“Don’t go into the river after dark,” our Amerindian friend cautioned us as we made our way back to our dwelling house after a long and tough trek in the jungle. It was already dark, so I decided to heed his advice. My colleague, Emelio, scoffed at me and headed into the black water for a swim. He would remember that night for a long, long time to come.
Emelio and I were on a Young Apostles on the Move (YAMS) mission in a tiny village way up the Pomeroon River. Each year, Catholic youths and young adults who had already been confirmed would volunteer two weeks’ service to outreach missions in rural areas and other parishes across Guyana. Each year, more than 40 enthusiastic youths would attend special Bible Studies, Religious Education, Sensitization, and Cultural awareness sessions in order to prepare for these missions which took place during the July to August period.
They are then placed into groups, with each group having one musician. The groups are then sent out on missions to Berbice, the Essequibo Coast, East Coast Demerara, Lethem and its environs, the Pakaraimas Mountains and many other destinations. Each mission lasts for two weeks, and would be a ‘Summer School’ type of event. We are  expected to pass on our faith, or share it with others. Very often, it was the visitors who had faith-enriching experiences.
For our journey up the Pomeroon River, we had to leave Georgetown at six in the morning and travel to Parika, some 20-odd miles from the city. The journey by bus took about an hour, and we arrived at Parika without incident. At this busy stelling, we had to weave our way among other early travellers, vendors and speedboat and minibus touts. We were ushered into a small wooden craft with a 100HP engine. All our bags and boxes were packed away under seats and in the bow of the bobbing boat. When the vessel was filled with other passengers, we headed for Supenaam. The crossing was long and rough. Large waves assailed our craft, and the sprays soaked all on board. It was tough going, especially for those sitting at the front of the vessel, which bore the brunt of the assault. Our bodies were jerked, tossed and thumped each time a wave hit us.
We got to Supenaam badly shaken: Wet, but alive. The drive along the Essequibo Coast was tiring and not for the fainthearted. It consisted of two-and-a half hours of navigating a field of potholes; it was like a spacecraft travelling through an asteroid belt: Treacherous. The road was in such disrepair that the asphalt had completely disappeared, and some brilliant engineer had used loam for whatever repairs were effected. After the rains had come and gone, we were now reaping the bitter fruit of decision. We wove in, out and about, and finally arrived at Charity.
By now it was well past noon, and we were both hungry and exhausted. Without warning, the rain began to fall. We sought shelter and food at the Charity RC Church. After a much-welcomed break, we got on the way to our destination way up the Pomeroon River. We climbed into an even smaller craft and took off. We drove for the better part of two hours. The sun was merciless, and in our present state, we felt it even more.
As we motored along the river, we passed a number of small settlements. Women washed in the river while the children splashed and frolicked. Whenever we approached another boat on the river, our ‘captain’ would slow his to a crawl and only continue on when we had put some distance between the two vessels. The explanation given for this was that if we sped, the large wave we created would capsize the canoes or courials.
It was with some relief that we arrived at the small village that we were supposed to work in. Willing our weary sunburned bodies out of the boat, we unloaded our belongings. The boat turned around and headed back to Charity. We looked around us and saw three small, crude-looking buildings: The church, the school and the headmaster’s house.
The H.M. greeted us and led us down a path to the teachers’ quarters. This smaller wooden structure resembled an out-of-shape box. Built on short stilts, it had openings for a door and two sets of windows. The carpenter, however, had not bothered to put them in. This meant that we were at the mercy of the elements that the walls and roof could not keep out.  The floor was a rough uneven area with enough space between boards to pass small objects through. In some cases, there was uninterrupted viewing.
This didn’t daunt our spirits, because we had prepared for any such eventuality. The house was completely empty, and we were glad that we had brought along a hammock. This was strung up in the small bedroom, and we decided to alternate sleeping in it or on the ground. We put our bags and boxes inside, and walked back to the tiny landing (the place where canoes and other boats are moored). Except for the river that slithered away in the distance, the three small buildings, and the teachers’ quarters, all else was vegetation. 
The villagers living here did not build their homes near to the river bank; they lived along numerous paths, and at some distance from the main area. Many of these trails from the centre led over swamps and through thick forest.
Inspecting the facilities, we realized that there was no electricity or potable water supply.  The only available water was in the river. This same river water was being used for washing clothes, bathing and other hygienic activities.
Our supplies were enough to last us two weeks. Among them were essential foodstuff, teaching material, craft material and a few sports gears. We had a small one-burner kerosene stove, a small pot, a frying pan, a few plastic plates, cups and spoons. We returned to the house and prepared our supper. After the meal, we settled down to review our plans for the next two weeks. We finished our work and slept soundly.
The next four days passed quickly, and our programme went smoothly. The kids and adults came in increasing numbers each day. Many joined us, while some stayed at a distance and observed.  The kids here were especially gifted craft-wise. That Saturday, we were invited to go for a trek in the jungle.  We accepted.
That Saturday morning, we set out on our journey into the jungle. The going was easy, except through the swamps. We made good time, and I admired the scenic views around me. We saw a large variety of birds, some I had never seen before. Small animals scurried through the undergrowth, making a rustling sound. Monkeys frolicked in distant trees, chattering away in delight. The foliage was thick, so not much sunlight penetrated. Our guide showed us a number of traps set for wild animals; they were designed in such a way that if an animal tripped the cord, an arrow would be released, killing it. I shuddered to think what would happen to a clueless coastlander if he bumbled into the forest  and triggered such a trap.
There were different animal tracks and droppings to observe. The trees, especially the wild flowers, were spectacular; the Botanical Gardens would be hard-pressed to keep up with some of these scenic spots. Pushing on, we headed deeper into the jungle. By this time, I had no idea which end of the compass I was tracking. Completely lost, I just followed and trusted.
We arrived at a tiny hut built from nearby trees. The most startling thing about it is that it had no walls, yet it was someone’s home. The roof was made of troolie, and the floor of small tree trunks. I asked my new-found friends which of them lived there, and I was told that none of them did.
Some of them entered the dwelling and removed a pot and spoon. They dug up and peeled provision from a nearby farm and prepared a simple meal. I was very uncomfortable with the idea of going into someone’s property without permission, but was reassured that that was how they lived with each other. If someone was passing by and needed to use something you have, they could. All
that would be expected is that you wash the utensils and replace them. I struggled to keep quiet and not impose my GT value system on them. We ate, then cleaned and returned the utensils. There was an abundance of fruits in the area, so we ate to our hearts content.
The return journey seemed harder and longer. We arrived back at the church just as darkness set in. The darkness in this area is one which I have never gotten used to. Without my torchlight, I was completely blind. When night falls here, you cannot see your hands waving right before your eyes. It is that dark.
That was when our guide forbade us to go into the river at night. The others explained that strange and sinister things had occurred there in the past. Once, they said, a child had vanished, never to be found again. I was quite happy to heed their advice. A quick sponge bath would not kill me. My young colleague, however, had other ideas.
As we headed to the teachers quarters, he scoffed at me and called me a coward. He headed down to the river for a swim, as our other friends slipped away into the darkness. I headed straight to the house, cleansed myself and got supper started.  Emelio came up after his swim, bubbly and triumphant. He didn’t let me forget that I did not take a bath that night.
We retired to bed for the night; it was his turn to use the hammock. He went to the room, and I slept on the floor outside. Mosquitoes and sand flies harassed me endlessly, despite the expensive repellant I had purchased, but I was eventually able to drift off to sleep.
Sometime during the night, a loud blood-curdling scream jolted me awake. Disoriented and groggy, I groped wildly for my torchlight, and inadvertently knocked it through one of the gaping holes in the flooring.
The screams increased and became howls and sobs. I realized that the commotion was coming from the direction of the bedroom. Emelio was sobbing and groaning; I was trembling and shaking. I called out to him asking what was wrong.  He uttered these dreaded words: “A creature attacking me.” This elevated my state to one of panic. CREATURE!! ATTACKING!! I could only think of one thing: RUN!!  I looked around desperately and realized that I was completely blind; I could not even make out the doorway.  And, even if I got out, where would I go? I was blind and helpless.
I swallowed a few times, trying to find my voice. I told him that I was coming, when a renewed bout of howling froze me in my tracks. I tried again, but my body refused to budge. Kneeling right there on the spot, I began to pray like I’d never prayed before. Things quieted down for a bit.  I spent the remaining dark hours saying the rosary. The wait for daybreak seemed endless.
As soon as it was light enough to see, I edged slowly towards the bedroom. I peered around the doorway and swiftly surveyed the scene. Nothing there, except Emelio and the hammock. He was lying in the hammock in a fetal position, arms locked between his legs. He was drenched in sweat and trembling. Soft moans slipped from his frightened mouth. I approached him and shook him. He bolted upright but calmed down when he saw it was only me. I was shocked to see the reddish bruises and welts on his neck, shoulder and upper chest.
To this day, he insists that he was attacked by a huge, black, hairy creature. It stood eight to ten feet tall, and had two piercing red eyes that flashed evilly at him. Long yellowish teeth and claw-like hands completed his description.  My efforts to persuade him that it was only a bad dream did not succeed. That day, we packed up and headed for Georgetown. It was mission abandoned.