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.
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.
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.
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.