Across the Essequibo and into Surama Village

Early morning, November 22, 2008

I have survived the worst of the ride into the interior. From time to time, I woke up to stare in amazement out the front window...it was like riding in one of those animated movie rides...unbelievable!!! Sometime during the early hours just before dawn, we had stopped at Mabura Hill to have our passports checked. I stood in a line of Amerindians and Brazilians...towering over them, my white skin nearly illuminating the dark police office. The officer went down the list, Guyanese, Guyanese, Guyanese, Brazilian, Brazilian, American, Guyanese, Brazilian...."Are you an American?" as I handed him my passport. I wanted to reply, "No, I'm a light-skinned Guyanese with a real bad accent." But the surly look on his face made me think humor was not his long suite.

As dawn broke, we stopped at a roadside 'snackette' known locally as Krupukari Restaurant. Fellow passengers stumbled out of the bus, legs and backs still stiff from the hours of riding, toothbrushes, wash clothes and toilet paper at the ready. Most of us ate some kind of bread something or other, washed down with tea, Coke or the local incredibly sweet soft drink, "Busta."

A loud blast from the horn called us back to our seats, the old diesel roared to life and we were on our way to Krupukari Crossing on the Essequibo River.

I've driven motor coach, crossed some bridges...but I ain't never done nothing like this. Check out the pictures of the ancient bus backing down a very steep hill onto an antiquated ferry. You won't see this in the States.

For those of you with very sharp eyes, you are right, these pictures were actually taken on a different trip...but it was the same bus, the same ferry and the same river crossing.

Now we are across the Essequibo and have just passed into the Iwokrama forest http://www.iwokrama.org/. For the next two hours, the old bus rumbles south over the Lethem Road, stopping only twice at the Iwokrama check gates.

The bus stops, the driver turns to me and mutters something I do not understand, but assume this is where I get out. I recall Mike Patterson's statement, "no problem, I've made all the arrangements...someone will be at the junction to meet you." Off the bus onto the gravel road, not a soul to be seen. The bus departs and I think, "well, this must be the place." My hopes grow as I spot a sign that reads, "To Surama". An arrow points west along a single track dirt road. I looked around, nope, nobody here. I noticed a house standing back from the road, but there appeared to be nobody there. I walked over, "Hello...anybody here?" From inside, a woman's voice, "Come around the side that door is locked." My first meeting with Madonna...no not THE Madonna, Madonna Allicock. She looked me over noting, "You must be the white man coming to stay at the eco-lodge. Nobody here to carry you in...but someone should come along soon."

Madonna offered me water, some bread and a banana. "How far is it to the village?" "It will take you about an hour to walk in." I shouldered my pack and started the walk into Surama Village. I walked for nearly an hour through lush tropical forests...hundreds of birds flashed across the forest openings, their songs rising in a cacophony of noise. I munched my bread and banana, drank water and ambled into a whole new world. Just before I got to the village, Frank aka Rockman, came riding down the road on his bicycle. "Are you Captain Mike? I'm just coming out to organize transport for you." I suggested we just continue walking into the village.

Frank, in his early twenties, is studying to be a forester and is president of the village Junior Wildlife Club. When we reached the village, our first stop was the carpenter shop where Glen Allicock works with some of the village youths learning a trade as woodworkers. Ron Allicock, nephew to both Madonna and Glen, rode up on his motorcycle. "I'll give you drop to the eco-lodge."