Life in my neck of the woods

A LOOK AT THE LIVES OF MY NEIGHBOURS IN THE MAZARUNI– BARTICA REGION WHEN I WAS A MEMBER OF THE SMALL MONASTIC COMMUNITY AT MORA POINT

WATER, water everywhere; an apt phrase for the local inhabitants of the Mazaruni / Bartica Region in Guyana, South America. They have it in abundance. The Essequibo and Mazaruni Rivers form their confluence at Bartica, a small mining settlement situated approximately 60 miles up the Essequibo River. The homes of the riverain people, who are predominantly Amerindians, are sparsely scattered along the banks of both rivers.

Our Benedictine Monastery is situated on the bank of the Mazaruni River, two miles inland from Bartica. Ever since the foundation of this monastic community in 1988, and the subsequent construction of our monastery at Mora Camp in 1989, we have enjoyed the magnificence of our surroundings: the birds, the river, the jungle and the people. The small monastery affords one a panoramic view of Kaow Island,/ a privately owned lumber establishment – The Mazaruni Penal Settlement spread out on the opposite bank and Skull Point another timber concession away to the left in the distance.

Sharing these beautiful surrounding are the White Water Adventure Tours, on Baracara Island and The Baganara Resort, up the Essequibo River. Every day the wonders of God’s creation are revealed to anyone with the disposition to appreciate it. At daybreak, mist carpets the river and forest, gripping all in its cold embrace. Re-painting the unique beauty of the landscape, it clings to the atmosphere like a well-woven cobweb.

The clouds hang heavy like laden galleons and block out the imminent sunshine. As the sun rays chip away at the whiteness, the captivating beauty of the Mazaruni returns. Like a mirror of heaven, the glistening, mysterious water caresses the banks of the land, plucking and stealing its coveted property. The thick green foliage stands tall and majestic like a vanguard against this invasion: not welcoming it yet unable to exist without it.
The musical chirps, the shrill screeches of parrots and macaws, loud cavorting of the howler monkeys and the noisy passage of large lizards across dry leaves, add intrigue and awe. Thousands of colourful butterflies grace us in their season, fluttering along in a colourful and delightful display of nature’s gift. At night the river is bathed in the golden silvery sheen of the moon.

The wind, ferocious at times and gentle at others, brush and tug at the water. The waves obediently respond with soft lapping and loud splashing against the shores. On moonless nights the stars become bold and sparkle their brightness against the dark skies, as if happy to be the centre of attraction for a change.

Fishermen are out on these dark nights. Flashlights and flambos flicker on and off as seine and lines are gathered in and trapped fish collected. The ‘too-weet-too-woo’ of owls and the weird sounding call of the forest floor dweller bird’s ‘a-who-yo,’ add an element of enchantment to the environment. By day and by night, tugboats chug to and fro under their burden of timber or stone. Barges, powerboats and jet boats crisscross the water with noisy frequency. The rhythmic slapping of paddles, announce the passing of natives as they slowly cover long distances, their only companion being the scorching sun or the merciless downpours of the unpredictable tropical rain.

Life for the Amerindian in this vicinity is difficult and often unproductive. Many lack the skills to sustain viable farms. The dearth of transportation to get their perishables to market, the continuous fight against rampaging wild hogs-which destroy an entire crop in the space of two to three hours, some species of birds which feed off of corn and fruits and roaming cattle, prevent those who are willing from persevering. The alternative to this is trips into the Goldfields – Backdam – in quest of gold and diamond. For a lucky few the rewards are adequate but short lived.

After a good spree in the city or nearby town, they return to the Backdam broke and with a serious hangover. Thus the cycle continues.
Apart from poisonous stings and snakebites, the scourge of these hard working people is malaria. Often fatal, it does not discriminate between adults and children. Transmitted by the Anopheles female mosquito, which sucks the blood from an infected carrier, the parasite then has a 10-day incubation period in the insect’s stomach. After this, it is then transmitted to other humans.

In Guyana the two known strains of malaria are Vivax and Falciparum, the latter being the killer. Most infected persons show symptoms of violent rigours, headaches, fever and vomiting. Many of those who suffer from repeated infection die from sheer exhaustion. Deep-rooted superstition and traditional conditioning prevent some people from seeking early medical intervention. Relatives prefer to take them to Spirit Healers or the Medicine Man, in order to have the Kanaima Spirit driven out.

The Amerindian blames many sicknesses on this spirit. When the patient fails to respond to the local treatment and the situation reaches an alarming proportion, the victim is then taken to the hospital: often too late. Even after death, and the diagnosis of malaria, many leave with the conviction that ‘Kanaima had disguised itself from the doctor, who hails from the coastland and is quite ignorant of these things.’ With only simple means at their disposal, the natives are compelled to live with a high rate of mortality among family and friends.

Even those who reach the Bartica Regional Hospital often find the after-hospitalisation treatment too expensive to maintain and resort to their old ways. Many families live up and down river from us and can be seen every day slowly paddling tiny canoes on their way to or from home. In an emergency, the sick has little chance of survival if haste is vital. More than once we have been called upon to rush a ‘sick’ to the Bartica Hospital. Some of these journeys have been exercises in futility.

Late one evening the silence of the monastery was challenged by an anguished cry from the riverside, “Father! Father! Help!” We dashed down to the small boat landing and came upon a pitiful scene. There was a small canoe alongside the steps and someone wrapped in a hammock lay in it. “He sick bad father!” The woman sounded desperate.

“Please help we take him to hospital.” The tearful speaker was the wife of the sick man. We were told that his name was “Tallboy”. Two male relatives had paddled for more than a day to get him help. They helped us hoist him up to our pickup van. We got on the way quickly. The drive was slow along the rough forest trail and as we preceded people stepped from the jungle and got into the tray of our vehicle. By the time we got to the line road, which leads directly to Bartica, the van was full of passengers.

The drive, a solemn and silent affair, was over shortly. At the hospital, the sick man was taken to the examination room, and promptly pronounced dead. Tallboy was only 28 years old. Although there were tears shed that evening, there was an absence of the tradition Guyanese hysterics. His family had paddled for miles with their loved one in a desperate but futile bid to save his life.

From the doctor’s observation, he had been dead for quite some time. The mortuary at the hospital has no refrigeration facility so the relatives were dispatched to buy a large quantity of ice in order to preserve the body. He was buried early the next morning, another tragic end to a young promising life.

Our next-door neighbour, who lives about half a mile through the jungle, brought her 10-year-old daughter to us one evening. The child was obviously very ill. “Father, please tek we to hospital.” We responded positively to her and headed out directly. This particular family regularly visited our monastery and this gave our haste added purpose. The father was already in the hospital suffering from malaria and knew nothing of his child’s condition.
The drive to the hospital was rife with urgency.

The weeping mother galvanised us to even more haste. By the time we turned into the compound, the mother was crying uncontrollably. Her little daughter had died in her arms. Imagine the scene when the father was summoned from his bed in the ward and informed of his daughter’s demise. This was one time that the monks wept too.

The monastery pales in comparison to its surroundings and it is always a privilege and blessing to be able to offer our hospitality to our quiet neighbours and friends. As we continue our existence at Mora Camp, we are forced to reflect on the many visible witnesses to the community seen in the lives of our neighbours. Their deep love and genuine friendship for each other serve as a clear and poignant lesson to our monastic community. We too must endeavour to give of ourselves to others in need: not seven but seven times seventy.

SHARE THIS ARTICLE :
Facebook
Twitter
WhatsApp

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

All our printed editions are available online
emblem3
Subscribe to the Guyana Chronicle.
Sign up to receive news and updates.
We respect your privacy.