Moraikobai Sojourn – Part 2

Sep 14, 2014 Countryman, Features / Columnists

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Countryman – Stories about life, in and out of Guyana, from a Guyanese perspective

By Dennis Nichols
As a countryman with a congenital curiosity, and a belief in the primacy of our indigenous peoples, I often expect to get a cultural education when I find myself in an Amerindian hinterland community. I want to hear them speak their native tongue first of all, maybe learn some words and phrases, and then experience their social life as intimately as I can without undue intrusion.

In this respect, I’d been encouraged by the decision to revert to the original indigenous name of Moraikobai, the village formerly known as St. Francis, some 90 miles up the Mahaicony River. I was in intense anticipation of an experience that would measure up to my expectation of living and communing in an environment rich in Arawak/Lokono culture, in some ways at least similar to my experiences in the North West Region among the Warrau people there.
In Moraikobai, however, I was disappointed by what I saw as an inclination to conceal all except the most superficial expression of their indigenous selves. Thankfully, it wasn’t always successful. I did get something from the young children. And the older folk opened up about some aspects of traditional life. Most of the young people, however, were too ‘cool’ to talk about their Arawak heritage. Nevertheless, there were the observations and the anecdotes.
Aunty Casey was one of the older village characters. The schoolchildren called her ‘German’ and I never found out why. Small and wiry, she liked to roam, and I heard that she would trek to the Abary River to fish for Perai. She drank copiously and liked a good joke. On more than one occasion she roused me at night to have a drink with her and her friends, but I would agree only to the occasional weekend binge and banter.
It was she who told me how she had once gone to the doctor for some complaint or the other. During the visit, the medico gave her some medicine and a stern warning to quit drinking, or else life would quit her. She tried it for a few days, her symptoms grew decidedly worse, and she disposed of the medication. Then, she confessed, it was back to a joyful reunion with the bottle and ‘regression’ to good health. When I left the mission she was tramping healthy.
One of my best friends in Moraikobai was Alexander. That was his surname, but everyone called him by a nickname that I don’t remember. It began with ‘K’ so that’s what I’ll refer to him as. His wife had died, so he was Mom and Dad to his two children. ‘K’ liked to drink, but hadn’t the head for strong liquor. He invariably got drunk while we listened to country music at his home, and after lapsing into incoherence, would be dutifully cared for by his young son and daughter. (Incidentally, he was amazed to learn that his favourite singer, Charley Pride, was a Black man.) That tickled me.
‘K’ disclosed that he was originally from the Berbice River, and had come with a team from that region to play a cricket match in Moraikobai. There he met an attractive belle after the match was over. There he ‘hustled’ the young woman. There he married her. And there he stayed. After his wife died, ‘K’ decided to remain in the village and raise his two children, whom I taught at school, as best he could in the home he had built. I used to marvel at the neatness and cleanliness of his very modest home, qualities possessed by both his children, in addition to their industry.
Something that struck me forcibly was the relative lack of violence, and the equanimity in this community, particularly when compared with the North West/Aruka neighbourhood I’d taught in earlier. There was only one minor altercation that I recall in the time I spent there, and one of the antagonists was reportedly of Carib (allegedly aggressive) descent. In the North West, there had been innumerable fights, stabbings, and a few murders. It would be interesting to see the results of a comparative analysis of this kind of social behaviour among indigenous Guyanese populations.
As I implied earlier, there appeared to be a reluctance by the majority of younger people to assert, or even admit exclusive ‘Amerindian-ness’ or indigenous heritage. Some young men who earned wages from logging, or whatever work they were engaged in, tended to buy, wear, and flaunt expensive, showy jeans, shirts, vests, footwear, and the latest technological accessories. These seemed ludicrously out-of-place in that naturalistic setting, representing to me, a clear example of cultural penetration, with Georgetown and U.S pop culture doing most of the penetrating.
There were some though (mostly women) who still practiced native arts like weaving, using tibisiri, nibbi and mucru to fashion baskets, hats, trays, and a variety of other useful and decorative items. And of course there was still hunting, fishing and subsistence farming; there were still the thatched buildings, canoes, and paddles, all made from local materials, in which the makers  could at least express a sense of pride, if they were so inclined.
But the nexus between their obvious skill in these areas and an authentic Amerindian culture always seemed weak. It was left to the children at school to validate my enthusiasm for this way of life, and for innocence and spontaneity.
One of the classes I taught at the school (still called St. Francis) was the Primary Four, or Common Entrance Class, comprising about 15 children between the ages of 10 and 12. I warmed to them quickly, and soon found myself in the accustomed role of giving practical and paternal advice on a number of pre-teenage and adolescent issues, in addition to academic instruction. At first, they seemed a bit fearful, maybe overwhelmed (bored?) and I worried that I would lose their interest if I didn’t lighten up. They did it for me.
One day I set some work for them, with the fatherly injunction to practice being focused so as to be able to deal with certain kinds of problems ‘especially as you grow older.’ A few minutes later, while teaching another class, I noticed, with some displeasure, that they were talking, giggling, looking at each other and at me, surreptitiously, and generally disregarding my admonitions.
Upon my return to the class I sternly asked if they were taking my advice. Barely able to contain their mirth, they responded with one accord, “Yes, Daddy!” Two of them, Megan and Hau Pin, could no longer suppress the laughter inside, and it burst forth. The entire class joined in as I stood there with my famous ‘Jerry Lewis’ smile slowly spreading across my face. By this time the faces of the two main instigators, Megan and Hau Pin, were cherry-pink with undisguised glee. To this day we are friends.
A few months later I left the village and the school, twenty-one years ago. I didn’t get to learn any new Arawak words or fathom the secret of becoming invisible in the forests. But I have in my mind’s eye, the memory of a pristine little paradise, of palm trees, thatched houses, sandy pathways, and the ever-flowing waters of a creek,  that I hope hasn’t become too ‘civilized’ over the passage of time – in a place called Moraikobai.

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