cotton.

So many of the children are almost a little too beautiful. They have a charm that gets under your skin. Luckily, perhaps, most women over 16 are off to a school somewhere or married and having children.

Now I'm sitting on the balcony of Sandy and Dewain's staff house. There's no late night shooting of the shit here. Just someone with a ghetto-blaster cranking out the same sound over and over. The Brazilain squeeze box thing.

I get my bed ready and turn out the lights. Tomorrow we are back to Lethem. The arm pit of a very beautiful, if somewhat barren, land.

_bunnie stop_



by john rah, editorial lack of assistance from barbaralba, thanks anyway

go to number seven



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