Gapping in Guyana #2: In which the American Ambassador is on his way

Four months of living in the Rupununi Savannah, and about time too – I have finally learnt to ride a horse. ‘Learnt’, in a fairly loose sense of the word: I was on its back, and if I didn’t want to come off, I was going to have to ride; there wasn’t so much a learning curve as a step, from having never sat on the animal to painfully pounding along at a fast trot, and even, for a few wild seconds, breaking through to the smooth transcendence of a gallop. And what better place to learn than at the heart of the world’s largest ranch, Dadanawa, stretching over 1,700 square miles, half-way between Lethem and my new home – Aishalton.

It certainly wasn’t a lesson I had planned for – in fact, our entire, so-far 4-day stay at Dadanawa has been unexpected. But then, this is Guyana. Nobody plans.

The Christmas holidays: the end of a long and draining – though rewarding – term; my first term of teaching. Sunday night, our staff social – quiet, not least because of the massive staff shortage at the school. Monday morning, our bags packed, Simon – my Project Trust partner, the other volunteer teacher at Aishalton Secondary School – and I set up base outside the shop at ‘Burning Hills’, waiting for any vehicle to pass through. We’re lucky: we only have to wait a morning before a truck appears heading to Lethem. The week before, a weekend trip to Lethem just kept on going, as I was stranded waiting for transport – when I should have been teaching, or at least supervising exams, in Aishalton. This, I learn, is when ‘Urgent Personal Affairs’ leave comes to the rescue.

With only one short trip to Lethem and a few to neighbouring villages, it was time for a change from Aishalton. Lured by the hedonism of air conditioning, electricity, running water – flushing toilets! – Simon and I decide to head to Boa Vista, Brazil, a short river crossing and bus journey away from Lethem. A few days there, some Christmas shopping (for ourselves and others), and then back to Aishalton in time for Christmas, we promise. Simon’s big plan, with four day’s more riding experience than me, is to buy himself a saddle – a scarce commodity in Aishalton, in comparison to the ubiquitous horses. With a little less style, but perhaps a bit more practicality, I’m going in search of a bicycle.

Four days later, we’ve met with success in our diverse missions; armed with my shiny black ‘Monark’ and Simon’s soft – and, strangely, white – leather saddle and bright yellow nylon belly bands, and having drained the well of our non-existent Portuguese, we return to Lethem, and the waiting begins again. While my bike gets serviced (in the shops in Brazil, the bikes tend to be thrown together, no grease), we spend a day at the Amerindian Hostel with a Women’s Group from the Deep South – in Lethem to attend a workshop on ‘capacity building and gender equity’ – whose truck is to arrive that afternoon, returning them to their various villages – including Aishalton. However, as we wait to hitch a lift, others arrive with the same intention, and, with the 36 women in the first place, it soon becomes clear that, bike and all, there’ll be no room for us.

With no public or regular transport, getting to and from Aishalton is always like this, with an air of uncertainty that ranges from exciting and adventurous to tedious and frustrating. Compounded by communication problems, we simply have to take whatever comes, and hope for the best: on our way out to Brazil, we arrive – late at night – into Lethem, only to discover that the Project Trust volunteers based there – with whom we had hoped to stay – are already in Boa Vista themselves. Stranded again, we are taken under the wing of Don, Shirley, and Jeremy – a family who run a shop, workshop, and internet café, and a million and one other things – who lend us each a hammock for the night. Once again, the hospitality and unquestioning kindness of the people of the Rupununi saves us – not for the last time – and, grateful as we are, I am very aware of how much we have come to rely upon it.

On our return, however, we’re better prepared: armed with the key to the Lethem volunteers’ house, we decide to leave the Women’s Group and stay in Lethem another night. The next day, waiting outside Shirley’s, a truck turns up: “We’re going to Dadanawa – no further.” Still, that’s 60 of the 110 miles to Aishalton, and they’ve got room for a bike; certain that we can get to Aishalton from Dadanawa easily enough, we clamber aboard.

And so we reach the ranch, and our holiday takes an unexpected twist. An afternoon passes, and no transport appears. The truck loads up the beef it had come to collect, and returns to Lethem. Dusk. “Well, boys, I’m closing up the store. You’d better come back to the house.” – Sandy, Canadian-Guyanese, manager – along with her husband – of the ranch; at first appearance fierce, with a razor-sharp sense of humour, but, we discover, a self-confessed hippy who has found her home (the Rupununi Savannah), and possessing the same hospitality we encountered in Lethem.

“Well, you respect us, and we’ll respect you. You know – “, and with a wave, she sums it up exactly – this is the way it is out here, and, now that we’re stranded, there’s certainly nowhere else to go. “There’s soup in the pot, bowls over there – you can help yourself, and do your own washing up – make yourselves at home.” We’re even given hammocks on the veranda – no mosquito nets, and my back is in shreds by the morning, but it’s still kindness on top of kindness, and if it wasn’t for Sandy’s refreshing air of “What, do you think we’re stupid? Of course we’ll treat you well,” it could be a little overwhelming.

The following morning, we learn what currency we are to repay Sandy’s hospitality in: since we’re volunteer teachers, they might as well make use of us, and so we are introduced to Sandy’s seven-year-old grandson, Quadad, and another boy, Dale, four years old – all of the vaqueros (cowboys) live here with their families, totalling around forty people living at the ranch – and so Simon and I are to give some Christmas classes to these two boys and any other children who want to join in. Quadad practices his times-tables and spellings; Dale learns to count to ten. However, it’s the holidays, and their attention span isn’t limitless; we call it a day and return to the house for lunch.

A gaggle of teenagers on a school-trip from Georgetown (Guyana’s coastal capital) appear; communication problems again, and, on the spot, Sandy tells Simon and me to show them around, while she goes in search of her foreman to show and explain some of the tools of a vaquero – her favourite, the ‘emasculator’, for castrating bulls. Later that afternoon, they take a truck to a mountain half an hour away; giving up hope of any transport arriving that day, we join them, sitting on top of the truck’s cab – more comfortable, though precarious, than the splinter-filled floor of the truck where the students are crowded together.

Led by Sandy’s son, Justin, and accompanied by the endless chattering, arguing, and complaining of the students – very different to the Amerindian children I have been teaching for the last term – we trample our way through thorny trees and scrub and scramble up precipitous black rock-faces – barefoot is easier, but burns – and soon reach the top, where, suddenly, the savannah unravels like an unrolled carpet, stretching endlessly to every horizon. To the North, the blue-shaded shapes of the Kanuku Mountains; West, the great ball of the setting sun; South and East, nothing but flat grassland, green and brown, wavy lines of trees hiding the creeks that criss-cross it.

It’s getting dark, and the students will be returning to Lethem tonight – we pack them off in the truck, four sheep tied up (loosely – the vaqueros’ sense of humour) in the back with them – but that evening, lying in my hammock on the veranda, I look out on the same scene – a curtailed slice of the view from the mountain top, but, with the horizon defined by the line of the Kanukus, no less impressive in its enormity.

Another night at Dadanawa, not a question of when we will leave – they know as well as us that it’s out of our hands.

Tuesday comes, and another morning of lessons – this time a bit more reluctantly: Dale misses his mother (out in Lethem for a few days), and nobody really wants to learn in the holidays. We struggle through one-and-a-half readings of ‘Where the Wild Things Are’. I spend the early afternoon in the house, reading ‘The New York Review of Books’; every now and then the sound of an engine brings me rushing out onto the veranda, but nothing is going to Aishalton – or, at least, nothing with room for us and a bike.

Suddenly Simon appears, running. “Put on some trousers – no, leave your shorts on too. You’ll want the padding: we’re going riding.” And, outside, there stand two vaqueros, holding a horse for each of us, and it’s time for me, at last, to learn a central part of the Rupununi way of life – horse riding.

Getting on is surprisingly easy: with horses as tame as the ones we were given, it’s deceptive how natural every action feels. Pull the bridle left to turn left, right to turn right; pull back to stop, and a hefty kick (“not too far back, or it’ll buck – you don’t want to kick its manhood,” Simon warns me) to make it go. Unlike a bicycle or a motorbike, I disconcertingly find that you don’t have to do all the work yourself – the horse has its own brain, and if you’re following a path, you don’t have to tell it to follow every twist or turn. Of course, this can be helpful – I’m free to enjoy the scenery, or, more importantly, watch out for low-hanging branches – but it’s also a reminder that the horse may have ideas of its own, and it isn’t long before I realize which of us is really in control.

Simon shoots past on his horse, and, not wanting to be left behind, mine picks up the pace as well; the pounding trot begins, and I bounce heavily up and down in the saddle, gripping the pommel in front of me in a desperate attempt not to slide off. Unfortunately, this also pulls me down, hard, into the pommel with every step, and I begin to wonder how any of the vaqueros have children: their livers are far from cast-iron – rum will very rapidly knock them flat – but other parts must be made of steel.

It’s time to assert my authority, and I manage to make the horse follow – roughly – a route of my choice. Passing the ranch store a couple of times, Justin’s wife – a few more shots of rum merrier than myself – laughs as the horse repeatedly tries to dive towards a hedge. Getting away from the buildings, we follow a sandy jeep-track, and now it’s just myself, the horse, and the savannah. Ahead lies a corral. Bring it on! I awkwardly kick his flanks: the trotting starts. “Co-o-o-oh!-ome on!” Another kick – we pick up speed. Pushing down with all my weight into the stirrups, trying to stay in the saddle, I somehow manage one more kick, and, for a few wonderful strides the horse is galloping, smoothly, flowing, as though we’ve taken off and the horse’s hooves are merely skimming the top surface of sand. Then, to my dismay, the gut reaction of panic sets in at our sudden increase in speed, and I find that I am already hauling in the bridle and pulling the horse back down into that dreaded fast-trot, before I have fully realized that we were galloping.

We ride around for another half-hour, but never quite making that gallop again, before finally returning to the vaqueros’ house, and, passing the bridle to one of the young children, dismount in – again – a surprisingly natural and fluid motion. My first experience of horse-riding is over, but my appetite has certainly been whetted, and, discomfort notwithstanding, I’m sorry that it’s over so soon.

That evening, with Quadad and Dale curled up in front of a James Bond – Doctor No ­– we sit in the kitchen with Justin and some young vaqueros – younger than us – drinking rum and ‘gaffing’. The vaqueros start arm-wrestling, and competition rapidly intensifies – they move to the floor, lying on their bellies, each with one arm behind his back. Encouraged by the ‘El Dorado – Five Years Old’, Simon and I each have a go, and, thankfully, escape humiliation – although only just, in my case, and against a fifteen-year-old, at that. Tonight, we’re given mosquito nets for our hammocks, and, after the horse-riding and the arm-wrestling, and, not least, the rum, even Duane’s – Sandy’s husband’s – snoring can’t keep me awake.

It’s Wednesday morning – five days ‘till Christmas – and, as I write, I’m back on the veranda, perched on the wooden railing, watching out over the savannah for the tell-tale dust clouds heralding a vehicle traveling – we hope – to Aishalton. This afternoon, the American Ambassador and the head of Peace Corps are coming to visit Dadanawa, their families in tow. But anyone traveling south will be laden with goods, or, at least, people, wanting to get home before the 25th, just like us. If we wanted a ride, we’d probably have done better to have stayed in Lethem – and missed out on these wonderful, unexpected days at Dadanawa.

We had planned to get back to Aishalton in time for Christmas – but then, this is Guyana. Nobody plans.

If you're interested in finding out more about Dadanawa - and even about staying there - check out this website. And yes, this is an account of only four days, skipping out four months of living and teaching in Aishalton - that piece has been written - even longer than this - but it needs some serious work, not least asking someone who lives in Aishalton if all the facts - and spellings - are correct. It will come, soon enough: for now, while these experiences are fresh in my memory, I didn't want them to slip. Finally, if you haven't received the earlier email, a few months ago, or have forgotten what this is all about, read more at www.gappinginguyana.blogspot.com (or, if you're already there, just read the posts below, or further back in the archives.)