Memories of the Mighty Essequibo

The mighty Essequibo River makes me think of history; perhaps, because it is deep, wide, dark and mysterious and its banks and islands did not change much during the years I traveled. As I stood in the stern of the Malali "steamer" and gazed into the wake below, I would imagine my ancestors making their journey to the new land; on the river’s banks, I would imagine slaves and plantation owners who weren’t the first in the delta. The dark waters, if they could talk, would tell of ancient journeys in little canoes for hunting, fishing, courting, weddings, and celebrations to the god of the river and mountains. The river, however, never spoke so I used my imagination. The more recent travelers – men with rippling muscles exposed to the sun and women with colorful bandannas – toiled until they were free. When they worked on the plantations no more, they hastened to send their children to England to wear ties and put the past and land behind them.
    If the river could speak and the "steamer" too, they would tell tales of countless weddings – tassa drums, brightly colored regalia, jeweled hands and noses and happy singing. They would also tell of funeral entourages – in black and white – and wakes held midstream for loved ones on final journeys from Berbice, or Georgetown to Essequibo, but the river never speaks. It casts a gleaming eye – bright with knowledge – and keeps its secrets to itself. I wish Time had used a video camera to capture all the wondrous moments.
    There are changes throughout its length: The black and playful Potaro, Mazaruni and Cuyuni tributaries with treacherous rapids and waterfalls yielded much gold and many diamonds. The breathtaking confluence at Bartica was home to many Easter regattas and gold mining parties. Essequibo ends majestically into a delta of islands sullied only by muddy silt from the mightier Amazon River which exudes her influence all along the north-eastern coast of South America.
    The natives, however, tell anyone who will listen, “Do you know that Barbados can fit in the Essequibo River?”  The main islands with Dutch-sounding names – Wakenaam, Leguan and Hogg Island – had no tourists, just zinc-roofed homes, families, farmers and everywhere green color standing out against dark water. My grandmother tells of family land unclaimed somewhere on Leguan. It is romantic to think that I may be heiress to island property but I breathe and release the thought.
    My "steamer" does not go to Leguan.  On our way to Essequibo from Parika, we must pass Hogg Island. I count no more than four or five houses visible through the trees, yet the Captain of the "steamer" makes a bona fide stop. Somehow, he knows that there is a little boat coming to meet us. I marvel that the Captain knows he has departing or arriving passengers. The "steamer" anchors and waits majestically while exchanges of passengers and/or cargo are made.  
    At Wakenaam, one plank would connect boat to land. Passengers would leisurely walk over the plank – the entrepreneurial women stately and graceful with large baskets balanced on top of their heads. 
    At night, a brightly lit house beckoned from Trulie Island which had no electricity. There were no stops to this island. No house joined the first. By day, the house remained aloof, in the distance and alone. 
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    At Adventure, Essequibo Coast, a heaving group of people crowd around near the exit. Sturdy sailors remove two planks that separate cars and people from a watery destiny should the ship roll ever more slightly. Macho sailors stand at the edge, nonchalantly touching pillars for support. (I heard a tale once of a sailor who could swim, but fell off the boat and was never heard from again because of the current or because he was drunk. I have never seen any sailor test this theory; but they study the depths as if looking for fish or cheerfully exchange land activity information with attendants standing on the pier). As soon as you begin to think that they could not exhibit more daring behavior, they lean over the side and motion signs to the captain to bring the boat closer to the pier. I postpone exhaling but nothing exciting ever happens.  
    Attendants on the ramp below throw the first plank. There is a mad race across the plank up the ramp as people try to get the best seats for the journey home. (If you did not want to stand, you would have to wait about another twelve hours until the "steamer" made a return trip.  That’s the way transportation worked).
    If you were a passenger in a car, there would be a different ordeal to face. My personal preference would be to walk over the plank but my driver would always say, “Please, get into the car, we need more weight”. So I would sit nervously and pray as two planks were steadied to fit the width of the car. To me, there was no mercy. (Sailors would already be considering the return trip and were not prepared to waste much time; trucks were allowed re-enforced planks, but not cars). 
    Sailors direct the drivers while we are on the boat; attendants signal from the pier like car wash attendants. Heart rate increases as the driver turns the wheel this way and that, makes quick corrections to avoid disaster, then with a burst of the accelerator, propels the car over the planks, up the ramp (Tickets, please),  a short entrance onto the road and safety….the smell of the Essequibo Coast…...home , place of my birth.

Picture of Sunrise on the Essequibo - from Travelblog

Illustration on the Back Cover of the book "HerStory"