The Lastest News from Kerry and Scott

It is a glorious dry season evening. The only thing obstructing my view of every star in the universe are the walls of rainforest surrounding our village. It is from this vantage point that I wish my numbered days here to crawl by and my consumption of this spectacular environment to rush in like the water through the Afobaka dam. My senses spin and my emotions are electrified. And, as it figures here, that dam proved that it cannot be counted on because being told one thing and getting another is law in this Maroon culture.
So it is. "So a de."

Last Sunday was Neku Day. Neku Day here is known to be a day of tiresome work in hopes of great rewards. I was told stories of plenty, stories of catching them with your bare hands, or even with a machete.

Last Sunday wasn't what I had learned to expect.

The day started much later for us than it did for the men of Brokopondo. They were busy making "tjufangas" to catch fish with and readying for their "gania canda" (3:30 am) departure to Afobaka. We awoke at 6:00 am and set off by foot up river to Balensoela. Upon arrival we were instructed to find a ride to the Neku site with the "winkii" (store) man. We did, and by 8:30 am we were at the Neku site where the "foning" had begun.

"Foning" (crushing or beating) neku is not like "foning" peanuts to make sweet treats. No, neku is not willing to crack apart like a roasted nut. Neku is a thick rainforest vine that is as fibrous as one of those ropes we would climb in gym class back in elementary school.
The neku, when beaten to a fibrous pulp and soaked and beaten again, releases a poison that inhibits the blood's ability to carry oxygen in an animal's body. That is why the juices that enter the men and women's eyes and mouth while "foning" the neku can make them feel light-headed and almost drunk. Not surprisingly this is the only work party event I have not witnessed the parting and consumption of rum. It is simply not needed.

Three hours of bludgeoning the neku with carved wooden clubs on giant log stumps generated seven boats full of poisonous fiber. Once these boats were loaded some were sent across to the other side, some were sent to the rocks in the river's middle, and the rest stayed. Water was then scooped into the boats to soak the neku in the nearly sunken dugouts. The fiber is then beaten again within the boats to create a milky liquid. After all this back-breaking, hand-destroying work, the boats set off (all at once) spanning the width of the river, and their paddlers begin to scoop out the neku milk into the water.

It was then I heard the cheers from down river. Men, women, and children hooped and hollered as men from the seven dugouts frantically released their cargo into the river's flow. "Singi boto!" they cried, which literally translated means 'sink the boats!' The chant only made the men's scooping pick up speed. Their broken plates and calabashes sent the milk-white liquid in hurried arcs toward the heavens and back down to the river. It was like God refused their offering and sent it back to earth. But I believe the people here would say that the neku's milk was sent up to be blessed, and God sent it back down to fulfill its purpose in the river's swift current. And, as the river's flow accepted the Maroon medicine, fish - from piranha to perch - passed it through their gills in search of more oxygen. Instead they found less.

Ten minutes passed as everyone's eyes were glued to the water's surface. One or two small "guana," or perch, surfaced near me, but from what I was hearing around me the river was just too high. The men and women's enthusiastic conversations began to turn to ones as bitter as antrowa (a type of eggplant commonly found here). They spat about the dam (just 300 meters up river) and Suralco. See, Suralco was servicing the dam's turbines today; they do it every year. Every year before this one, though, the dam is closed - no water is released - and the river nearly dries up down stream. This creates a perfect environment to collect fish. The neku is poured into the narrow channel of water remaining, and the crowded fish cannot escape the poison's concentration. Today that concentration just didn't seem adequate.

The boats of people, close to a hundred from my view, drifted down river as their excitement diluted with their density on the river. It seemed that everyone saw only signs of disappointment rise to the water's surface.

Ernie paddled over to us on shore, his cargo of neku unloaded. With a quiet voice he told Venimai to wait here as he dropped me off down river on the road back to Balensoela. He paddled gently, but said nothing. I could feel he was angry and disappointed. Angry at Suralco; disappointed with all the hard work gone to waste; angry that no one else with a boat would help carry Venimai and I down river; disappointed that we couldn't see what a real Neku Day was like.

I sat up front with a 6-foot "tjufanga" (a steel mesh net on a long pole) resting on my lap. We passed people in long dugouts, men floating on log rafts, and children chasing each other on the riverbanks. Determination still weighed heavy in many people's expressions as they scanned the water for a sign of death. With nothing else to do, I followed their lead like I've done since September 2000. And it was a good thing.

With nothing to do while Ernie paddled I began to look and hope as others did. Just then, off the starboard bow, a fish seemed to surface and then disappear like a trout snatching a dry fly. I thought little of what I saw, but Ernie disagreed. "Te di tjufanga, Venipai," he yelled as he paddled the boat to the right at a quickened pace. I readied myself, tjufanga in hand. Just then another man yelled two boats over, and then another a bit up river.

"Luku ala," Ernie instructed. The fish, a guana, came up again, but this time it was evident that it was not seeking food at the water's surface. The fish swam on its side in circles seeking only oxygen from the air after finding none from the river. As I dipped the tjufanga into the water Ernie whispered, "Sapi, sapi." So, slowly, I approached the struggling guana. I position the tjufanga just so, and the fish swam right into the wire mesh basket.

"Wan oto wan," Ernie yelled quickly. I looked up river to see another fish at the water's surface. Further up I saw that we were not the only ones pursuing fish. Boatmen were paddling. Everyone else was pointing, reaching, yelling. The entire river came alive, and even the children on the river's edge stopped their games and waded in as deep as they could to reach floating fish. I flung the guana back to Ernie and scooped up another twice its size. We netted another, then another, two at once at times. Boats collided. People laughed. Boatmen argued. There was no time to rest on this Neku Day.

Nearly an hour after leaving Venimai on shore we reached the beach where we were to find the road back to Balensoela. We had caught 12 or 13 guana and one 15" piranha as we floated down. With an audible sigh Ernie turned his boat and headed back up the swift Suriname River to get Venimai. I backed up to a tuft of tall grass and sat down in the sparse shade it offered.

The shadow of my hunched figure and my large brimmed hat reminded me of cliché down and out men 'South of the Border.' And, to tell the truth, I felt a bit down. Here was Ernie dragging us up, across, and down the current all day long with no other soul offering a hand. Yet, for the past five days, everyone, including the men here in their boats, have told us that we must come and see what will happen on Neku Day. "Bring your camera," they suggested like they always do. 'Maybe we can get them to take another picture of us,' is what I read into their suggestion. But here I am under the equatorial sun at two o'clock in the afternoon. Kerry is doing the same somewhere up river. We bought two Nalgenes of water and some beef jerky which were all consumed by noon. "Bring your camera," they all advised. But seeing our situation now we really should have brought lunch, more water, and a boat of our own. I felt like a fish out of water. Maybe it was the dry season sun making me grumpy. Or maybe it was just the neku that got into my eyes four hours ago that skewed my perception of things.

The next day Venimai and I walked over to Ernie's with a cold Djogo of Parbo beer, a temporary immunization from the oppressive heat during "sonu hati" (the day's hottest hours between 11 am and 4 pm). Sharing a Djogo in Suriname means one of three things: I'm sorry, thank you, or let's make a deal. On this hot afternoon, in the heart of the dry season, we shared this Djogo for all three reasons.

Venimai and I felt bad Ernie took on the burden he did yesterday. As our host-father a year ago this was his obligation, but yesterday he took good care of us anyway. The apology and graciousness were given in a direct, quintessential American manner. And they were accepted in an indirect, typical Saramaccan fashion that strangely reminded me of how Garrison Keillor depicts the discomfort typical of a Lutheran mid-westerner in a similar circumstance. Only here, talking well of another is sloughed off in nonchalance by the recipient with an "Uh h, baa" or "Na bigi so," (which is like saying, 'It's no big deal.').

And the deal we made? Ernie and I are going to go halvsies on a boat. I'd love the freedom to go out in the river fishing, and Ernie would be happy to avoid yesterday's situation again. When we leave, the boat is his. I feel I owe it to him, even if he feels he is owed nothing. And, hey, who knows? I may never see the boat I'm paying for before I leave. Oh well. "So a de."

So a de.

September 25, 2001

U de no dee seembe? Just a common Saramakkan greeting for all those interested in learning a bit to impress your friends.

Well, we're back in town for a couple of days after spending a week on a sort of pseudo-vacation visiting other PC sites here in Suriname. In short it was a great week -- a week of a lot of travel and only a fraction of the cultural and communication stresses that usually plague us at site.

We set off last Monday morning with three other volunteer couples at about 3:30 by small van to Albina, a small port town bordering French Guyana, where we then waited about 3 hours for our boat to take us up the Marawijne river to Gusutu. The Marawijne River forms the border between Fr. Guyana and Suriname, and Gusutu is a very small Injukkan community that is situated on an island. The people who live on Gusutu are all Jehovas Wittnesses who separated from their "mother" community about 17 years ago. There's no electricity, running water, safe drinking water source or school. There is, however, a beautiful church that was built by the JW church ... too bad the church doesn't fund water, electricity or education projects. What's also frustrating is that, culturally speaking, the people who live in Gusutu have completely forsaken their traditional cultural celebrations and festivals. Very frustrating.

The highlight of our visit to Gusutu was actually our trip there. As we sat waiting for our boat to arrive in Albina, we looked admiringly at the many very large dug out canoes equiped with 65, 85 and even 115 horse power outboard engines. It was with great disappointment therefore, that we met the two very small dug out canoes equiped with 15 horse power engines that were to serve as our transport up river. The trip from Albina to Gusutu takes about 4 hours on an 85 horse power boat. Packed to the gills with food supplies and a ton of tools for an agricultural project at Chris and Lindsey's site (Godo Olo), it took us 11 hours to reach Gusutu. We arrived well after dark, there was a new moon, and there are two rather sizeable "sulas" (rapids) just down river of Gusutu ... A bit exciting, sort of like Kerry's old whitewater rafting days in Maine and Colorado ... Different, however, in that there were two boatmen in each boat: one on the motor, one in front with a long stick "feeling" for rocks that could cause fatal damage to the prop of the motor. That, and we were heading up river instead of down (most of the time.)

After spending a few days of building a chicken coop and doing afterschool programs in Gusutu we travelled further up river to Godo Olo, another Injukkan site on the Tapanahoni River. Still traveling in our undersized craft, the going was slow but fun. About half way through the day we had to get out and portage all of our stuff around a large rapid appropriately named "Futu Pasi" or foot path. In addition to the stuff we brought with us to wear and sleep (hammocks) and Chris and Lindsey's project supplies, we also had about four months worth of food supplies for them. Usually Chris and Lindsey fly to Godo Olo and can only take a limited amount of stuff because of weight limits, so they decided that this time in they'd stock up. Anyway, it took us over an hour to portage everything to the other side of the rapid. If there's anything that'll make you break a sweat it's carrying 4 months worth of canned goods by hand and by head in a series of .5 mile installments. The only event of the entire boat ride came just an hour before reaching Gusutu. The pathetic Yamaha engines of our boats met their match as we attempted five times to breach a two foot high spill within a rapid. Four times we gunned the motor, held on tight, and travelled half way up the spill only to hear our prop come out of the water, and have our boat shoot back down the rapid backwards. The fifth and final attempt met with success only because the two boatmen from the other boat jumped into the waist high rapid and PULLED the boat through. Bravery or stupidity? We don't know, but they've done it before and it worked. Anyway, we arrived to Godo Olo safe and sound about 10 hours after departing Gusutu.

Gusutu is a pleasant village. Considerably larger that Gusutu, it's 1,500 residents live off the land much more than the people of Brokopondo. Also, a large percentage of the men there work the gold bush and have sizable incomes for the bush. The highlight of our time in Gusutu came during the second night when Scott and Patrick (our volunteer neighbor back in Brokopondo) awoke to a large bush animal in close proximity to their hammocks. The rest of us were sleeping soundly within Chris and Lindsey's house when the "attack" occured. Luckily the "gaan meti" spared Scott and Patrick's lives and instead decided to hunt for truffles deeper in the rainforest.

The trip home was considerably easier. We flew, and were back in Paramaribo a mere 1.5 hours after leaving Godolo. We don't think we've ever been in a plane that's older than our parents and had seats that were in about as good condition as the seats available on some of the nicer DAF trucks. The other somewhat unnerving part about our flight was the close proximity we shared to the cock-pit -- Kerry could not have been more than two and a half feet from the control pannels. Anyway, we got to Paramaribo safe and sound.

One other highlight worth mentioning was pasting "Save the Bay" stickers to everything that moved. Our good friends from Annapolis, MD sent them in hopes we'd get a few good shots for the Cheasapeake Bay Foundation. Once people see these pix, we'll be hired as CBF's publicity gurus.

So, here we are in Paramaribo. We'll be here until Wednesday. We'd like to leave earlier, but have to pick up a dozen baby chickens that are only ever available on Wednesdays and Thursdays, so we'll stay until Thursday. Kerry just finished reading The Poisonwood Bible, a good book, set in Africa, written by Barbara Kingslover, and an interesting read since there are so many similarities between the people that Kingslover writes about in her book and the Maroon people here in Suriname -- even some of the language is the same.

We hope all is well with everyone back home. Even though we've been watching CNN here in Suriname, we still feel painfully out of the loop with events back home, and fear that when we return State-side next year that the country that we will come home to will be noticably changed.

Which reminds me, we had some moving conversations with people in Gusutu and Godo Olo last week about the recent terrorist attacks. First of all, we are shocked by how quickly news gets into the interior here. Beyond that, however, we were amazed at how genuinely concerned people are for America and for our families. A few even suggested that our families come to Suriname to live until the danger has passed. It brought tears to Kerry's eyes when Melody's next door neighbor (Melody and Barry are PCV's in Gusutu)came over one afternoon and asked if her parents could come to Suriname until all danger in the US passes, suggesting that they could either live in her house or string hammocks up on Melody and Barry's front porch. People here understand the loss and fear of war, particularly those who live in the interior and survived the civil war that ended just over a decade ago.

We also can't help but wonder how recent events have impacted the lives of Muslim people here in Suriname. Suriname is a very diverse country; it is also a sharply segregated country where prejudices runs deep. Even still, we are shocked when people ask us if America is going to kill all the "kulles" or bomb all the "Hindustanis." It's strange to be out of the country at a time like this ... but probably just as interesting.

Kind friends, walk well. We'll be back in to the city for more canned tuna and rice by the end of October.

Dumundu.

Kerry and Scott

P.S. - We're heading to site with ten baby chicks. I believe our volunteer service has gone to the ...

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