By now, everyone in the community knows about me. A policeman stopped and spoke with me, but on learning that I held an entry permit for Venezuela, he was not further concerned. The only other sign of officialdom is the local post office, otherwise we’re out in the country. There used to be a district hospital in colonial times, but it is now defunct due to the lack of money in the health budget. There is however a local school system, still going strong. Indeed, the pupils put on a revue night, and I’m invited along. Being the tallest person present, I stand at the rear of the hall, but being close to the stage wouldn’t have helped much as the local accent and patois was quite hard for me to follow. The locals however followed it very well, and a good time was had by all.
I spend the days quietly, a lot of time in the Amazon Pride. The favoured local drink is Malta, a mollasses-based brown fizzy drink. Its slogan is “Brewery Fresh” (nobody can explain what that means), and that it “Gives Strength”. Not that I need a lot of strength to sit around reading. I’m joined by Dino, a Guyanese, who is also wishing to go to Venezuela and I explain to him the plot of “Waiting for Godot”.
I am developing quite an appreciation of Uncle Dad’s cooking, which is fortunate as there are few other options. He had been cook for one of the work gangs that drained this whole area in the fifties, but now serves up food for only about a dozen customers a day. His roast chicken is quite tasty, but I prefer the rather cheaper “vege”, which appears to be fried runner beans (still crunchy), on fried rice. Very pleasant as I am already growing tired of plain white boiled rice.
There comes an offer of passage: apparently a Venezuelan has hired a boat to come to Guyana, and will be returning in a few days, as soon as he has completed some business in Georgetown. There will be some spare places on the return journey, so we just have to wait a little more.
Some caution is needed as to the nature of the business being conducted. The accepted smuggling goods are rum to Venezuela and in the other direction, motor parts and fuel, as Venezuela has its own oil wells, so that its fuel prices are trivial; at a few cents a litre, less than water. All smugglers are aware of other options (white powdery substances) and debate the choice between small quantities well-hidden on many trips, or, a large amount in one trip made by a fellow without the reputation of such activity. Ah, but large sums risk attracting special attention, both before and after the trip. We humans are low-value smugglestuff (by weight), but still have to pay a high fare, and wish no involvement with drama.
There is not a lot to do in Charity. Watch the progression of cargo such as coconuts from canoes to mounds by the wharf, then loaded high onto trucks, all by hand over a day or two. Or observe the high tide river lapping at the drainage locks, the level well above the ground behind the embankment as well as the drainage canal. Its water is not at all foul, despite being the recipient of household waste. I have already resolved to have my showers with mouth firmly shut.
On Monday there is a local market, so the vans to and from Anna Regina are especially frenzied, while the cafe by the wharf area is filled with what can only be described as groups of cheerful rogues, sitting around cafeteria-style tables, drinking rum and gambling away the proceeds of the day’s trades or huddling together, perhaps plotting another lucrative business transaction. Outside, I meet my ex-captain’s father, who chortles that if I had gone with his son, I’d be in Venezuela by now. Yes, indeed, but if I hadn’t stuck with my side of the bargain whilst waiting for Caiman to find fuel, I would have been in Venezuela via one of the other offers before he had departed.
Nobody swims in the river, except close to the stelling where the busy riverboats scare away the piranhas. Many people have coin-sized scars on their bodies, a few are missing the ends of fingers or toes. There are no water birds on the water. I remarked to Dino that they would lose their feet, but he said that “No, they would lose their whole self”.
Meanwhile, there is no sign of the fellow from Venezuela. One evening, a woman comes in to the Amazon Pride: she it seems is the owner of the boat (is this a female monopoly?) and checks that we’re the ones wishing to go to Venezuela. On being assured of this, she says that she will go in to Georgetown, to try and find the Venezuelan with a view to completing the agreement so that her boat can move on to further business. I explain to Dino the computer concept of ‘double indirect reference’: ordinarily, a datum is referenced by means of its address, that is, the value is in location 271828, say. An indirect reference is when the location contains not the datum, but the address of the datum actually desired, and a double indirect reference goes one level further again. Thus, we awaited our captain who awaited the Venezuelan, but now he awaits the owner who seeks the Venezuelan, and we’re still further adrift in possibilities.
Other people have their eye on possibilities as well. The Purple Heart’s chambermaid/general maid-of-all-work comes into my room to suggest to me that I should marry her, as she is hard-working. No doubt about that. It seems that her husband spends nearly all of his time out in the jungle, ‘pork-knocking’, which is to say, seeking diamonds and eating pork. When he emerges from the bush, it is only to sell his few diamonds, buy some more pork, and get drunk on whatever money he has left. She must work long hours, for very low wages, but hopes for better. She asks me how old I am, and is surprised that I will be forty in December. Then she announces that it is her fortieth birthday today, but I still don’t want to marry her. The following evening, as Dino and I are having dinner at Uncle Dad’s she turns up with her two young sons and plonks herself across the table from me to stare pointedly at my plate. Finally, I give in, and ask “Very well, what do you want?”
She says that although it is her birthday, she has no money to feed her family, so I offer to buy her a dinner for her and her sons, “Seeing as it is your birthday”. Chicken and rice is the choice, and the two sons hunch over their plate. She starts talking about breakfast tomorrow, but Dino says “Let him eat his meal in peace”, however when it is over, marriage is reintroduced and I say “Look, we can’t spend all our time in bed. What would we talk about otherwise?”, much to Dino’s amusement.
Meanwhile, there has still been no word from the boat owner, so hope is fading on that account. Suddenly, one evening a fellow comes in to say that his boat will be leaving for Venezuela in the morning, except that the price will be $70. Humphf. That seems a bit much, but he grins and says that I could stay a few days longer for a cheaper boat, but have spent the difference in hotel costs. Yep. He’s got me there so I agree. Dino however regards the price as too high. He will retreat from Charity, to return later with more money, now that he knows what is likely to be involved. Uncle Dad vouches for the boatman, who is a Seventh Day Adventist and known for his honesty, so no need to worry about dealing with a second Caiman. I think about the poem ‘Watch the wall my darling, while the Gentlemen go by.’
As for me, I rush about to pay off my hotel bill, and change the Guyanese money left over from the agreed fare into US$ in cash via the happy folk at the Xenon. Departure is to be at five a.m., and at five a.m. I’m on the stelling waiting in the pre-dawn gloom along with some other folk. A pirogue eases up to the stelling, and all is in readiness. I pay over the wad of notes, and am shown a place.
Read the whole adventure:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
