http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cAbo1dBJ4TI

This article comes out in the New York Times tomorrow.  I guess those of you who have a subscription will see it on Saturday!!  Nicely done.

http://travel.nytimes.com/2010/02/07/travel/07journeys.html?em

By John Gimlette
 
 
 From cowboys to conservationists, cricket-mad Indians to shy
 Amerindians, Guyana is a country of survivors
 
 When I arrived in Georgetown I found it in the grip of a good murder
 trial, and so I went along to watch. In one sense it was like a
 courtroom drama circa 1790. The accused, Blacksam and Buggins, were old
 felons who drank in taverns and ate saltfish and souse. Then, one day,
 they picked a Georgian quarrel with their neighbour and despatched him
 with a cutlass. In every other sense, the trial was like a snapshot of
 modern life in Guyana . Defence counsel was, like every third Guyanese,
 Indian (and spoke a rich Creole, well-larded with Dickens and Donne).
 Another third of the populace, the Africans, were represented by the
 judge and the constables; the remainder, the mixed races, by the jury.
 In their 12 furrowed faces was the story of Guyana : slaves, Amerindians,
 'Chineymen', Irish adventurers, Scottish cattlemen, pirates, pioneers
 and Pathans.
 
 Equally intriguing was the backdrop, which was all so lumpishly British.
 With its arches, wrought iron and corrugated gables, the Victoria Law
 Courts were a lingering fantasy of tropical gothic. There was even a
 statue of Victoria herself. She'd recovered her head, I noticed, after
 losing it in the squabbles over independence in 1961. "Ask not for whom
 the bell tolls..." thundered the Indian, but the jury didn't hear. The
 rains had come early and sounded like horses thundering on the tin. But
 somehow mercy survived and the verdict was manslaughter. Off went the
 prisoners, grinning through their chains. "Yeah, man," said the
 constable, "they been spared the noose..." From the court, a beautiful
 city, as light as feathers, flutters off down the coast.
 Perhaps - like its people - Georgetown doesn't truly believe that it
 belongs here, and so it hovers over the water. It's all built on canals
 and breezes, a city of stilts and clapboard, brilliant whites, fretwork,
 spindles and louvres. The streets are as wide as fields, and the
 cathedral seems to drift endlessly upwards, reputedly the tallest wooden
building in the world.
 
 One area of the city is even called Lacytown as if, at any moment, it
 might simply take off and drift away - home, perhaps. Water is a
 constant feature of the Townies' lives. At high tide, the sea looms 2m
 above the city, held back by a wall. Concrete rots here, and even cars
 seem to moulder.. By day, the canals are velvety and green, and by night
 they're operatic with frogs. "Why? Why?" they sing, which makes the dogs
 all howl. Nature, it seems, is gradually reclaiming its inheritance.
 Among this riot of parrots and flamboyants, the Townies can still be
 fleetingly British. Even now, you can buy a bottle of Nerve Tonic or a
 sausage roll at Fogarty's department store.
 
 Other survivors include Hackney carriages, EIIR letterboxes and a pair
 of Sebastopol cannons. Once I even saw a large building site called
 Buckingham Palace , although - sadly - financing had failed before any
 resemblance took shape.
 Despite these trappings, however, the Guyanese are neither British nor
 truly South American but live in a world of their own. Sometimes it
 seems that being foreign comes so naturally to them that they don't even
 understand themselves. Originally, each race had its own political
 party. With a population of only 770,000, this often makes Guyana feel
 like several dozen countries all stuffed into one. I even felt this as
 
 I walked across Georgetown ; one moment I'd be passing Chinatown , then a
 mosque, and then a Mexican circus ('With real tigers!') before finally
 ending up in a festival of extreme chutney.
 
 All this might not be so odd in a big city, yet Georgetown is tiny.
 There's only one escalator in the whole town (it still draws a crowd),
 and the beautiful National Art Gallery receives just 20 visitors a
 month. Everyone knows everyone, even the men who sell horse dung from
 their carts. Almost all the old buildings are famous, sometimes for
 several things at once. My hotel, Cara Lodge - apart from being a
 masterpiece of Victorian carpentry - was once the home of the colony's
 orchestra, the basketball squad and the communist party. During the rule
 of Forbes Burnham (1964-85), it was even used by the resistance movement
 as a base for making bombs. "Go west across the Demerara," people said,
 "and you'll soon see who built this country."
 
 It was not, I realised, the British. The clue was in the names, thickly
 clustered along the shore: Vreed-en-Hoop, Harlem , Uitvlugt and Tuschen.
 For well over half Guyana 's colonial history (from the late 16th to
 early 19th centuries), the Dutch were in command. Here, on the coast,
 they stripped out the mangroves, drained the mudflats and walled off the
 sea. It was a Pharaonic achievement, costing thousands of African lives.
 Even now, looking inland, the horizon is just a bold green curve of
 sugar cane; the coastal strip remains the home of almost 90% of Guyanese.

 After an hour's bus ride from Georgetown I came to the main artery of
 the Dutch colonisers' operation. The Essequibo is the largest of
 Guyana 's four great rivers (the Demerara, Berbice and Corentyne run
 parallel, progressively further east), with a mouth big enough to
 swallow Barbados . It looks like a vast, rum-coloured sea, lavishly
 spotted with islands and spills of squeaky clean white sand. As each
 rocky outcrop blurred past, my boatman would sing out its story. "This
 was a leper colony..." he'd say, "and this one's Eddy Grant's..."

 At the Dutch islands a few kilometres upstream we stopped and clambered
 into the jungle. At Fort Kyk-over-al there was nothing but an arch but,
 on Fort Island , a huge star fort, dated 1739, still loomed up out of the
 forest. Next to it was a large brick hall. This had been the seat of
 government for a wild land, only 4% of which the Dutch had ever seen.
 Although the Zeelanders called this the Court of Policy, it was really
 no more than a parliament of ants.
 It was easy to see why the Dutch had loved the Essequibo . Everything
 seemed abundant, and even the birds - tanagers and tyrants - seemed to
 jangle like fresh-minted money.
 
 I stayed on a luxurious silvery river beach, once a Dutch camp and now a
 resort called Baganara. At first it seemed I was the only person who'd
 ever stayed there - except Mick Jagger (who'd left his picture over the
 bar).
 
 Later, I moved further upstream and stayed in a Benedictine monastery.
 Every few hours the brothers' euphonious chanting would lift out of the
 rubber trees and carry across the water. On the opposite bank was
 another Dutch institution: probably the most beautiful prison in the world.
 
 On the way back downriver I stopped at an old sugar estate called Wales .
 It employed 2,000 souls, including rat catchers and lady weeders.
 Meanwhile, the cane is harvested exactly as it had been three centuries
 before: charred first, cut by hand and then heaved into barges. It often
 felt as though the Dutch had never left, especially near their graves.
 "They're haunted," said my guide. "We never urinate here."
 
 But the Dutch have left more than ghosts. Here, a sluice is still a
 koker and a wharf a stelling. Even better is their litter that still
 bubbles up out of the mud. In Meten-Meer-Zorg, back on the coast, I
 stayed with Gary Serao, who rents out beds in his extraordinary museum.
 Among his ephemera I spotted manacles, 17th-century wine jars,
 cannonballs and heaps of flasks for Zeeland gin. By 1800 the Dutch had
 become spectacularly debauched.. Their planters carried ivory whistles,
 and every day began with gin and ended with a slave-girl, all painted up
 like an Amsterdam whore.
 
 Naturally, the early Guyanese had often risen in revolt. Even now their
 descendants have a healthy suspicion of authority. The slaves' big
 moment came further south-east and 160km inland. Today it's called
 Dubulay, a pretty ranch overlooking the Berbice River . Back in March
 1763 this was Peerboom (Pear Tree), a plantation house besieged by 2,000
 machete-wielding slaves. As the Dutch fled for the river, the rebels
 butchered them. The remains of this struggle are still scattered along
 the foreshore: broken bricks, tiles, and shards of pottery and glass.
 
 I followed the revolt all the way back to the sea. It was a sad and
 beautiful voyage. My boatman Bob Kertzious, descended from both the
 slaves and the slavers, knew all the landmarks of this bloody revolt:
 Juliana, Vigilantie and Dageraad (Daybreak). The region had never
 recovered. Even after the uprising was crushed, this, one of the richest
 settlements in the world, had simply reverted to jungle. We stopped only
 twice. Once was to visit Bob's parents, who lived in a hut decorated
 with rag mats, ships' paint and an old Dutch bottle. The other stop was
Fort Nassau . It looked almost exactly the same as it did the day the
 rebels sacked it, except now it's being slowly prised apart by macaws
 and strangler figs.
 
 Things looked very different on the Berbice coast. The walls of
 vegetation parted, and India appeared: I could see prayer flags and
 minarets. In New Amsterdam (which was like a mini Georgetown ), I even
 found a curry shop, although the choice was bush hog, chicken or iguana.
 Unsurprisingly, it was the British who were responsible for this eerie
 infusion of Asia . With slavery abolished, from 1838 they began to import
 Indian labour. Over the next 80 years some 250,000 Indians arrived,
 becoming the predominant race.
 
 The introduction of Indians to this, the old wild coast, has created a
 curious new culture. Eastern Guyana is now a hotbed of cricket (not to
 mention communists, giant pink elephants and grand sari pageants). But
 it's also a place that's not quite like anywhere else in the world. Here
 there are Hindus in cowboy hats, halal snackettes (snack shops) and
 beggars with green parrots. Once I even spotted a petrol station called
 Vishaul & his Three Adorable Sisters. This was India , alright - but with
 a South American swagger.
 For the rest of my Guyanese encounters I needed a plane.. Beyond the
 coastal strip a vast forest begins, covering 80% of the country. For
 hundreds of kilometres it sprawls inland before spreading out among some
 of the oldest mountains in the world. Somewhere in it, or beyond it,
 live the remaining 10% of the Guyanese people.
 
 I loved flying over this forest. The canopy itself was so dark and dense
 that it felt like a journey through a long green night. The foliage
 seems to swallow everything - even waterfalls like Kaieteur, at 228m,
 loftier than the BT Tower (and undiscovered until 1870). Until the
 aeroplane age, Guyana 's interior was accessible only by river. Small
 wonder that it became the literary refuge of lost worlds (Conan Doyle),
 lost minds (Evelyn Waugh) and cities made of gold ( Raleigh ).
 
 I had my first encounter with the people hidden in here at Iwokrama. For
 the Amerindians, it's always been a special place. Now it's a 4,000 sq
 km forest with a research centre. There are little riverside huts for
 tourists and a village, Fair View, for the Makushi, an Amerindian tribe
 whose ancestors have lived in this forest for perhaps 10,000 years.
 
 It seems an idyllic life. By day, we pottered round the forest,
 identifying cures for everything from ringworm (aromata) to diabetes
 (wild mango). The Makushi could be alternately shy and uninhibited, and
 every mealtime was a gathering of clans. It was like taking our own
 lives and stripping them of clutter: no chairs, no floors, no cash and
 no concept of time. "We like it here," one man told me. "We got canes
 for our arrows, and plenty of monkeys."
 
 Later, as I moved further south to the edge of the forest, a more
 complex picture emerged. Although the Makushi village of Surama has its
 own breezy ecolodge with a view across the unknown, I opted to stay with
 a family. Paula has a tattooed face; Daniel is a hunter. They live on a
 beautiful hill in a house made of leaves. There was no water, no
 electricity, and nine of us slept in the hut. We washed out in the long
 grass and ate whatever Daniel caught. "Life's become harder," he said,
 "since the jaguars killed all our horses."
 
 But if the temporal world seemed tough, the spiritual world was tougher.
 Makushi life is deeply infested with magic. There are supernatural
 boulders and trees that turn you grey. Later, in Yupukari, I met a man
 who thought his brother had been drowned by a ghost - this in a village
with a new American library and an exquisite boutique hotel for
 alligator lovers, Caiman House.
 
 Daniel was unsure about the modern world and whether he wanted to join
 it. On my last day he gave me a 2m bow with five arrows. "Take them back
 to London ," he said, "and then you'll remember us whenever you use them."
 Beyond Surama the trees gave way to a vast, golden plain about the size
 of Scotland . The Rupununi savannahs are home to the world's biggest
 ants, biggest otters, biggest anteaters and most ferocious fish. Few
 Europeans have ever settled here. However, some remained, and now they
 often take in guests. One was Colin Edward s, who'd built the road
 through the forest. ("Until then, Guyana leaned towards the Caribbean ,"
 he told me. "I linked it to South America .") He'd never stopped
 building, and now runs Rockview, an oasis of orchards and cottages, with
 a bar that sells bras and machetes.
 
 Another of the great Rupununi hosts is Diane McTurk. Her ranch,
 Karanambu, is on a riverbank, deep in the thorns. "I was born here in
 1932," she told me: "a wild child." Although she'd been away (with a
 stint at London 's Savoy Hotel), Karanambu still feels like a wild childhood.
 
 There are thatched huts, fruit trees, a collection of war clubs, a tiny
 beach and a pet racoon. Diane has also raised more than 40 orphaned
 giant otters, two still in residence. Every day a bowman padded off down
 to the river, to shoot them a bucket of fish.
 
 For the final leg of my journey I drove south for another two days to
find wildness of a different kind. Dadanawa is like the Wild West, yet
 even more remote. At 4,400 sq km it's the biggest ranch in Guyana ,

 tucked away behind a massive ridge of jungle (the Kanuku Mountains ) and
a river the width of the Thames (and three times as long). For the last
 bit of this journey my driver had to put our truck on a raft of oil
 drums and float it through the torrents.
 
 The ranch was an unforgettable adventure. Pretty soon even the Wild West
 seemed fluffy in comparison. Of course, there were the same big rivers,
 mountains and stampedes, but Guyana can also be brutally exotic. Almost
 every night jaguars attacked the cattle. Meanwhile, watching a round-up
 was like witnessing an extraordinarily violent sport in which no one -
 miraculously - gets hurt.
 Everyone here lives an extraordinary life. My hosts, the de Freitas
 family, slept (like me) in a sort of cricket pavilion on stilts
 overlooking the Kanukus.
 
 They are descended from Portuguese immigrants who fled the great famine
 of Madeira in 1834. Guyana had suited them well; now they manage 5,000
 cattle, 34 staff and two bright-red macaws known as the 'Terrorists'.
 Not that there is money. The family lives in a delightful cemetery of
 Land Rovers, surviving on home-grown vegetables and the BBC World
 Service. Each of their children they'd delivered by themselves.
 
 The cowboys, on the other hand, are Wapishana Indians and sleep in
 barracks. They all carried long knives like swords and rode brilliantly,
 barefoot and often bareback. The youngest, I discovered, was 12, and
 sang as he rode. One, a saddle-maker called Uncle Cyril, was descended
 from the long-extinct Atorad tribe.
 
 With their hawkish faces and taut, athletic frames, it's hard to believe
 they were from the same country as the coastlanders. When my favourite,
 Orvin, was bitten by a snake, he simply tied a tourniquet round his arm
 and rode off to join his friends.
 
 Perhaps none of this should surprise me. This, after all, is Guyana : a
 garden built by God, inhabited by survivors and lived to the full.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/picturegalleries/6010883/In-pictures-Guyanas-remote-south.html

Palmyra to Rosignal Bridge and Toll Booth

 

 

 

 

http://www.tramz.com/gy/g.html

Hi Everyone,
"Those who eat the Cascadura will, the native legend says, wheresoever they may wander end in Trinidad their days," Johnson and the Cascadura (Selvon, 1957).
So goes the folklore in Trinidad and Tobago about this rare, prized member of the catfish family, known in Guyana and Brazil as hassar and as cascadura or cascadoo in Trinidad and Tobago.
I know of no legends or folktales in Guyana about this fish, what I do know, however, is that we love hassar very much and even though the vendors often demand an unreasonable price for a few of these fish, we nevertheless reach deep into our pockets because there is nothing quite like hassar curry cooked with coconut milk, lots of tomatoes, a few pieces of green mango, several okra and if you can find some, a few sticks of saijan (drumsticks). The only accompaniments for this curry are hot white rice and lots of pepper sauce or achar. Don't even think about eating with a spoon, a knife and fork would be laughable; the only tool you have to use is of the God-given variety, your hands!

According to the Institute of Marine Affairs, hassar, Hoplosternum littorale, is found naturally from northern South America to Central America; it occurs locally in the lower reaches of most of the rivers south of the Northern Range. This fish with its own protective armour of two rows of bony plate-like scales is found in fresh water swamps during the dry season. As the water recedes, catching hassar is easy. Some fisherfolk use a cast-net, some hook and line while others use the trapping method.
"Don't tell me you're going fishing with a bucket and a basket,"
"Wait and see."
There are two ways to catch the cascadura. One is to dam the muddy area where you suspect they are, and bail out the water and pick them up floundering in the mud. The other is to look for a spot where twigs and leaves and other odd debris float down and form an island near a calm part of the steam. Under such shelter the cascadura lays its eggs. All you have to do is to dip your bucket partly into the water, so that you cover the nest, and splash the water near the basket. When the fish hears the noise it leaps towards it, and you catch him in your basket and drain off the water, and you've landed your first cascadura. Johnson and the Cascadura (Selvon, 1957)

Eating hassar for me is all about the bones, I love to suck on them and the head of the hassar is one of the best parts. Once cooked, the outer shell literally slides off the fish to reveal a firm tan-coloured flesh. For me, eating hassar is never a one-fish deal; three is the number that satisfies me at each sitting. This is how I think about it. The first one is to whet my appetite, the second one is to satisfy the taste buds that yeah, I'm eating hassar and the third one, is to wrap things up, like a good story, it has a beginning, middle and an end.
Growing up I always knew that hassar came from the countryside and Berbice seemed to be the place to get the best hassar. That may be so because I know more people in Berbice than I do in Essequibo. (For my non-Caribbean readers, Guyana is divided into three main counties, Demerara, Berbice and Essequibo).
Even now, my brother, knowing how hard it is to get hassar here in Barbados will tell me teasingly of the fresh, big hassar he bought in Berbice and how he is heading home to cook a hassar curry. Or my mother or sister would say, "Girl, we going over by your brother, he just come from Berbice and he cooking hassar curry." All I could do at those torturous times is wish I could partake in the meal.
Of course the best way to eat fish among many things is fresh and hassar in Guyana and Trinidad and Tobago is usually sold fresh in the markets or if you live in the country areas, you can always hear fisherfolk passing by yelling that they have hassar for sale. These days, however, for those of us living abroad and longing for a taste of home, the freezer section in an ethnic supermarket is where we head for such fare or you head to the "fish guy" in the market with the big ice coolers loaded with seafood from back home. I cannot tell you how excited I was to discover my own fish guy here in Barbados. It has taken me this long to tell you about it because I was selfish; I wanted to keep this knowledge to myself. I was proud that I had my own fish guy who could get me hassar right here in Barbados! My, how times and things have changed, you can get almost everything in most parts of the world where there is an immigrant population.
The demand for hassar has always been more than the supply and it doesn't help that some fisherfolk also take the egg-masses from the breeding nests for food thus resulting in the dwindling of the natural stock. Hassar like many other fish is now being farmed and while I understand the need to feed the demand that carries a good market price, I only want to eat hassar when it is in season. What about you?
Cynthia
tasteslikehome@gmail.com
www.tasteslikehome.org

Johnson and the Cascadura (a synopsis)

By Sam Selvon
Johnson and the Cascadura is a fictional short story about a white Englishman, Garry Johnson, who went to Trinidad "to get background material for a book he was writing, on superstition and witchcraft." While there, Johnson met an Indian girl, Urmilla, who worked on the estate where Johnson was staying. The two fell in love. They were from different worlds, he a white, affluent man, and she an uneducated country girl. Rumours of their love circulated and there was disquiet and disapproval.
Johnson decided to return to England. The night before he was due to return, Urmilla brought him some curry cascadura she had made, believing in the folklore that, "Those who eat the cascadura will, the native legend says, wheresoever they may wander end in Trinidad their days."
Johnson returned to England and wrote his book. Three years later, he was diagnosed with a rare blood disease. Doctors did not give him much time to live and so he wanted to go back to Trinidad.
Upon his return, Johnson and Urmilla began planning their wedding. Sam, the overseer who had unrequited love for Urmilla said to Johnson, "So the cascadura legend really worked, and brought you back to Trinidad."
"I can't get Urmilla to believe otherwise," Johnson laughed.
Urmilla was positive that the cascadura had worked the charm.
Sunday Stabroek, July 13, 2008

 http://picasaweb.google.com/Ranlay8/081102GuyanaPart2

Looks very inviting....

Dear Family and Friends of Guyana,

Just wanted to let you know that I wrote an article about our beloved

Guyana. Hope this article brings back loving memories for those of us who

lived there and gives additional insight to others who have heard so much

about our 'home and native land' and come to love it by osmosis. You can

access  the article by clicking on the following link:

http://www.canadianworldtraveller.com/Destinations_&_Articles_Guyana_Fall_08.htm

Peace and love to all,

Greg

Greg James
Editor
Canadian World Traveller Magazine
 

Check the link below for all photos of bridge.

 

http://share.shutterfly.com/share/received/welcome.sfly?fid=25ed4372bf9661d6&sid=8AbOGbNizaNme-

Home sweet home..Sure makes you "want to take a walk"

http://www.motorsportsguyana.com/splashmins.htm

Some videos of our country

Guyana ( Part 1 of 9 )

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iagR5_3ySQY&mode=related&search=



Guyana ( Part 2 of 9 )

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1APdawMn37c&mode=related&search=


Guyana (Part 3 of 9)

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gobhh7HgWWs&mode=related&search=


Guyana (Part 4 of 9)


 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pcr6KemQqW8&mode=related&search=



Guyana ( Part 5 of 9 )


 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nQNkn_D3SiE&mode=related&search=


Guyana ( Part 6 of 9 )

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xul6hhZ-u_I&mode=related&search=



Guyana ( Part 7 of 9 )

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xul6hhZ-u_I&mode=related&search=



Guyana ( Part 8 of 9 )

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E3ylQkwLYGw&mode=related&search=


Guyana ( Part 9 of 9 )

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EB2E1PrAeYE&mode=related&search=

Click link below for some interesting pictures of Guyana.

http://outdoors.webshots.com/album/547959831JAWOCQ

Hi Everyone, I found this to be quite refreshing and at the same time, informative.  For those who have forgotten how real Guyanese talk and who may need a refresher course before returning home for World Cup,  pay close attention to the narrative of the Man from Dadanawa.

Attitude is Everything.

mart'N... "dberbican"

  http://www.jacksonville.com/slideshows/2006/guyana/index.shtml