Over the river and through the woods ....
like you've never been before.

It all started with a sunshower and the cab coming late. We picked up Christine at the back gate instead of the front and never did tell the sisters how those two slim slices of veggie pizza managed their way into a tupperwware in the fridge. Then there was Wahab, who snuck us into the back of the M&M snackette before it opened and spoke to me about food and recipes for about 45 minutes straight. We arrived to the biggest traffic standstill I've seen at the Parika stelling, and after that finally budged, I gave the boatmen the laugh of the day with the observation that it costs $360 to move myself and my bags from Stabroek Market to Parika (about an hour away) - so how can it cost $500 to move them from Parika to the Stelling (about 700 feet)? They laughed and laughed, as there was no flaw in logic, that's simply how much it costs.

Then it was waiting, waiting under a tarp until the boat filled up, followed by a chilly, rainy trip to the Supinaam sawmills. The Charity boat launch was covered in molasses - everything moved slowly because of the rain. We waited two hours for it to dry. We were supposed to meet Johnny, but were starting to think there was no such person, as nobody came to assure us that we were going anywhere anytime soon. The darkest point was when the rain started to fall again and we realized that it was entirely possible that our luggage and expensive donations left without us. The thought of spending another hour cramped under the awning and assaluted by a flock of flies, Celine Dion pumped to heald-splitting decibels and the random "bong, bong, bong" of empty oil drums being tossed onto the deck to unload ... it was a bit maddening. But we were assertive, and tried our best to laugh at the situation. I even giggled as I wiggled my hips into place between Christine and Eileen, the 4th or 5th person in the row. It was snug.

But after the canopy closed in over us on the river in the speed boat, it was like all the morning madness was closed out and left behind, and we entered the world of the water people. Ancient and infant alike, they amazed me as they paddled their shallow canoes and stared at us as we slowed to a no-wake speed and drifted by. I later understood that it's not to make anyone feel uncomfortable, but more a routine check to see if anyone they know is coming upriver. Then there was the bridge - the hub of river life. The place to see and be seen looming over us as we entered Moruca ... and a different way of life.

Johnny, come to find out, has been laid up these past 7 weeks with a growing crater in his left foot: the result of a certain spiny fish and medical incompetence in town. He has turned to bush healing to close the wound, now that the spines have been properly removed. An older woman comes daily with leaves, cotton, Q tips and a copy of "the way of the cross" or some similarly titled book. She cleans, disinfects, tends, covers, prays and takes a small amount of money until tomorrow. Her prayers are striking. Direct connection, heart-to-heart, with the faith of ages and assurance that God is not only listening, but by her side with his hand outstretched over the same wound, moving and healing. Then there were my girls. Chelsea, Rockell, Glory and her sister, Wanda, and Sylvie (the best curry yet!). There are always caring, wonderful, strong women.

We set up a medical clinic booth at the town day, conveniently happening that same weekend. The event was like a county fair. The venue was a ballfield. The "booth" was made of split bamboo slats and a blue tarp overhead to keep off the sun. It was probably around 90 degrees most of the day with no cloud cover. We checked blood pressure and blood sugar of at least a hundred people. I gave out nearly 300 toothbrushes and bottles of medicine. We checked for pterigyum and glaucoma in the folks who came in (and probably 80% presented with them) since eye disorders are a huge problem in the interior. I just learned this week that my interview filmed that afternoon was on TV last week. People everywhere stop me and say, "I saw you on TV - Moruca day." Many people asked us to come do similar clinics in their villages. I hope our efforts there brought some relief.

Moruca is the area around the Moruca (also Moruka) river. Marshlands stretch to either bank from the small running lane of the river - a haven for birds, fish and snakes of all kinds. Still at sunrise, but for crickets, crappos (frogs) and neurotic roosters. The stars still shine at 5:30, even as the east glows orange and pink beneath the blue. And cool enough for a sweatshirt! I adored it. Every last shred of mist above the reeds, every parrot cackle, every ant bite. I adore the natural beauty. I wonder at the stories of the Miss Moruca contestants (all of whom are 16-19 "years of age": perhaps the "virgin" mentality is still a part of this, or perhaps there simply are not many unmarried women 20 and older?) as they tell tales of shell mounds hundreds of kilometers apart and hundreds of kilometers inland from shell beach, where I would imagine the shells are collected. One, on excavation, even revealed a body under the shells. I am fascinated by the sacred memory of the place, the possibility of wading into it and disappearing, wholly, letting it close in over my head and enter my lungs through my nose and mouth, letting it flood my belly and seep through the soles of my bare feet.

But there is the humanity of it. There are the telltale styrofoam containers floating everywhere. There are the drunk old ladies on a Saturday afternoon dancing - well, staggering. There is the little boy: "show me how you brush your teeth," I say. He lifts a grubby finger to his mouth and exposees the remnants of his decaying baby teeth - BABY TEETH!! And Chelsea, who hears big people talk about rum and 'busing up their wives when they get home, which hits my gut; then jabs with a story of a little girl her age who "used her strength" to take Chelsea's schoolbooks from her; then delivers a strong hook with talk of the boys who threatened to rape her, her cousin and her friend. When asked, she tells me that to rape means, this 8-year-old says, "well, to kill you!" I pray that the boys don't know it's meaning either.

There is the "hinterland hospital". When I visited, the image of an overturned cockroach's shell came to mind. They are awaiting "renovations" from the Ministry of Health. I hope they will not be waiting long. They have 2 bedds in the male ward. One occupied by an ancient man who mumbles as I greet him and oozes blood from his abdomen into a bad on the floor. There are 2 beds in the Maternity ward, unoccupied. There are two beds in the female ward, unoccupied. There is one female patient in a bed in the next building housing a lonely malaria patient. The room currently functioning as a delivery room is down the hall from her. It has no tray of necessary equipment awaiting use that I can see (though perhaps it's stored somewhere else), and on its wall was hastily scribbled, "Ricky sucks boobies". Just how I'd want to bring my child into this world. When I asked about the "artists", the Medex just shook his head. I'm sure that here, bringing a healthy child into the world is enough - one with nothing missing or additional, or cleft palattes, or painfully bowed legs (all of which I saw). Perhaps 10 fingers, 10 toes and a healthy scream drowns out and trumps the glaring graffiti. It all comes down to lack of options, again.

I am wearing the scapular of our lady of Mt. Caramel as I write this. I have been inducted into the cofraternity of Carmelites. That means that they pray for me, and for all the 50-some Arawak, Carib, Warao and Wapishana who also received their scapular and blessing ealy Saturday morning. I had never been to church at 6 before Saturday, I think, let alone walked there on muddy footpaths. I had never prayed the entire rosary before. I had never made an Argentinian priest throw his head back and laugh so hard that his long, stiff beard shook. I had never heard a child cry, "rah rah rah rah rah rah" before, like Christopher. And I had never savored the taste of 14 month old Jamoon wine - strongly sweet going down and delicately aftertasting - to the sounds of chutney, reggae and soca in the jungle, on the riverside.