The Rupununi Rebellion in
Guyana SA is ancient history now and what happened has long since
been recorded and analysed. This account by a Canadian CUSO volunteer
may well be but a sidebar to that history, What it is though, is an
account of two very young people who arrived, ran a hostel for a few
busy months, fell in love with the land and its peoples and then were
removed in the aftermath of the failed revolution. A sort of 'we were
there
( briefly)' story.
( briefly)' story.
Canoeing down the Amazon
Guiding the canoe through the snags |
Moonlight sparkles on the Amazon River, the high banks and overhanging trees are inky black and the current sighs and ruffles the smooth surface. All is silent in the perfumed air as our long dugout canoe drifts sideways downstream very close to the high river bank. Lovely, yes, but oh so dangerous!
Two days earlier we had
arrived in Iquitos by plane from the coast of Peru only to find that
the only flight further down river to make connections with Manaus
had just left. That was it for a week, and we needed to begin
teaching in Guyana and my wife Heather’s mother, Ruth, travelling
with us on a holiday trip around South America, had a ticket for her
flight home to Canada. We found an English speaking person who
arranged for this long canoe ride down river to Leticia where we
could catch a flight on to Manaus. Two Amerindian men, a canoe with a
big Swedish outboard engine perched on the stern and a banana leaf
covered shelter amidships were to get us there in time. We paid some
money to our fixer and negotiated how much to pay at the end of the
trip. We roared down river all day, stopped for lunch at an
Amerindian house for smoked Peccary and carried on.
Occasionally the engine
stopped for a while, but eventually started again. Ruth also
desperately needed 'rest stops' as she had picked up an intestinal
bug. 'Es necessario', I would beg as our crew showed great reluctance
to stop their outboard engine yet again.
Into the night we rushed
and then the engine stopped; on purpose this time. SHHH, our crew
said and pushed us gently down under the shelter. We drifted silently
through a riverside town; barking dogs, but no calls to HALT, no
flying bullets, as we slipped past the military check point. Again we
rushed down river, and then another break down. Another day passed,
pretty much a repetition of the first. Another night!
The crew came forward to
ask me about the MONEY. The river was dark, wide and lonely, we were
very vulnerable here. My Spanish was of the sort that comes from
failing it miserably in University, but I was able to explain that
yes they would be paid at Leticia, and that we were CUSO volunteers
who would be teaching at a school for 'los Indios' in Guyana, far to
the north. Phew, back to working on the engine.
This latest breakdown
however has us drifting towards a newly slumped section of the river
bank, leaving branches and tree tops sticking up out of the swiftly
flowing water. The crew, heads down over the engine on the stern,
seem oblivious to the danger so I pick up a paddle in the bow, take a
few strokes to turn us stern foremost and begin to weave us through
the labyrinth of snags. The men glance back, nod and resume work.
Paddling a canoe is a skill I learned as a child. Who knew that it
would come in so handy! We edge back out into the wide river and
eventually the engine roars back to life. This would be a high point
in most adventures, but by now it is just another moment of
adjustment to the needs of the day in what is turning out to seem an
eternity.
The next morning is our
date with Leticia and the scheduled flight downriver to Manaus. At
each bend the crew smile and call “Leticia”, but of course it is
just another jungle covered bank of vegetation. We are all very
tired, mosquito bitten and feverish. “Yeah, right!” we think even
as we smile back. Eventually though, it does appear and quickly we
pay off our crew with many thanks and hurry into town. We change our
money ( we are now in Columbia), take a taxi to the dirt airstrip
and immediately jump on board our DC3. A near thing, but with a roar
we are off. We spend all that day hopping in and out of jungle
clearings all the way to Manaus.
The next morning it turns
out that the scheduled weekly flight direct to Guyana is full of
tropical fish, - no room for us. Another problem to solve. We are
sick from a tropical fever that will remain our weekly companion for
the next few years. We do not have enough money for the long way
around via Belem at the mouth of the Amazon and then the Pan Am
flight north along the coast to Guyana. The Brazilian currency
devalues that day! The banks are closed! Prices remain fixed at the
old rate. We exchange our last US travellers cheques on the black
market! Now we can just pay for our flight!
We do eventually get to
Guyana on time and in one piece and see Ruth off on her plane home to
Canada. We then rush about making plans and buying groceries for our
next teaching assignment in the Rupununi District of the remote
interior. Looking back to those years in our early twenties it is
interesting how experience played such an important part. After a
year teaching on the coast of Guyana we were well acclimatised to
tropical conditions and to living in a 'developing' country. We could
get along using lots of smiles and good will with people of all
stripes. We had our camping and adventuring background from Canada.
We had visited our next assignment twice already. Now we had our
travels around South America, including our trip by canoe down the
Amazon to add to our portfolio. We were not really prepared for the
responsibilities we would face but were confidently ignorant. We were
ready as possible to begin our next assignment.
Perhaps ignorance would
turn out to be our best defence in the turbulent months that lay
ahead.
Arriving in the Rupununi:
learning the ropes.
A fellow teacher from our
last school assignment at Covent Garden village, called Sherlock
Pahalan, drives us to Atkinson field and we board yet another DC3. We
have flown this route before but even so we feel that 'Flying' is
more of an achievement in this aircraft. We see the throttle controls
strapped back with elastic bands as we prepare for take off, our
seats are temporary ones that can be removed for the usual cargo runs
and the windows have gaps around them that leak water when we enter
our first cloud.
We fly over an endless
roll of tropical forest and winding arteries of rivers and streams.
The Pacaraima mountains we rumble over are within a thousand feet but
most have never been mapped, possibly never even been visited by any
human at all. Finally we are over the wide tropical savannah; red
laterite soils, bunch grass and ite palms beside the wetter areas. At
last the administrative settlement of Lethem appears under our wing
and then we are bumping down the dirt airstrip.
We are here to take over
the management of the hostel that is attached to the all-age and
secondary schools in the village just across the Moko Moko creek from
Lethem. The previous volunteers have returned to Canada and we have
agreed to take up where they left off. We pick up the Fargo van (
yellow, 'Gift of Canada' painted on its side) from the District
Commissioner’s office ( D.C.), load our supplies and belongings,
including our small motorcycle, into the van and drive across the
ford, through the scattered mud brick and palm-roofed houses of St.
Ignatius village to the hostel building which is part of a larger
school compound backing onto the creek with the blue Kanuku mountains
in the background. What a place! what a setting! Arriving has been
easy, now the work is about to begin.
It is a real help that the
previous CUSO volunteers, the Dextrases ( Gene and Elaine), have been
well established before us and that we have visited for a two week
Christmas holiday almost a year ago and then arrived again a couple
of months ago to do the hand-over and learn as much as possible
before we departed down the Takutu River into Brazil by river boat to
begin our South American holiday. We have a few days to prepare, get
to know our neighbours and figure out where to get food supplies for
our students, before they start arriving from across the wide
landscape that is the Rupununi.
The Hardys live across the
creek, Bill Dunn, a Peace Corps volunteer, lives nearby, and the
Jesuit Father Maxwell has a mission across by the river and we will
meet Father Keane later way down south and Father Mckenna at Sand
Creek. Lethem itself has a police contingent and the DC ,Mr.
Persaud, and his assistant, Martin Junor. The abattoir is beside the
airstrip, there is a manager for the airline ,Mr.Walter Li, that
carries passengers like us, general cargo and the local beef to the
coast. A grocery store which has a radio ( “Georgetown, Georgetown,
Moko Moko XX”) if we wish to speak to our CUSO country chief,
Father Gardiner, in Georgetown, and Edwina Melville runs a hotel near
the ford over Moko Moko Creek. There is a Mr. Hawkins who has an
evangelical mission based in Lethem and there is still much more,
like the hospital and staff, the experimental farm, and, most
importantly, the majority population of Amerindian and ranching
peoples. We will find that what seems the back of beyond, romantic
even, is business as usual for the diverse peoples who have lived
here for many years.
If this seems a lot of
outsiders to service a wide open Savannah land so far from the coast;
I would agree. The Amerindian tribes ,Wapashana, Makushi, Wai Wai,
are not so interested in becoming part of the economic development
plans of the newly independent government of Guyana and outside Aid
agencies but we all arrive never-the-less to push education, a
variety of Christian religions, agricultural schemes, policing and
governance. Just as at home in Canada among the Indian and Inuit
peoples, we really cannot refrain from knowing best and peddling our
cultural agendas. We have our doubts about all this, but
never-the-less are willing to do a job for Guyana in return for a
tremendous opportunity to learn about this world from the people on
the ground. And the ground this time is red, the sandpaper and cashew
trees green and the distant mountains an interesting blue that speaks
of adventure.
Adjustments: learning on
the job.
Our students begin to
arrive in land rovers, mini-mokes and on foot from all corners of the
Rupununi, delivered by the ranch families and Jesuit Fathers who have
been running elementary schools for many years. Why education, what
form of education are not questions to be asked and we will teach to
the British external exams as is done all over the Caribbean and
just as we have done for a year on the coast. Not having been trained
under this system ourselves, it seems doubly bizarre to be teaching
Wordsworth’s 'Michael', precis writing and geography and history
that are extremely foreign in this setting. But then, those
certificates are the road to advancement and who are we to make
judgements as to suitability? Certainly, some in these broad
savannahs must get an education if they are to deal with all this
bureaucracy. Welcome to the fuzzy world of international
development.
Some of our students are
from the big ranching families of the Rupununi - the Melville and
Hart clans -, but most are the Amerindian students that have attended
all-age schools in the mission villages. Here at least they can get a
secondary school education without travelling to the coast. This
school, for all its artificiality, is part of the land and its
students remain part of it too. After homework at night the boys can
whoop and holler down at the creek as they bathe among the
alligators, silencing the red howler monkeys for a while that wait
high in the trees overhead for their chance to roar. We have close
to forty students staying in the hostel and Heather and I share the
work there and also the teaching in the secondary school. We have
staff; two cooks, Rosie and Esmeralda, a groundsmen, Basil, and a
maid for us as well, Edith. This help is our very important interface
with what is a foreign culture and we value their friendship greatly.
It is a residential job: everyday, every night and all seven days a
week. We are in our early twenties and have a large family to care
for, food which must be found somehow, health concerns, education
certainly, and a responsibility to help this large family function as
a happy unit.
We set up a volleyball
team, the 'Hostel Hammers' and play the Hawkin`s Missionary team. We
use the van to go for swimming trips in the Takutu river and other
places further afield. We get to know our students as personalities.
I make daily trips in the van to Lethem, taking the long way around
in the rainy season on the higher ground or across the ford through
Moco moco creek during the dry season, while Heather teaches some
classes. I may visit the government store for UN food, the DCs office
to talk to Mr. Junor about my shoddy gas records for the van, a visit
to the hospital with some students, buy county food - vegetables,
fruit, cassava.... from local people who have come in from their
mountain farms in wooden wheeled, oxen drawn carts. Heather and the
cooks make meals from what we find.
A ranch ( Manari ) has
agreed to supply us with a free cow whenever we need meat and the
first time I go to the abattoir is a reminder of how tentative is my
adjustment to this world. I walk in to make arrangements for a small
cow, just as a big beautiful Zebu is prodded up the ramp, shot,
dumped kicking down on the concrete floor and immediately cut up by a
crew. I look away and control my heaving stomach. This is very real
and a far cry from the neatly wrapped anonymous packages we buy in
the hygienic stores at home in Canada. This country feels at home
though for a Canadian, it is not so long ago that butchering buffalo
was equally bloody and Red River carts wound squeaking across the
prairie. Back at the hostel, Heather and the cooks will chop up the
carcase and stuff it all into the freezer to feed our children.
In the evening before the
generator cuts off at nine we sit and mark our student’s work under
a fluorescent light that attracts hoards of bugs. We brush them off
and read little bits from the essays to each other. There are so many
insights to be gained into our student's lives from these writing
assignments.
The next morning after a
disturbed night, (I chased a herd of loudly munching horses away from
our little zinnia flower garden and listened for a while as their
hooves rattled off into the distance) , there are large turds and
puddles on the concrete floor of our quarters. We have toads living
under the fridge and they have gorged themselves overnight as usual
on the dead insects. Edith cleans all this up before making our
breakfast. The sun is up, it is still cool, time to rise and shine!
Dying from despair
It is after lights out
when we are called to the boy’s dormitory. A student is having real
difficulty breathing and something must be done right now! Out into
the night we rush, a fast van trip to the hospital and a suggestion
to the nurse that oxygen would be a good idea as I run next door to
the doctor’s residence only to find he is having supper and is not
to be rushed. A new Korean doctor, he is as much a stranger here as I
am and we both have our cultural agendas. He, a doctor, is not about
to be pushed around by a teacher, a white guy, and I am perhaps too
rushed at this moment to consider that ever-present need for
respectful relationships. But really, do we have to be working out
social and race relations when a boy is gasping for every breath? “
I hope he is not dead by the time you get there!”I leave him eating
and rush back to the hospital to find that the student is breathing
properly under his oxygen mask. What was that all about?
A few days later his
father arrives and takes him back to his village. How happy he is!
Father Maxwell fills us in on the back story of this boy. He and his
brother had a gun, he accidentally pulled the trigger and killed his
brother. He was banished from his family and sent to the hostel. He
most likely was having what we would call a panic attack and the
oxygen was the magic that calmed him down. On the surface that
explanation works for us, but we know that we are working
cross-culturally here too and can only guess at the mental anguish
that student of ours must have been experiencing in his exile when
all we saw was a quiet, well behaved Amerindian boy. We really have
only a superficial grasp on what is going on in the Rupununi.
“Making like a
woman with the boys”.
Our head cook, Rosie,
tells Heather that Basil, our gardener and keeper of the chickens,
is”Making like a woman with the boys, miss.” We have inherited
Basil who was originally employed by previous COSO volunteers, the
Dextraces, and know nothing about his background either or how
homosexuality is viewed within local tribal societies. But we can
hear Rosie telling us that this is not acceptable here in the hostel
so I have the job of cornering Basil in the chicken house and telling
him that the boys and the inside of the hostel building are out of
bounds. And why! I do not fire him, perhaps I should have, but we are
so new here and are still finding our way. What would the Jesuit
fathers have said? Things get complicated very quickly.
A week later two of our
students ask if they can go to visit Basil at his home in the village
and I decidedly say no, not because I am one hundred percent sure of
my moral stance but because this is the necessary follow up on my
previous pronouncement. The boys look relieved as though I have
provided them with a cast iron reason for resisting the pressure. Or
is it Basil that the boys have been taking advantage of? All is not
clear, but I have stepped a little more firmly into my position and
made a decision. I am not a substitute Dextrace any longer but a
leader in my own right. Now to exercise that power ever so
thoughtfully.
Whenever Basil comes near
the boys we hear them making low chicken noises, “baaak, baak,
baak” and wonder about our eggs that we had for breakfast. Humour
is a great tension releaser, and it is just as well I have that in my
personal bag of tools.
Exploring: driving cross
country
Driving across the
savannah is interesting. Roads around Lethem have been built and
maintained by the Government, gravelled and in one long piece, but
elsewhere they become braided, as one worn track is abandoned to form
another beside it and so on. Rivers are crossed in shallow spots and
the river levels go up and down in synch with the rains in the
mountains. Driving across country takes another whole set of skills
that are not taught back in city-Canada. We have 4-wheel drive of
course on our 'Travel-all' yellow van and it has good clearance from
the ground, but I need practice.
We arrive at a major
river crossing, make all passengers walk across, up to their waists,
disconnect the fan belt so as not to spray water onto the engine,
spray everything electrical with WD-40 oil and slowly drive down the
bank into the water, deeper and deeper, bumping and rearing, with
water up to the headlights. This is hair raising, we could be swept
off the 'shallow' ford and into deeper water. Out and up the opposite
rutted river bank at last, streaming water, reload, fix the fan belt
and off again. A lot of luck, but also one must be a focused and fast
learner in this country.
Vehicles here are either
Land-rovers or Mini-Mokes ( a sort of safari mini minor) that can be
brought in in pieces and reassembled or slid in sideways through the
cargo door of a DC-3. Our North American van has no parts available
if it should break down so we treat it very carefully. A 'Gift
from Canada' as is emblazoned on the door, it is an example of
the narrow focus that our foreign aid has in places far away. 'From
Canada', means everything must be sourced from Canadian companies
whether that is typewriters for Jamaica or this odd vehicle in the
back of beyond of the Amazon Basin. This one apparently was delivered
by the Canadian Air force direct to the Lethem airstrip! Cheap at the
price?
This country makes me
think of the Red River settlements and cart tracks on the prairies of
Canada of a hundred years ago. Around the time of the North-west
Rebellion and Louis Riel. We see herds of Zebu cattle being herded by
vacheros beside the road, the big squeaking wooden wheeled carts
drawn by oxen, the DC in his shiny land rover doing a tour of his
domain. ( “You crossed the river?” giving a hard look at
his driver, Mr. Singh, “Then I could have too!”) We meet
Mini-Mokes driven by ranchers, (the great advantage beside fuel cost
is that a car load of passengers can carry one out of the mud), or
the occasional priest bucketing along at top speed, but mostly we
have the landscape to ourselves. I stop and give a lift ( 'drop', in
Guyana) to women carrying heavy warichies ( woven back packs) full of
vegetables home from their gardens in the mountains. This is a great
country and we feel so lucky to be here and part of it.
Edith: our medicine woman
We have girls as well as
boys, carefully dormitoried at the other end of the hostel and we
worry about them of course. Heather consults with Rosie the cook and
Edith our maid and finds that she is not to worry. Edith, it turns
out is the medicine woman of her tribe and has made sure that all the
girls have taken herbs that will stop them menstruating while they
are at school. Who knew? It would seem that Edith showing up to be
our maid was really something more like Edith fronting as our maid
while she took care of things at the hostel. We are immensely
grateful and grow to love her very much.
From Edith’s point of
view we need looking after too if the hostel is to be a success. We
are so young and inexperienced to be doing this job!
We have a visit from a
CUSO nurse from the coast and her boyfriend, a British Psychiatrist.
He wants to know about the pharmacology of the Amerindians so we tell
him about Edith and how our girls are on natural birth control
medication. He is terribly anxious to find out so we ask Edith
carefully if she would share her knowledge with the doctor, but, no
miss, she would not. End of story and truly we are just as glad.
There is something akin to the highwayman in our white culture.
“Stand and deliver!”We are so desirous to get our hands on the
essence of other people’s lives and put it to economic use.
Rodin, one of our students
has fallen while riding a bike on the sharp gravel of the road. Road
rash. Scratches. Some blood. He is terrified! What is this all about?
A Canadian child would take this as a matter of course and go on to
break a leg, an arm perhaps, get his appendix removed in the course
of his childhood. Things were different here where any injury could
kill from infection and a swollen appendix would kill for sure. Our
students were very careful for a reason. Even here, close to a
hospital, they were careful and for another good reason. Really the
hospital was not very good because it relied on the doctor and a good
doctor was hard to get in isolated places like this. Just as teachers
are, which is why we are here.
Phyllis Brash, from a
ranching family some hours away by road and a live-in student along
with her brother Denis, had an appendix operation around Christmas
time. We saw her very wan and pale at the hospital and wondered if
she survived that operation by the Korean doctor given by local
anaesthetic.
On weekends we would take
a van load of children across to the Takutu River that formed the
border with Brazil to go swimming. A lot of fun for all, but one day
no one wanted to come. The rainy season had begun, the river was
higher perhaps, but why not? It took some digging to discover that
politely, so as not to offend us, they were really trying to convey
what was obvious to them. The electric rays were there now and it was
dangerous! We grow to appreciate that gentle reticence that is
actually pretty common around the world and will later find the
directness of westerners to be pushy and offensive. Just as we
ourselves must have seemed to the people of the Rupununi.
All creatures.
The hostel is perched on
the top of the bank of Moko moko Creek and we look out the backdoor
into the tree tops above which are strung the blue peaks of the
Kanuku mountains. At night the world comes awake and the red howler
monkeys roar, sounding to our ears like a great wind rushing through
the trees. Fruit bats wander into the hostel and are cheerfully
chased out again by the students. We sleep at night under a mosquito
net: not only is the Rupununi just recently cleared of malarial
mosquitoes but vampire bats might come to nibble a sore on our toes
and lap up our blood. Being in a building designed for the tropics
with louvred windows and dividing walls that did not reach to the
roof there is a delicious sense of oneness with the outdoors.
A great excitement one
night as a greater anteater rushes through the garden with the whole
hostel racing after it, is a reminder that larger creatures use the
creek-side forest as a natural travelling corridor into the village
and across the savannah. That roar might be a jaguar! I follow big
blue butterflies down to the creek, try to catch a glimpse of an
alligator and wonder if there are Piranha ( pirai) here, as in some
of the other creeks.
Rupununi Ranchers and the
rebellion's beginnings.
There will soon be a
great fuss made about the Rupununi`s 'white ranchers' by the coastal
press but we go on oblivious, heads down and focused on our new
assignment. We do not know that politically things are coming to a
head and that a great change is in the air. I am taken aside and
offered a drink by the rancher father of one of our students but I
think he quickly realizes that I am not my predecessor with
sympathetic stories to tell about the history of Lois Riel, Gabriel
Dumont and the North-West rebellion, when the Metis peoples of the
Prairies rebelled against their newly and unwillingly acquired
government of Canada. We have been told by CUSO not to get involved
in local politics and discourage any talk in that direction. Perhaps
he is relieved to hear that we will be away over the winter holidays
and not be in the way when things heat up!
The ranchers of the
Rupununi are the descendents of white adventurers who married into
local Indian families and are no more 'white' than some of the mixed
race peoples of the coast. They held their land under long term lease
from the government and now in the new post-colonial reality that has
recently been reduced to one year at a time and even that is expected
to terminate. They have been a part of this land and its original
peoples for a long time. They live hard working, simple lives. They
are not a wealthy, privileged aristocracy as they will soon be
painted by the coastal press and politicians. There is anger and
desperation in the air. Our students will soon be involved in a
rebellion. Death is just over the time horizon.
Heather and I have
delivered those of our students who live to the south of Lethem with
the van and all the others have dispersed back to their home villages
for the Christmas holidays. We jump on the plane to Atkinson Field
and onto another bound for the Caribbean. Three weeks of island
adventure ahead with no responsibilities! We really need this
holiday, we have tropical sores, itches and tender guts to be
treated and are very tired. Still, we look forward to getting back to
our students and our new life in the Rupununi. That is not going to
happen exactly as planned.
What happened? The
rebellion.
We have a lovely holiday
in Barbados, Grenada and Cariacou and arrive back in Georgetown with
a few days left before we must be at the hostel to welcome our
students back. We still have medical issues so now is a good time to
deal with them. As we walk down the road someone tells us we are
wanted urgently at the Canadian High Commission, our embassy. We are
told that it is not safe to return, that there has been a revolution
in an attempt to seceded and that the army is flying into the
Rupununi. We are to stay put. Emotions are high. Even in Georgetown,
we notice that our white skins are drawing negative comments. “We
gaan kill you all!” says one old man as we walk past him on the
street.
Two days later we are
back at Atkinson field boarding our flight home with our return
tickets. We have decided that we do not want our children caught in
mid- transit or back at the hostel with armed soldiers on the ground
and that is that: the disadvantage with sending people like ourselves
to handle big responsibilities is that we actually learn to think and
take action on our own. The airport staff should have turned us away
but we walked confidently onto the plane as though we had everything
organized. Soon we were over the savannahs and looking down on smoke
rising from burning ranch buildings. At Lethem there are coastal
soldiers and of course no van. It has been commandeered and lies
broken or bogged down somewhere down south. We wade across the ford,
trading light chat with the machine gun crew who are set up in front
of Edwina’s hotel, and ride borrowed bikes back to the hostel. Our
belongings have been ransacked and some food supplies stolen but here
is Rosie coming back from the village and we begin to get a picture
of the last weeks events.
Rosie has found the
villagers carrying off everything portable from the hostel and forced
them to bring most of it back. Only one little girl ( Imelda) came
back to the hostel and she is safe with relatives in the village. We
hope everyone else is still at home. We bike across to the Mission
where we meet Father Keane and Bill Dunn and catch some more
information. Some policemen and the hospital dispenser who rushed to
help the wounded have been killed by an Amerindian, who had just been
beaten by the police for three days. The Police Inspector, ( Mr,
Braithwaite ?) was shot in the road and died in Father Keane`s arms.
Everyone, including the
DC and his wife, who might raise the alarm were rounded up and held
prisoner in the Abattoir. That, if we had been there,would have been
us too. The plan was to capture all of the country’s DC3s on this
day when they were scheduled to fly into the Rupununi so that the
coastal authorities could not transport the army into the isolated
savannahs. It almost worked. Mr. Hawkins the missionary had begged to
be released for some emergency or other and once free had driven to
Manari and radioed a warning to the plane over Lethem, just as Walter
Li was, at gunpoint, talking the aircraft into a normal landing. Back
it went to the coast with the news. Although every attempt was made
to stop any aircraft from landing once the news was out, it was not
possible to properly guard all airstrips. A student and his elder
brother ( Melvilles) were captured at Manari manning a machine gun,
which they had not been able to use, when the first load of troops
arrived by air. Ranchers retreated and began driving their herds of
cattle across the Kanuku River into Brazil or to Venezuela. They had
made their play and it had not worked. People had been killed and
even though the police were heartily disliked for their heavy handed
methods, killing them achieved nothing in the end.
And yet, the parallels
with our North-west Rebellion of a hundred years before are striking
and even-though the Canadian Government brought in troops and
crushed it then, we know that the conditions that prompted the Metis
(Mixed race of Indian and French/Scottish) to take up arms were very
bad. If you take away a people’s land and their way of life, if you
leave them with no honourable alternative as they see it, then you
can expect them to bite back. Bad management or careful planning on
part of the government? That is the background behind the European
settlement of our Prairie Provinces and of many other parts of the
world.
From the point of view of
populations near the centre of a culture, those areas out towards the
fringes, the frontier, are just fallow ground being prepared to
receive the expansion that is to come. A blank space for future
settlement. A matter of legal ownership. From the point of view of
those living in the 'frontier' they are not a blank spot but a
community with its own background and history and dreams of remaining
that way and growing through time. Reasonable, if you are they,
utterly ridiculous from the point of view of the leaders of the more
powerful central population. It is ironic that so often it is the
victims of discrimination themselves,- the new post-colonial
government-, who will ,when given the opportunity, pass on the same
pain to others. That is the pattern they have grown up with.
Living in limbo for a week
at the hostel.
We are back at the Hostel
but the land has changed. We see it in the columns of distant smoke
and in the circling vultures. We hear it in an unfamiliar silence
punctuated by the night noises of hurtling military jeeps. The people
we meet are excited and full of dread at the same time. We feel our
outsider status here too as in Georgetown and know that we have
brazened our way back in against the tide that the government has
ordained. All foreigners, all outside observers must be cleared out.
We wait, we obstruct officialdom, and while we wait we look around us
at the village and decide that as the Guyanese teachers have not
returned to open the all-age school that we would begin it ourselves
so that a sense of normalcy can return. It is not good for the
families and children to be left in limbo like this.
Brazilian air force overflies Lethem |
We are teaching at the
all-age school when the truck arrives for us. Grab your belongings
right now, there is a place for you on the next plane for the coast.
We have used up all of our delaying tactics and our time is up. At
the plane we are told there is no room for our belongings, the plane
is overloaded, and we are seated amid troops returning to the coast.
At the last second, as the cargo door is closing the Amerindian
loaders throw our luggage aboard. Our aircraft roars down the runway
kicking up dust and performs a seesaw motion across the mountains and
forests all the way to the coast. That must be the extra weight of
our luggage in the back! Goodby Rupununi, and good luck!
You don’t want us? Then
we are out of here!
Back in Georgetown, with
still a few months to go in our two year contract, our new country
CUSO leader, Father Gardiner, begins to look for another short term
teaching assignment on the coast for us, but we have had it. He has
no understanding of what we have experienced in the forced
dissolution of our hostel assignment and has as yet a poor grasp of
how long it really takes to be accepted by a new community. And in
truth we are fed up with being the subject of 'We gaan kill you all'
type remarks and being pushed around after all we have done for our
Guyanese students. We have a realistic view of the “rancher’s”
rebellion, they were a precipitous and angry bunch of men, but we
have also emotionally adjusted to the Rupununi and understand their
motivation and last ditch actions even if we do not approve. All
avoidable if the government had been thinking of the welfare of
all its peoples and not just its own narrow political agenda.
Soon we are on our way back to Canada.
We will agonize over our
decision to leave even as we deal with unfamiliar winter at home and
that repeating fever left over from our journey down the Amazon
almost two years before. We will have difficulty fitting into
Canadian society, - reverse culture shock - everyone seems so
shallow, so wrapped up in pleasure seeking and the pursuit of the
almighty dollar. We have been privileged to live life close to the
bone and that experience cannot be understood by those who have not
been there. Neither do they wish to hear about it.
We will become teachers in
Canada but will always be looking for some way of experiencing that
sense of reality we had in Guyana. We will quit teaching to do our
back-to-the-land adventure on Saltspring Island and will go on
sailing adventures in the Bahamas and the Pacific. We say we are
adrenalin junkies, and there is some truth to that, but what we
actually seek is that feeling we had in the Rupununi, that sense of
being fully alive and part of a real world.
Here are some images I took at the time. Perhaps someone in the Rupununi today will remember some names of the people shown here and taken some forty-five or so years ago. Feel free to update me in the comments section on what happened and who is who.
Here are some images I took at the time. Perhaps someone in the Rupununi today will remember some names of the people shown here and taken some forty-five or so years ago. Feel free to update me in the comments section on what happened and who is who.
The Peace Corps director comes for a visit. What a nice guy. |
A student, I wish I remembered your name! |
Working in the hostel garden |
Father McKenna |
Mission school |
Our handyman, 'Sleepy' watches us prepare to depart. |
Packed, and ready to leave the hostel |
The High school |
Being loaded on to the DC3 for our final trip to the coast |
Flying into the Rupununi after the revolution. Burning ranch buildings below. |
Landing at Lethem after the Revolution. Military planes parked beside the abattoir |
_Ian (?) Melville and Bill Dunn |
Loading ite palm roofing material into the van |
'Sleepy's children |
Building a new house near the hostel |
Hammocks are the very best thing! |
A mini Moke |
At the sports day |
Bill Dunn, the peace Corps volunteer, helps with the sports day |