Essequibo Coast Ramble

Apr 05, 2015 Countryman, Features / Columnists

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

By Dennis Nichols
This week’s ‘Countryman’ takes a rest from the lunacy that has over the past few weeks, been defined in part

by senseless violence, mordant mudslinging, and the rising elections temperature. It turns to Cinderella for solace and recreation, where the anticipated pumpkin-to-coach transformation that so many Guyanese yearn for, will hopefully materialize. Cinderella is of course, the vast, mysterious, and bountifully-blessed county of Essequibo.
Its relatively uncharted landscape, sprawls across Guyana’s western two-thirds expanse and holds what many think is a key to our country’s economic future, and success. It is our treasure chest of barely-garnered riches including minerals, precious and semi-precious stones, timber, stone and manganese, as well as the potential for turnaround tourism and hydropower industries.
It would take several articles to begin to plumb the depth of riches and enormous potential the entire county holds, which would certainly reveal a good deal of ignorance on my part. Instead, I will play on its most well-known and easily-accessible district, the Essequibo Coast, stretching from the mouth of the Supenaam Creek to the village of Charity on the Pomeroon River.
(Incidentally, I don’t understand why the area round Supenaam is described as part of the Essequibo Coast when it seems to lie more along the western bank of the river than along the Atlantic shoreline)

My life and my past are inextricably intertwined with the Essequibo Coast, and by association, the mighty Essequibo River, (South America’s fourth largest) its myriad tributaries, and the county itself. It started over 100 years ago with a patriarchal lineage that included my grandfather, a master carpenter of Bush Lot Village, and his son, my father, who was born in Henrietta, and who began his teaching career as a teenager in the village of Queenstown.
My grandfather on my mother’s side was a police sergeant-major at Anna Regina in charge of the Immigration Depot there in the early part of the last century. I began my teaching career in the North West District (part of Essequibo) and later taught for two years at the Anna Regina Multilateral School. My wife hails from Devonshire Castle, and my eldest son is buried in the school churchyard in the neighbouring village of Hampton Court. I am as much Essequibian as I am Guyanese.
My first visit as an adult to the Essequibo Coast was in 1975 when my friend hauled me off to his cousin’s wedding on the Pomeroon River. We stayed at the bride’s home. There were a few unforgettable things about that trip: the mosquitoes, my first cup of river ‘black’ water and wedding party, Pomeroon-style.
The area I was in, a few miles upriver from Charity, had its own breed of mosquitos, at least 40 years ago, vicious, whining swarms that attacked all areas of my body, exposed or covered, from all angles simultaneously. I quickly learned the hitherto under-appreciated value of a mosquito net.
The river water had an understandably disagreeable taste, but it’s remarkable how quickly you can get used to something, lacking the more accustomed-to alternative. I drank it, brushed my teeth with it, downed cups of coffee made with it, ate food cooked with it, and used it as chaser for a swig of El Dorado Five-Year-Old. Those were the ‘bad old days’ before technology and popular businessman Alfro Alphonso struck.
From what I’d heard, no Essequibo/Pomeroon wedding would be complete without a brawl or two. And there was. A couple of the stockiest and most muscular men I’d ever seen had been drinking, eating, and laughing. Suddenly two of them were fighting, swinging wildly at each other as only drunken men can; these were quickly joined by a few more in a seeming free-for-all. It didn’t last long, and I was struck by how easily it was taken in stride, just a few hours before the marriage ceremony.
I will never forget the sight, on the day of the wedding, of the bride hastily and nervously hurrying down to the riverside to throw some water on her face and freshen up when the news came that the bridegroom and his entourage were just a few hundred yards away, coming by boat from Charity, en route from Anna Regina. By the time the grooms-people arrived, she was blushingly and beautifully ready.
I returned to the coast the next year to meet, and ‘negotiate’ with, my future mother-in-law for her daughter’s hand in marriage. Travelling at night by bus from Adventure, was indeed one of the lasting memories. The roadway was mostly undulating and cratered red loam, and as the packed bus rolled and lurched along smelling of fruit and fowl, the conductor announced in rapid vernacular, the names of the various villages the bus was approaching. It sounded like a foreign language to me.
“Andaneemin-Marias Ladge-J.C-Zaarg, Gol’n Fleece!” he barked out in about two seconds. I looked around, bewildered. I got Onderneeming because of my acquaintance with the name of the Boys’ School there. The rest was gibberish. The bus rumbled on.
As I got closer to my future wife’s village I began to panic, just a little. It was pitch-black outside and all I remembered was ‘Devonshire Castle’ and some ‘Judge’ sign to identify my destination. The conductor reassured me that he knew what I was talking about. A few minutes later he yelled, “Winza Castle-Hamtan Court-Devsa Castle-Wattn Hall.” This time I immediately got the two ‘Castles’ and smiled. Later I got the others – Hampton Court and Walton Hall.
The ‘Judge’ sign turned out to be a billboard advertising XM Rum (or El Dorado) with the slogan, ‘Judge for Yourself’. It was only later that I found out my wife’s mother used to operate a small shop and what was euphemistically called a club, which helped refresh and rekindle a special kind of thirst satisfaction for many villagers.
In the days that followed I was introduced to some of the residents of ‘Castle’ including a few unforgettable characters.  One was ‘Sands’ Duncan, a loud, hard-drinking neighbour. (Nicknamed for his constant references to former British Secretary of State Edwin Duncan Sandys of 1963 elections/P.R notoriety)   Another was ‘Mosquito Giant’, an angular, thin-limbed, long-striding young woman whose moniker, I thought, suited her to a ‘T’. Country humour!
I also became familiar with the apparent conviviality of the villagers despite ethnic differences, although I was told things could become testy around general elections time.  East Indians, Blacks and ‘Mixed’ people helped each other, borrowed household items, incurred credit from shops, looked out for each other’s children, and at least tolerated inter-racial relationships, including marriage.
Over the past year I’ve returned thrice to the Essequibo Coast. Things have obviously changed, though apparently not much in Devonshire Castle, apart from the improved road. However, Cinderella is gradually shedding her old kitchen clothes for more modern garb. With improvements in transportation, greater commercial access, and infrastructural works related to housing, the transition is on.
Nowhere was this more evident to me than at Charity on the Pomeroon River, especially on a Monday market day. Colourful, crowded and chaotic, it is a far cry from the languorous locale I first saw 40 years ago. A business complex, commercial bank, hotels, malls, a police station, magistrate’s court and what one person called the ‘Alfro Alphonso touch’, are changing the riverine community. And if ‘Charity’ truly begins at home, then Essequibo may be poised for a Cinderella-like transformation.

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