Guyana (Land of many waters)

From Georgetown to Lethem

The Experience of a Life time.

This trip is not for the faint hearted, or anyone whom doesn't like the backs of Ten ton British Army trucks as their home for a few days. I can guarantee that you will enjoy the trip if you are fit enough.

Load up, and hang on.

Every week trucks make the trip to Lethem through the bush, and jungles of Guyana. My vehicle left at twelve thirty at night on a warm moon light night in the month of March. The trailer of the truck was loaded full of rice, beer, and other items for the stores in Lethem, and a few other item to be dropped at various points along the way. The porters young strong local boys sat on the canvas roof for the first leg of the journey to Wismar. Hard tarmac roads all the way to Linden across the bridge to Wismar to a small rum shop to drop of some of the beer and various other items which the owner had a sale for. My companions were three school children and their teacher, two businessmen, three porters, and a driver with his girl friend in the front of the truck. I was glad to see some of the goods removed  from the back of the truck as it was very uncomfortable sitting on beer crates. When I paid the six thousand Guyanise dollar's to ride on this journey I was under the assumption that I might at least get a seat somewhere. With my feet firmly planted against the back board, and my back against the sacks of rice I settled in to make myself as comfortable as possible. We left Wismar at about six o'clock in the morning the sun already rising fast in to the clear blue sky. Climbing a steep hill we came off the tarmac road onto a red clay road, it was slightly wet so as we hit a puddle so the mixture sprayed up and into the rear of the vehicle. It wasn't long before my skin and clothes were identical in color. The clouds started to roll in from the seaward side of the road, within an hour the rain came down and cooled down the air and made the situation worst until we were forced to pull down the canvas cover. As is normal in the tropical country's it wasn't long before the sun had replaced the dampness with a scorching heat. The road dried up and once again we had the dust of the red clay road blowing into the rear of the vehicle. Soon afterwards we stopped at a checkpoint for some lunch, and to stretch my legs which had been in the same position for the past few hour's. We sat by the side of the truck (shaded of course) and ate the sandwich's which my wife had so hurriedly prepared the previous night. The porter's and driver checked the vehicle from top to bottom, tightening nuts, and greasing joints as they thought fit. Soon the driver informed us that we would be moving out in the next ten minuets. So helping the children and teacher to climb into the truck and following close behind as the engines roared in to life. One of the porter's whom had been on the canvas roof came inside, as he put it "This would be a rough ride", and it proved to be just so.

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Rough Ride

Half a mile up the road we turned left off the red road, and up a track through the tree's. It hardly seemed wide enough for a car. Branches thrashed against the side, bough's brushed the roof . What had become of the other two porters, I found myself thinking. So I asked the porter whom had come into the rear of the truck. "Oh they are on the top", "What about the branches" I said. He pointed towards a sagging area in the front of the truck roof.. I stared in disbelief. "Why do they stay there?", " Part of the fun" came the muffled reply as he too disappeared, pulling himself up, and out onto the canvas top. It would be two hours or more before I would speak to him again. The noise form the branches was slowly becoming quieter and I could here the porters talking at the tops of their voices. The truck slowed as we began to climb a steep hill, the cargo shifted, and it was all I could do to stop myself from being pushed out of the tailboard by the ton's of rice bearing down on me. The children had climbed to the top and were quite unaware of what was happening. It wasn't long before the truck came to a halt, and began to slide back down the hill. The driver was obviously trying to control the vehicle with the gear's, but we new he had failed when the sound of metal teeth sheering off cut through the body of the truck. The porters had jumped from the top and running down the hill faster than we were moving. Disappearing into the forest some fifty yards ahead of us, they reappeared moments later with a large log. Throwing it on the ground across the track to slow the vehicle, again into the tree's to produce yet another laying it down ten feet behind the other. We hit the first log so hard the whole rear end of the truck jumped and continued along it way. The second log slowed us down fast enough for the driver to regain control of the vehicle bringing it to a stop some twenty yards further down the hill. I got out of the rear of the truck so fast. Still shaken from the experience I walked rather shakily to the front, where I found the driver, and two porters looking at the axles. They moved towards the back, "Here" shouted a voice from the other side. Turning in the same direction I followed them closely. We found the missing porter under the chassis examining the rear half shaft. "It's done for!" he exclaimed. An argument followed as to why the driver hadn't stopped at the bottom and let out the front cable and winched us up the hill To cut a long story short the driver had made the week before and thought he would this time. The driver's make good money doing this run, and try to get two trips a week. This week would turn out to be the last run for this driver, as the new half shaft costs G$200,000.00 . Four miles further up the trail is a small campsite called Frenchman's Creek and that would turn out to be our destination for the next few days. We continued to winch ourselves both up and down the hills which followed the incident. Nobody said much, I think we were all thanking God for delivering us safely from the hand of death. Finally we reached our stopover at about seven thirty at night, it had be a long day, and all we needed was some food and somewhere to sleep. Both were provided although I ended up sleeping on the same sack's on which I had been praying to get off all day. Sleep wasn't long coming, I watched as the Macaws went to roost for the night high in the tops of the Greenhart trees. You wouldn't think that birds flying so high could make so much noise, but as it was nothing to compare to the Howler monkeys the following morning. As the sun disappeared from view so the evening air became cooler, fresher and very pleasant. The sky filled with stars and a few white cotton ball clouds floated past in the evening air. The porter's and driver were deep in conversation, as I fell into a deep sleep.

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Frenchman's Creek

I don't really know why it called "Frenchman's Creek" as I never saw a creek anywhere. The trail runs through the center of a clearing in the jungle and on ether side green grass meets the undergrowth. A small stream has to be crossed as you enter the clearing, the bridge made from logs and boarded over. On the left hand side a hundred yards from the stream is a corrugated iron roofed building, which serves as the bar, restaurant, and living quarter's of the Indian couple who own it. The bar is situated on the left front side of the building and also serve's as the dining area. The center portion is the serving area and kitchen, and to the right and the rear of it is the preparation area. A small shop in the bar area sells hardware ,shovel, gold pans, kerosene and of course alcoholic beverages, some home made. The building has never been painted and blends into its surroundings very well. The food is freshly prepared daily but don't expect to find steak and fry's, as the closest you will find is wild boar and eddo curry. The menu varies according to what has managed to be killed the previous night. Wild boar, Powwee (Large pheasant type bird), Labba (small deer) and many other types of meat and fish. Sometimes it's best not to ask the name of the food if it tastes good eat it. (That's My Motto) A small track beside the bar leads to a large one acre clearing in the forest. Huge one hundred foot Greenhart tree's lay on the ground like sleeping soldier's, where they were felled by the lone Amerindian living there supplying the restaurant with meat and vegetables. As you enter the clearing the ground slopes down steeply to a crystal clear stream running through the base of the valley. A large rock placed in the stream slows the water enough to flood some of the land. Eddoes plants growing with there tuberous roots in the moist soil flourish. To the right of the path a shack made with the local timber and leaves in the Amerindian fashion, is obviously home to the owner of the clearing. Some of the tree's strewn on the forest floor have dried branches and leaves banked up against the huge trunks, Columns of gray smoke drift slowly into the clean blue sky above.

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Unseen Friend

Amerindians are friendly but rather shy of strangers, keeping very much to themselves. We followed the trail through the stream to the other side of the valley. All the time knowing that we were being watched by a short light skinned man on the far side of the valley. Although we spent the whole day walking, looking at the beauty of this unspoiled peace of Guyana, our friend was never far away. It wasn't until the next day that we would finally get to meet him. A man of few word and many hand signals yet always smiling, as if to say he knew something that you didn't, it was a little disconcerting at times. He proved to be the ideal companion to really explore the surrounding forest. He had lived and worked the land for the pass five years, carving out the land from the forest. Previously he had worked as a pork knocker in the interior for thirteen years. His wife and two girls lived some 50 miles away, he visited them once or twice a year, walking all the way but that was really nothing to him.