Spirit and bones.

Sometimes bones age faster than the spirit.  For others their spirit fades faster than bones.  Some weren't meant for this world being of another, dreaming of the moon and floating as if they were already spirits, feeling the tug of their other worldly home calling to them. The spark in their eye flits in and out of the world.
 Some were born with old spirits and although young outside, their spirit gained the wisdom of age, bringing with it, its experiences from a past life.  This spirt comes whole and can remember, so there are the young that are cautious, the spark in their eye showing true deep thought. Some are born whole and remember the love in the world, these are the kind spirits among us, the spark in their eye is empathy.
 Some spirits are born in pieces within us and dont remember.  Born lost from the very beginning, these are the ones reckless in life and their spark in their eye wild and hungry.
Some are born with rage for injustices done in the world, the spark in their eye is one of anger.
Some spirits know.  The spark in their eye flits in and out of this world, the spark in their eye shows deep thought, the spark in their eye shows empathy, the spark in their eye show wildness and hunger, the spark in their eye show anger, the spark in their eye show love and understanding.

Its not the outside that counts.  Its the energy inside you.  Time flies swiftly and takes with you the youthfulness of your skin, the shine of your hair, the flexibility in your bone joints and for some it takes the spirit in you.
But for some, the spirit burns and its the only thing that time cannot take from us.  It becomes knowing : of the ephemeral life, thinks deeply about the world, sympathizes with those who cannot stand on their own, is angry at the ones who step on the ones who cannot stand, is the spirit that searches hungrily for answers in the wild, its the spirit that grows to love and understand the balance that life has to offer.  Life is not unfair, we percieve it as so.  But the spirit that grows, that is not afraid to be kind, to be angry, to be lost and to love is the one who understands that life seeks balance and so must we.

South Road

Sand Creek sitting in the valley, Sand Creek you make me so happy to see the old and young, blue mountains around, what a pretty, pretty site, its my home town.

There is a song out there, written by Basil Rodriques if Im not mistaken, it could of been Winston Pugsley, the headmaster of Sand Creek at the time.  It goes like this; Rainy Season has come again, alot of people do not like the rain, mosquito, mis'o, kabaro, mareiw, kibaro all around.  Lightening and thunder, muddy savannahs,  But we plant our peppers, plant our cassava....
So I cant remember all the lyrics, but my point is this... I LOVE THE RAINY SEASON.  Because this is when life happens, when love happens (or sex) and friendships are forged on the road admist mud, rain, sweat, rum, iron and rope.  So yes, there are more mosquiotes and Kabaoro, but its a sign of life-the rain creates an opportunity for growth, for renewal.  It dampens the dust of the dry season that would punish any travelers eyes on the south road.  The negative side is break downs and stick up increases as the muddy earth suck onto the jeeps wheels and pull it to a stop.  The water gets everywhere causing electrical problems, contaminated oil, weakened bearings and such.  But think about the positive things that come out of these...every south traveler has a story about the road, has many stories of the road...I want to begin with my mum and uncle Malek.
Im young, I think eight or nine, traveling back from Lethem in the land rover 40-39 late at night, and of course all the adults had been drinking in front of uncle Don and Aunty Shirley's before we left....  This is through white rock, for those of you who know and we get a puncture.  Mundane enough for a break down, but we have no spare and its swarming with mosquitoes, we have only ration and alcohol.  So the adults began to drink (as a bug repllent you see).  I curl up in the punctured tyre slapping away at mosquitoes.  Then I hear uncle Malek and my mum start to sing.  I start to dance.  My repellent you see, the faster I move, the less chance I get bitten.  They sing old country and western songs, El Paso, by Marty Robbins, Clementine, Kenny Rogers, Dolly Parton and Country Road by John Denver, substituting South Rupununi for west virginia. 
To this day when I hear that song, I rememeber that night, dancing under white rock mountain with my mum and uncle Malek singing every country song they knew.  Boling an egg in a half of a beer can and when it rained the fire fizzled out...they sang louder under the tarpulin and I danced.  I dont think I can dance like that again.  No one came that night for us.  When the rain abated, i curled in my mums lap, dressed my dad's camel trophy T-shirt and fell asleep. 

South Road-Part 1

I needed to write something, anything, so this here is a beginning of a series called south road, the next part will have as its main theme the love and friendships formed on the road, stick ups--you get the idea.

When I think of the word south, several memories from all my experiences rush into my mind.

So I will start with the memory where I was first aware of the meaning of the mystical word south.

 I was 12 years old and it was my first year in Secondary school, a private institution called school of the nations in Georgetown.  After my first term, I returned home for Christmas, Dad, Mum and my brother picked me up at the airstrip in Lethem.  I remember launching myself on my brother, knocking the wind out of him.  Anyway—“ Just now we going right babes.”  My father said to me.  Yup.  At 12 I knew what this meant…I had heard that phrase all my life, was to hear it a lot more and I’m sure will hear it for the rest of my life.  Oh Rupununi’s famous—just now.

We drove home that night and my dad says “ Babe-see the southern cross” I stare at where he is pointing, just above the Kanuku range to the south I see the four stars making up the southern cross. “South, babe—welcome home”.  When I think of this memory, I remember the ecstatic joy I felt when we started to drive out of Lethem and the south road stretched ahead in front of me winding its way around the Kanukus through the Savannah and bush…I was going home.

I’m 18 years old.  Just returned from my first year in Vancouver.  Sitting at an intraserv bus stop with some friends… “ South is it—girl you going home!, C. says.  I hadn’t heard that phrase before but it was one to repeated all through the years.  I’m nervous.  It’s the longest time I have been out of the rupununi.  One year, I didn’t know what had changed…what to expect—did I change?.  I couldn’t sleep that night and stare out the window of the bus, excitement hits me when we get to the Essiquibo crossing.  I KNOW when we cross that river and head through that forest corridor; we come to a sudden opening into the Savannah and sky — heading south.  All fears forgotten I bounced quickly in my seat and stifle a little yelp of excitement and we emerge into the North Savannah—South, keep going south.  Country Roads by John Denver play in my mind and I start to think of all my friends.

I’m 23 years old, sitting at a bus stop in Vancouver, its freezing and I just missed the bus.  I stare at the mist coming out of the Molson brewery and the Burrard Bridge willing the bus to come.  A fresh wind blows at me, whipping off my hood and whistling around my ears, I see a feather floating on the wind and look up to see geese flying over head honking.  South for the winter—and this poem was a result:

And Just like that the time soon came

Winter with the northern winds blew in

And with it strange whispers in the rain

Head south-Head south!

the whispers proclaimed--

Float on the wind with the feather

Follow the paper heart blowing in the wind

The journey's not too long you'll find

My friend soon you'll be among your kind

I’m 24 and there’s so much more.  Sing it Neil Young.  Living alone in a paradise that makes me think of two.  Well in the south paradise, you’re never alone—even when you want to be (but that"s another meditation-in a city among millions-you can be very alone--in a place with a few hundred--you always have company--even if its a chicken).  When I start to feel Lethem closing in, I look South East and see the Kanuku stretching out.  Anytime I want I can head south-south is it.  And that’s a feeling I love.

Dry Season

The yellow butterflies fluttered across the green savannah in the hot mid-afternoon sun.  A warm breeze was blowing and I could hear the kaiambe leaves gently rustling and the grass singing with calm joy as the wind touched them, a soft whispering-a language I felt I could understand if I just sat in the grass for the rest of the afternoon.  "Daddy, the butterflies are so pretty. why are they so many of them "  I asked looking up, my dad's sun burnt face stared back down at me, I was 7 yrs old and new no other place than the Savannahs.

 "Dry season coming" he answered simply, "they sense that and moving to another place, they done what they had to do here." I thought about that answer silently, listening to the wind in the grass--did the butterflies understand the language of the warm wind?  They must do I concluded-because that breeze was bringing a message of dry season and away they flew on the breeze moving on somewhere else before the grass turned brown and Savannah fire would blow on that wind.  Dad and I continued walking, he holding my hand and with the other touching the tips of the tall grass on the roadside.  I knew then that Daddy could understand the language of the grass and the breeze. I looked down at my feet covered in dried mud, we'd just walked through a puddle and I was amazed at how fast the sun dried my feet.  Dry season coming, I hummed this to myself.

The thunder clapped in the late afternoon, but there was no rain cloud in the sky.  I lay in the hammock rocking, listening to the sound of the wind on the thatched roof.  A gentle breeze and I prayed for it to continue.  The air was stifling and I knew a big rain would pour down soon.  I was 20 yrs old but when the rain fell I still had the urge to take off my clothes and run through the rain with uncontrolled joy, the way I could when I was 5.  That's funny, even joy is controlled when you're older, because a 20 yr old can't just go screaming in the rain--people would think I was mad or something.
It was my first real relationship

"Dry season coming, hear that thunder?" My thoughts were interrupted by his statement. 

"What? Thunder is rain, "

"Well you hear thunder during this rainy season" he asked

"Not really..."

"Yes you hear thunder around more when rainy season coming to an end you know." I looked across at him and smiled.  He too knew the language of the breeze I thought to myself.  I didn't say it out lout, he wouldn't know what I was talking about.  " Rain gone come just now though" he said.  Half an hour later, from boiling hot sun, a cloud, pushed by thunder claps probably rolled across the sky. 

 A loud clap and lightning and the cloud burst, like a overripe cashew falling to the hard ground.  The raindrops hit the dry sand and burst into tiny pieces shifting the sand particles.  I shook with excitement in the hammock and kissed him.  "So this might be one of the last rains?" Its late august and I'm suddenly sad because the end of the rains, means the end of summer, which means I leave again the place my heart lay buried somewhere the breeze only knew.

"Well, not the last, always got more rain" he replied.  I smiled-always and answer for everything. "Well, go nah, nobody watching, everybody hiding from the rain."  I hopped out the hammock and began taking off my clothes until I stood in my panty and bra.  I ran into the rain and put my face up, opened my mouth and tasted it-sweet.  I ran around just like a minute, then stood under the edge of the roof where the water running off was heavy and watched the dry ground get soaked in a matter of seconds.

Yes yellow butterflies, warm breeze, hot sun and thunder.  Dry season coming.  But I would miss the rain, I would miss the mud but dry season meant cashew season, whitee and mango.  Dry season meant fishing trips to pools drying up and picnics and roast fish.  Dry season would follow the rain, the rain would follow the sun, in a cycle that I hope would never end.  

Black Mud

If you are a Rupununian, or have been to the Rupununi in the heart of the rainy season, the heading is enough to tell a tale.  This tale is woven with mosquito and sand fly bites, cricket and frog songs, kaiambe trees, itchy black mud, spinning tires, and of course rum.  When all else fails, there is no anti itch available and no insect repellent...well down the rum and push soldier!  Now I know I make it sound romantic, and it is ----after you get out, reach home, had a shower and are lying in a hammock drunkenly re-living the experience.

I got out the jeep and pushed until I thought my head would explode, slipping in the black mud I could already feel the tell tale itch of the black mud and hear the mosquitoes descending like a pack of starving vampires smelling fresh blood.  "Go check the road" the driver yelled.  I ran, stupidly, forgetting where I was and my feet slid in front of me.  I fell smack on my backside, is not like I can escape anyone seeing, the damn jeep lights pointed right at me, the stars and moon so bright and I so damn white that I glow in contrast to the black swamp.
The next order came " Kaiambe! I can't take my foot off the acelerator, if I cut out now we spending the night with the mosquitoes" Well thats an invitation I didnt care for.

Mud squishing between my feet I thought about our predicament.  Rupununi was high high high.  Its almost midnight and we're another hour from our destination.  An hour to get out from this hole probably.  I tore down a kaiambe branch bigger than me and began dragging it back to the jeep smiling because I see the driver has pulled out the stash of el dorado.  Take a bounce and start shoving the Kaiambe leaves and branches into the mud track where the jeep will go.  After about three Kaiambe trees, we push, it moves!! It fucking going. " Push! push! push!" everyone screaming in unison, she starts to go.  "Don't let go, run after she, run!" We push until we are out of the swamp but there's more water for half a mile and we watch the rear lights go up and down, in and out of water as the driver mash the accelerator in till he's past all the water.  We jog after the jeep slowly.  Laughter, congratulations, a bounce and back into the jeep mud all over the tarpulin, lying there staring at the stars one on top the other in sticky, itchy love.

Well this time we got out, but I began thinking about the time we spent a night on the white rock road, half the jeep in a serious hole when I was just a young un.  Well. numerous other tales for another day, but the same basic plot :) just the length of time and company varies.

Buck Cherry.

sweet round wild cherries....buck cherries.   Claudius Perry, as a botanist he worked with Smithsonians, he was also a bull rider and a fantastic person.  One of the only men in rupununi that could down a duck and remain cheery and kind and sweet as buck cherry.  A man who i have never throughout my life seen him frown for long.  Like most Rupununians Buck Cherry loved el dorado and he was a cowboy by nature.  Its strange, I stare out into the world and it seems normal.  I think about it some more and its random, unfair.  Claudo was a cowboy, he got bucked off, wiped the dust and shit off his clothes and walked out the corral just to jump on another bucking horse.  And life is like that.  Sometimes you hold on and its ok and sometimes you fall.  And sometimes things take you by surprise. 

I called the station to report the incident for my father to the police yesterday around mid day.

"Let us go home now I say Claudo" his wife Joy Perry would say when they had a bit too much and the dance floor seemed like a good place to sway.  Well Clado has gone home and I hope he gets all the things he deserves.  He leaves behind his wife who is pregnant, and three sons.

I want to dedicate a little piece more of this blog to Terrence and Julie, jason, Philbert and Sumi --those are the ones i know who helped last night.  If there were others--comment with their name.  Me and M came over last night with the bad news and Julie and Terrence immediately made moves to contact backup plane in case the RAM one could not be fixed.  In the thunderstorm, Terrence then went out with the boys, and the boys held a tarp over the plane while Terrence worked on it all night finishing early morning hours, just to take off with no shut eye, fly to dadanawa and take Claudius' injured family to GT.  Rupununi, a place where when shit happens, people don't throw it at the fan.  They shovel it out of the way and deal with it.  So a great thank you to Julie and Terrence.  

RAM, -I have heard that acronym since I was about 5 years old.  Remote Area Medical-its not the organization you know-its the people who make it up.  I want to thank RAM for the years of service to the Rupununi.  And for dedication to getting the plane fixed in the midst of a thunderstorm.

To sum up.  Love to Claudo and big up to RAM and my father who kept calling my phone to get the message through even though I could barely hear him.  What a man.  But maybe that'll be my next blog--a homage to the Rupununi people we respect and love.

Buck Cherry--it wont be the same without you.  

Manic Tuesday??

Guyana.  Well Rupununi to be exact.  Rose up this morning smiled with the sun (which had rose before me).  Boily, roast, fry egg and farine.  What else is there in the world but good food, friends and love.  Well a miner yelling outside my door for a mutual friend actually woke me up--jumped out of bed, damn its late.

  Had friends of my boyfriend over, eating some roast, and lots of veges around.  Coffee for four boys, off to bathe, dress, kiss my love goodbye and jump on my bike.  Here is the main reason for writing today's entry.  As I rode passed the carpenter shop , camoflage computer bag on the back of the bike, I heard "another manic monday" playing as the rough black carpenter boys sawed through the wood.  I smiled a little to myself.  Just like Rupununi to be playing manic monday on a tuesday morning. The song being played by some ungi bungi boys no less.  In this world, the weekend starts on thursday and the week begins on a manic tuesday.  Lets face it, no ones serious about work on a monday morning.