Drunk On Dharma
In Suriname
It was Carnival when I entered the country of Suriname. The broad streets laid empty where I had been dropped by the bus from Guyana. A strange thing considering the celebrations- which I only learned of later that night. I suppose everyone was busy getting ready for the annual debauchery. In hindsight, it definitely made my way across the city easier. What normally takes a meager five-minute commute to a store can scale up to half an hour of a dazing push and shove game across bodies and puddles. So, blessed then, I heaved my bag over my shoulders and wandered towards a group of old ladies; chatting by a patio facing the silent streets. I asked them where one could find cheap accommodation. Around these parts that means a carbé, a shared space where you put up your own hammock; usually with a kitchen, and sometimes a shower. Deciphering through their créole of Hindi, English, and Dutch- aided by the universal sings of body language- they turned me on towards a boulevard where I could find a family-run carbé. I was obliged and gave them thanks by answering some questions they had about me. Then I was off. It didn’t take much time to find, as there isn’t much around, even in this, the capital, Paramaribo. So, after a lengthy stroll, I found Un Pied-À-Terre, where I draped my hammock by the wooden pillars and took a breath to ease into the new country.
The exact time escapes my mind today, whether it was on the first night or the following few, that I met an enlightened drunkard from France, who recently fled the neighboring country of French Guiana (regarded as a French province) and was now staying at the same refuge that I was, presumably for Carnival. I can’t recall his name for the life of me; however, this meeting was an important one that would change the course of the months ahead. Let’s call him Keith, as the Aussies would. Besides his penchant for drinks, Keith was more profound than those shallow wells in which he dwelled. His Bukowskiesque countenance gave way to a mind steeped in Buddhist teachings and an empathic voice. There was something about him that resonated with my own past addictions and unhealthy coping mechanisms. Turmoil and alienation breed a certain beauty beloved by only a few. Those who see the pain behind the vivid pastels and the ecstasy of complete abandon. Let's just say that we understood another. So, we also drank together. We spent some nights wandering the streets, ignoring the lights and laughter of happy gun-hoe youth with their fires and booming blood, to discuss the ashes in which we were sown and raved in. The depths in which we swam with but the light of our hearts for buoyancy, fraying the waves of merciless indifference. Love that had for object no wall or line defined, yet a radiance that was denied by others in favor of riches and power. An innocence that shed like paint under the burning sun of ignorance. Bliss still. Bliss to be an heir of this timeless dance. So, health then, brother, we said, as we toped another cup with the wine of life. Recounting stories of Zen lunatics long passed that consoled a piece of us that could feel the ephemeral bond of a common spirit. KATZ!
What matters it?
Time went by, and as my liver bemoaned the passage of cause and effect, my mind erred to the futilities of plans ahead. I still had to cross two countries to get to the Amazon delta. I was making my bags when a young lady from France, a traveler too, was intending to get to Saint-Laurent-du-Maroni, an old penal colony built by and for convicts of the French Empire; now a town boarding eastern Suriname. Keith caught wind and now with low funds, needed to get back in his country. So, we set out as a threesome. Keith with nothing more than a few meager possessions-namely beer cans. The young lady was a tad out of her waters but I assured her that Keith was well-natured. In her favor, I didn't anticipate what was to come. The two countries are dived by the 612km long Marowijne river, which is crossed with the assistance of a small ferry- with the room just enough for a few persons. Not a problem. What was, was the fact that Keith had no legal bearing or right to be in Suriname. As far as the officials were concerned, he had never entered. You can imagine was sort of troubled water this brought about as we, having taken the normal route toward the port with an official check-point, caused us. Now associated, I saw no choice but to help in the exchange, whatever that might cost me. Keith didn't have a visa to be in the country either, nor a passport. The official was angry and was searching for all sorts of ways to condemn the man. He searched through his belongings and of course, only found booze. Went through my own and then the luggage of the young lady accompanying us. Finally, Keith straight out proposed to pay him off for passage. He had already driven the point that he was French, which was clear enough from his tongue and complexion. That still didn't explain how he got into Suriname, however. So, there were two bribes here. Tensions were high and our driver was getting behind schedule. Audaciously, he himself came around and told the official to take the money, so that he and our fellow passengers could be off. Keith glanced at us- we both knew he had no money. So young lady and I delved into our pockets and summoned up what we had. It managed to be enough. We were off again. Had we committed a crime? Keith tossed me a beer with a hearty thanks. The lady declined and was angry. I on the other hand accepted and toasted to success. Our driver wasn't troubled much. Though he asked that we not drink on his bus. We eventually came to the port and crossed the browned river into ''France'. Keith proved himself a Frenchman, was vocally disciplined and was free again. Meanwhile, the young lady chatted with me concerning what had happened. I defended Keith and also asked for forgiveness on his behalf. She was rather confused by my allegiance but was soft in her words as she bid me adieu.
Suriname martime border.
Keith on the other hand was by my side yet. He knew this place somewhat and together we walked to a carbé on the sea-side. It was owned by an old sailor and his quaint wife. They took us in at a reduced price and showered us with kindness. It was cause for celebration. So, even though I had a contact in town to spend some days before continuing on, I decided to stay for a night, for a last hurrah. Consequently, we went to a store and bought two 24pack of European beer for our selves and our hosts ‘’Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more’’ (Shakespeare, Henry VI). This night of stars and crashing waves was a turning point. Keith shed off some layers of mystique and revealed some recent history. Before leaving for Suriname, he was working with horses for an older woman. Horses who gave him happiness and hope in an otherwise bleak awakening. He went on about this every time he forgot that he had already told me about it. His insistence brought curiosity to a tipping point. So, I asked where this place was. Of course, he only gave me a series of blurred descriptions and insisted I go and visit. I simply must, he kept insisting. I remember how gentle he smiled every time he spoke of the horses, by name no less. Recounting stories of their individual characters and the events he shared with them. He was genuinely touched by these creatures and it showed, radiated even. Now, the squalor heat of coastal Guinea subsided into the tranquil night of Caribbean delirium. The beers were kept cold as our talk grew in heat; a communal fire of spirit and freedom, hushed only by the majesty of the ocean. Tales of grand exploration and bitter defeat, of loves forbidden and tragic losses, remembrance of family, and the erring call for solitude. All shared and all wept, all drank and toasted to the morning lights of hubris- which we could not yet see, but felt the coming. For we were as the discs of fate, thrown by circumstance; masters only of our faith. So it was, all human, before time and her serpentine scribe casts us down under. The rest of the night is forgotten, though remembered in the heart.
The call of birds and their rapid flight and plunges awoke me, still swaying in the hammock. There Keith lay, beer in hand. Myself, in briefs, wandering for an ounce of freshwater. A friend of the old sailor saw my wretched plight and showed me the way to a reservoir, from where I quenched my thirst in gulps that could swallow the sea. The morning went by then, as Keith too put feet to land, and together with our hosts we ate of fruit and partook of our merriment. Soon thereafter Keith departed the carbé, the hosts, and myself. We embraced as brothers and gave one another blessings on the long road of life- that is often too short. This would be the last I’d see his face again. He was off.
Godspeed.
That left me with the choice to continue on under the sun or meet, for a first, the brother of my sister's fiancé's father. A man who, having failed at art, now lived apart of Europe as a teacher of language, of French to be exact. I didn't know exactly where he lived yet. Only that it was in this town. I remembered that there was internet at the grocer's so I jotted up and attempted to give him a call. I tried this many times for two days but I never got hold of him. I alerted said fiancé and asked for some assistance. He later sent me an address- although, he also unable to reach him. An opportunity now became a duty. I had to console the worries of the family. With an address in hand now, I left the carbé with some cheese and animal crackers, knowing only that this address lead far into the outskirts of town.
I walked the better part of the day, rucksack and all, under the dirt path bemired by the sun's intensity. After stopping multiple times at random addresses seeking some confirmation of being on the right path, I had finally arrived without too much detouring, to a two-story wooden hut amid forest and greenery. I went around and up and down searching for life, tapping here and there for a response. I had none. I began to contemplate a well-intentioned break-in after affirming to myself that this had to be the place. Just about then a woman came around the bend with a mustached man. They cared enough to ask why I was about the grounds. Gladly I explained, and in laughter, they welcomed me in for tea- they, the downstairs neighbors; a literary woman from France and a seasoned musical rascal from Italy. Both, old misfits from a continent fled. They explained to me that my contact was most assuredly in town giving classes and that he seldom answers his phone. I was relieved to hear it. Giddy also to have stumbled upon this shack of free-sprits. Awaiting then, we spoke of culture and arts, politics and voyages- in short, all things that matter. The couple was sympathetic to be sure and suggested we have an apéro later that night. Moreover, after hearing of my arduous walk, they offered me their bicycle to wander around and into town at my own leisure, assuming I would stay some days. As our conversations depended and broadened, my target had arrived, wheels squealing and all. A tall madman with black hair and shirt all stained with sweat. We waved him down to come around the table, where amid fraternal eyes we met.
Typical day out with the bicyle.
Gilles was alive and well. He had heard of my presence in Northeastern South-America and relayed a message of hospitality toward me. He brought me upstairs to show me his place and invited me to stay in one of the vacant rooms for as long as I'd like. Along with the bicycle and an open fridge, I took up the offer for a fortnight. I spent my days cycling the town, drinking wine, and reading the French poetry of Tristan Corbière. I also visited the infamous penal center of the old Empire, boasting of the celebrated incarceration and escapee, Papillon. The coastal town gave ample food for thought, and the nights at the hut were warm with shared drinks and meals with the downstairs neighbors. Still, there were over a thousand kilometers before arriving in Macapá, where the Amazon river meets the Atlantic Ocean. So, after a final dinner with these artists, I arranged with Gilles to drive me to the end of town, where the highway stretches eastwards. There I would sit with a beer, thumb in the air, hopes high.
Hitching eastwards, beer and all.
It was atrociously long. The pavement might as well have been melting, but at least I had a rucksack to sit on top. I knew my beer would get warm quickly, hence I drank my spare in quick succession to the first. As cars passed by me, my mind went back to Keith and his horses. Here I was, by myself, once again entertaining a new tangent to undertake. Keith might be gone, but the horses remained. I decided on hitching a ride all the way to the agrarian province of Macrouria, where somewhere, this ranch would be- according to Keith and his swiss-cheese like descriptions. Still, though, I needed a ride some 300km. As the heat rose, I sank more deeply under my hat. Time went by dully as I sang folk songs to the absent wind and unmoving grass. Dusk was coming on nigh when two boys stopped and asked where I hope to be heading. Turns out they were taking the same turns I'd need to take. Kindly, they invited me in, and before a long haul, we stopped at the closest village for snacks and water. The ride was pleasant. The boys were friendly and asked me series of entertained questions in their French creole, which I was glad to answer. A few hours lapsed in the remaining light as we found ourselves ditching the highway for worse and worse roads. Luckily, Keith had given me the name of the road where the Ranch stood; which I shared with my drivers. Almost at random they stopped in the middle of fields and informed me that the road I was seeking intersected with this one, only a few paces from the car. They doubled checked with me and told me that it was a long road and I'd better be sure because they were to leave me here and it was dark now. I nodded in faith and got my belongings before thanking them once again.
The moon rose to her throne as I traded down for an hour down the road; eyes open for signs. A few properties I passed that seemed it could be the place, though they weren't, my intuition assured me. As the moon dances with the clouds above, dozens of howling dogs escorted my dark walk from god knows where. At long last, I came to a scene of a young boy running back into some house, from what could have been a farm. I remember Keith saying that a neighboring local boy came by often. Ergo, here I was- I hoped. Making my way across the lot and looking for lights or voices, I came up empty-handed. No one was there, nor any cars nor nothing. Only horses. I figured I couldn't be wrong. To that extent, I walked over to the house in which the child had run into. I Gently tapped the windowpane where a lady then appeared. Rather shocked to see a stranger in these parts, at this hour. I appeased her by asking if Armane was around, the owner of the ranch. Seeing that I knew her name, she calmed down and informed me that she was in the City of Kourou for the night, and would be back in the morning. I thanked her and ger my name before leaving back for the ranch. It was now quite late and I had committed to a point where I had no choice but to camp for the night. I turned on my headlamp, found some posts under the ceiling, and there installed my loyal hammock, before cooking a humble dinner. So fed, I went to bed in my briefs.
It was dawn when the noise of opening gates awoke me. I leaped out of my nest and quickly put on some pants- but had not enough time to cover my chest before being asked who the hell I was, and why I was here. I searched for my voice among a still drowsy mind and found the sparing reply that I knew of Keith and that he had mentioned this place to me. ''That filthy scoundrel'' she retorted. We were off on a bad start. Apparently, some bridges had been burnt. She asked why I had come then, face angered and all. So, innocently enough, I offered my labor to her. Within half a second she proclaimed stern negation and lack of interest to my person, yet as equally swift, she then paced and asked me if I would like a coffee. Throwback by her sudden kindness, I agreed to have a chat with her. I put on my shirt while she made for the kitchen. Was I still dreaming? The black coffee clarified that I was indeed awoken. We sat on some wooden chairs by the stables. Armane, legs crossed with scouting eyes, myself, amused and gay. She asked where I had possibly met Keith, where I was from, who I was, and so forth. My answers seemed to sway her sympathies to my favor. She was kind, I could tell. Before long she brought up my wanting to work for her. After learning of my time caring for animals caught in the black trade in the Peruvian Amazon, she asked me how long I wanted to be here for, for what rumination. I seemed to have a foot in the door now- coffee in hand to boot. We agreed that I would stay for a month, caring for land and animals alike. About a dozen horses, one wild, and an array of farm stock from geese to ponies. All of a sudden, a dose of responsibility landed on my shoulders. As it turned out, Armane was sick with a degenerative illness that taxed her heavily. I would be, for the most part, alone every day. Now and again, she would come to check up on things and bring me some care packages. This was our agreement we sought to honor. That day she showed me the grounds and animals for whom I would care for. Instructed me on the daily tasks and presented me anew to the neighboring family. So just like that, I became the keeper of the ranch.
I decided to keep my hammock as was, under the ceiling but outside, as this proximity to the horses afforded a constant vigil and safekeeping; seeing as it was an open stable and we were, after all, in the amazon. I only added a meshing to guard myself against the many mosquitoes and other insects. I remember vividly one night when I noticed two tarantulas crawling about the main beam above my hammock. A situation which Armane was quite aware of but forgot to mention. When I saw her a few days later, she asked me not to intervene, as that was where they lived. I had faith in their intentions and together we shared the meager space without complication. The geese were another story, however. True rebels. Always making my tasks harder; stealing the horse's food, biting my ass as I wandered the grounds, and so on. An altercation that often ended in a competition of screams to assert dominance- a long endeavor but an entertaining one that never got old. For the most part, I would wake with the dawn and begin to feed my entrusted mouths, and as they ate, I would drink coffee amid the morning mist, accompanied by the old poems of ancient Chinese mystics. To the neigh of the horses, I got to my feet again, let them loose on the property where they ran freely with elegance. A practice I quickly adopted with them. Running wildly at their sides in sun or rain. Exercising them as much as they exercised me. When not busy with their grooming I set off to the grounds to keep things tidy and in order. Fixing gates, cleaning boxes, macheting the high grass, and keeping the hay stores stocked. Before evening settled us in for the final-colored hours, I set off by bicycle some kilometers down the road- the one which I had originally taken- to a small store ran by a courteous lady. Here I would buy some wine and simple foods for the night. A voyage I took every day at similar hours which, consequently, made her a friend.
Afternoon reading in the bed.
Of course, she wasn’t the only person I would see. As the days turned to weeks Armane and I would chat for long hours about life- hers, mine- the worlds. We became good friends and shared many commonalities. We would sing folk songs together, laugh, and share the secrets of our hearts. Every now and again she brought me to Kourou for a night out at the bistros, or home dinners with her son and daughter. I still remember the quaint cobbled streets of the seaside and the violin playing not far off. I was glad to be here, part of a bigger picture and bringing aid to a woman in need. When at the ranch, alone at night and free of the internet that shackles us so often, I would write profusely the poetry of the wind and the earth that suffused my being. Overall, it was a creative time and one of reckoning. Past values brought to examination in the infinite clamor of silence. A haven foretold by Keith.
“De ferme en ferme, erre le vagabond.
De jardin en jardin, il mange de ses mains,
Noir de terre et de joie.
”
Come what may, as every blue-collar worker knows, incidents are always hidden at the bend. There happened two events that still preside over my mind with awe and gratitude for the outcome. The first was rather mild but could have gone south in different circumstances. I was macheting the grass by the entrance of the ranch and had ventured into the ditch. Out of nowhere a strong piercing burn stung at my leg followed by a symphony. In haste, my eyes cast down their gaze in freight to witness a horde of bullet ants marching their way over my right boot and well past my calf. In a hazed delirium of pain, I sprang out onto the road and flayed my leg in an attempt to remove the boot- now covered. At last, it rocketed onto the gravel- a mass of 1-inch ants. Now running to the house, still besieged, I entered the shower, clothes and all, and poured a heavy fall of water down my enemies. Stripping naked I examined my body for any remanences and heaved with a relief- now only suffering the swell of past wounds. After fetching for my boot, I took the day off besides the core care of my animals. How lucky I was to be close to running water during the event. The pain of a bullet ant is fierce and many have succumbed to the loss of consciousness because of it; which in turn has passed to worse.
The second event was more chaotic still. A day of strong rain set the backdrop. An ex-military who had just arrived that day for a brief internship and I were doing chores when we heard the splitting of wood and the wild rumble of animals in distress. Alarmed, I ran towards the clamor and found the scene thus: our wild horse had broken through his box and three gates to reach our mare who was nursing her foal, along with three older (no longer alpha) males. He was attempting in earnest to mount her. The foal was dumbstruck. The other males, in vain, trying to kick him off. With a loud voice, I shouted to the newcomer as I re-made my way to the stable to grab lassos for him and me. In a sprint we entered the melee, dodging hooves and bodies in an attempt to lasso the wild horse, simultaneously tacking him off the mare. At long last, we both had the strand at his neck and both on separate sides, we put on our weight to his flank and dragged him through a closure- unable to retrace the steps that he had taken. Our plight was not yet ended. Opposite this fence was a younger horse in adolescent bravado. Now both took turns asserting dominance. Jumping the fence, I got control of him and brought him to his box. Then again joining my friend, we maneuvered our way through gates and onto the front lawn, then again to a series of gates that led to his shattered box. Here we roped him to the strongest wood and quickly hammered in planks to secure his box. When all was done, we assessed the injuries of all at play. Besides some minor cuts and frenzied spirits, all was well and the mare did not seem inseminated. We passed the remaining hours under torrential rains repairing all the gates that had broken. My god, what grace to not have been alone. I still do not know how I would have done without the aid of another soul. That night we drank and sang. Little that I knew this man had become a reggae artist preaching unity to the ghettos where he was raised. A fine musician, and a great cook of simple foods. Never did sardines and rice ever taste so brilliant.
My month was coming to an end when Armane asked me to stay for another. I explained to her that I had promised a family with which I had been living in Peru to help them build a community center by early summer. She understood but needed the help and so offered to drive me to the Brazil border herself if I stayed some more time. I accepted and so remained some weeks under the same routine. I began to know the Chinese poems by heart and my relations with the horses grew more profound. I began to understand the smiles behind Keith's talk of the horses. How he remembered all their names, even when drunk. I wondered where he was now. My body had become a clock to the horses’ needs, my intuition grasped their temperament from neighs alone. I would gaze into their eyes for minutes at a time, conversing on topics that language only serves to confound. Laying in the grass they would come, nestled at my side, resting together. Free from the outer world, the ranch had become the sacred navel, the Axis-Mundi.
Mid-day run with some of the horses.
As it does, time went by and before long my bag was ready for the last hours it would share by my side in this country. It was mid-morning when Armane arrived with a friend whom I had previously met. After giving my farewells to the horses and even the geese, we threw my belongings in the truck and jumped in for the hours ahead. Laughing, they asked that I open an ice-box that laid between us. Cold beer and treats for the journey are what laid there. I in turn laughed as I passed one around for each. As we drove the 233km towards Saint-Georges by the river Oyapok, we raved, talked, and reminisced. This was our last feast, and the last time we would see another. This improbable meeting brought about by improbable means. Improbable dreams that seem unreal still. The Unreality that weaves the only meaning we can reckon with. Our lives, empty cups of intentions made.
“With a laugh and glee of eye
The ambrosial path glistens
-But to it, I pay no mind;
And keep my sight to stars
Of firing lustre above.
”
I remember a military checkpoint en route where the gendarmes had suspicions on the state of our minds. Granted, my accompaniers were a tad silly with their manners and inconsistent in their explanations. At last, the prescience of a foreigner en-route to the border eased the gentlemen’s sense of investigation. Somehow it went by without issue, assuming they had bigger fish to fry- probably the poachers of gold and exotic game. It was a casual reminder of the freedom found in these parts of the world. We continued on past the small village of Saint-Georges, winding our way through denser and denser forest. Getting drunker and drunker, until the last couple of kilometers began announcing the border. My friends had planned on driving me over the bridge and into the Brazilian town of Oiapoque. So, mint in mouth we drove on over and stopped at the French border, where I had to stamp my papers. Alone, I walked in and informed the officer of my leave. They looked at me funny as if I didn’t realize something evident. As it turns out, the land border closes on certain days- probably due to lack of staff, or was it a Sunday? Whatever the reason I asked them to sign me out of the country. I would find a way, no matter. Drifting back into the truck I shared the information with my drivers. It was then that one of them remembered the old way into the country which was still used- the canoe.
We made a U-turn on government ground and headed back some kilometers into the heart of the village; parking by the old church where a beer store was conveniently located. Here the lot of us erred the streets towards the riverbank, beer in hand; shades over eyes. We stopped by the beach some minutes where we shared our last cigarette with gazes out to Brazil. As the days' heat shone, we lingered our beers low- letting them warm so as not to finish them. Stretching our words and repeating sentiments. Then it happened. The beer had been drunk and the day was fading. It was time. So, we went down and talked to the local fisherman from whom we haggled a ferry. I let the man grab my things as I took in the last moments. I thanked my driver for his skill, smooth talk, and morale. Then Armane and I embraced one last time as she blessed my road and further voyages, tears and all, making me promise I would stay smart and be safe. She saw me off as I embarked on a small canoe to cross the dividing river. I waved goodbye as my body left the firm ground. Making way to a new unknown- with a chest full of gratitude.
Canoeing towars Brazil.
“Heaven sinks beneath my feet,
Where laid hitherto the stones of fate.
So, roaming on clouds of gold,
I raise my soft eyes to the Zeniths’ yonder;
Wherein I pine the brazen fires
- Of Infinity.
”
