Flights to Paramaribo arrive just past midnight, if you’re coming from New York, on
the regional carrier, whose seats and operations these days feel overused and over-
worked. There's a nine hour wait in Port-Of-Spain, Trinidad for a connecting flight. To
kill time you might consider venturing out via airport taxi; join multilane traffic under
a Trinidad sun; catch a beach, “eat a food” or, if it’s Christmas, drink a Ponche de
Crème. Take note and measure how close the island has moved toward developed-
nation principles and practice.
The flight schedule alone is enough to discourage the unadventurous from discovering
Suriname, unless you’re willing to stop over in the Republic of Guyana and risk fractious
travel over land, bridges & rivers. You might also need a sense of purpose. A young
couple, college-break free, speaking Dutch, wearing sandals and visiting the former
colony might find it easier to look forward to quiet settings where familiarity breeds
acts of kindness and harmless transgression.
The taxi ride in from the airport past midnight follows a narrow road, headlight-swept
and free of anxiety. Visitors from industrial geographies might be excused for
thinking they’ve entered a country of “sleepy” communities, stuck in time past,
comfortable in village habits; though as you come closer to commercial areas – slowing
for “drempels” (speed bumps) – and gas stations and security-lit buildings, a group of
young men on motor bikes appear, hanging out (it’s Friday night); shiny crash helmets
sitting on small heads, casting them as astral occupiers of night’s dreaming hours.
Next day the radio wakes you with
Sranang talk and sentimental song
which play on almost every station.
It closes you in like elevator doors.
For the rest of your stay and
depending on your circumstances, you
might feel digitally cut off from the
world, or at least temporarily disabled;
though you may or may not mind.
Over morning coffee paragraphs from
the newspapers might leap out at you
showing you how things are done here, [2011 AlphaMax Academy, Paramaribo]
as for example this, from De Ware Tijd,
recently: "The President has often
stated since this government took office that he supports a transparent land policy.
This has resulted in the sacking of Martinus Sastroredjo as RGB Minister after it
became known that his concubine had applied for a large tract of land."
On the streets, under a Suriname sun as bright and brassy as a Trinidad sun, people go
about their business, as elsewhere, in cars and in bubbles, leashed to triumphs and
failings, of diverse race and creed. There are sudden fierce rain showers which stop
abruptly, then skies are clear blue again. If you stay long enough you might hear of
crepuscular activity, a twilight gathering of local spirits or conspiracy webs. Individuals
who otherwise seem educated and informed will swear that, regardless of how things
appear, each resident soul is monitored by unseen forces, by living and dead people.
The outside world has reached over language barriers, and moved deeper inland. The
new consuming China with agreements-to-sign and full steaming enterprise has
bespectably installed its zonal interests. Street blocks, currently home to many
Brazilians, could expand in time and be viewed one day with settled pride as Little
Brazil. In the Paramaribo of downtown bumper-to-bumper “progress” you are where
you dine, or where you shop.
On the plane, early last year, next to my window seat was a Trinidadian (Lawrance G.)
a soft-spoken man with a boxer’s upper body. Looking past 50 yrs, his fingers trembled
as he settled his paper cup of coffee, hinting at a creeping vulnerability. He’d started
working with an oil company soon after leaving high school in Port of Spain. How that
transition straight forward happened he didn’t explain. Nickerie, in an area reportedly
rich in oil deposits, was where he (and a team) were now headed on new contract &
assignment.
He had travelled around the world, slipping on work boots, hard hat and gloves each
day as the company probed and drilled into the earth: to Gabon (the nicest people,
despite miles of deprivation); to Venezuela (the President there cares about the poor,
despite puffed global moments of ad hominem fist shaking.)
Had he given any thought to How much longer, doing this? His body had endured the
rigors of travel and work hazards. What excited him these days, he revealed, was
exploring the working parts of the human body.
He reached into his carry-on bag and whipped out his latest purchase, the iPad. Did I
own one? No? I should get one. The iPad 2, they say, has sharper screen display. To
impress me his fingers brought up for viewing glossy images of organs in the body. He
touch-swiped through the heart, liver, organs of reproduction, inserting his own
commentary and breaths of marvel.
A world of new information, which in all likelihood could extend his longevity, was now
within his reach. And though near enough for pension plan review, he wasn’t thinking
of retiring, not just yet. (Though where – in his hands? strong character? – lay the source
of that span of energy upholding him over the years.)
So what was my business in Suriname, he wanted to know, now that he had shared
information and we were no longer strangers? Why was I going there? To see an old
friend, I told him. And to learn about an event he was planning.
The event was the launch of a book, “Msiba, My Love”, by poet, Ivan A. Khayiat, a
Guyanese educator who lives in Suriname. (The publication launch seems as ubiquitous
these days as the baby shower.)
Khayiat describes it as a “symphonic poem”. It has a coffee-table book readiness –
assuming that books are still welcome these days on coffee tables – with high gloss
pictures and supportive verse revealing the natural beauty of Suriname, and the
ecological damage done to parts of its landscape. And it comes with a companion DVD
of evocative images and soundtrack over which voices, in English and Dutch, present
the poem in heartfelt cadences.
"Msiba" DVD offers ten minutes of shimmering surfaces. It may be much less than a
"symphonic” work, but the launch apparently made for a wonderful, rare evening out
for invitees in Paramaribo. The Government of Suriname, it is reported, has adopted
the DVD & book as a state gift for visiting dignitaries, impressed no doubt by what it
sees as an excellent mix of art photo information and spoken words about the country,
framed by knowledgeable, friendly hands.
Finding brave new worlds imagined by Suriname writers and artists might require a
long stay, some search and enquiry. There is evidence of activity – workshops, art
discourse, exhibitions – facilitated by stakeholders in Holland. A more vibrant, grand
platform for exposing creative talent to residents and visitors is certain to be avail-
able when the next big cultural event, the regional festival for the Arts (Carifesta),
takes place in Suriname in 2013.
In the meantime, Wan Fu Nyun Winti Seti Sranan Bun. So the sharp suits and bill-
boards say. – W.W.
OPHELIA MAROON
Every leaf will return to blaze
sharp green all about me through days without
night (and yet no star shall be
erased.) My gaze is
the same as the sun’s; neither
smile nor frown. My gown of water is all
red and white buds not yet burst like my heart.
(from “Gift Of Screws” by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 