Given how popular my travelogues have proved to be, with myself at least, I have decided to treat you all, but chiefly myself, to another.
At the time of writing, I am in Cyprus. This is a little depressing. There is nothing much wrong with the place. It is warmer than Sweden in winter, which was the main point of travelling here. But even off-season, there are a lot of people and precious little nature.
It does have its points of interest, so I may return to it later when I am back home in Sweden and relatively immune to reprisals. For the moment, I would simply point out how strange it is that a country which has so often been invaded against its will should have recently invited in most of Europe in the interests of tourism.
For the moment, I will turn back the years to pre-pandemic 2019.
Heart of Light
Guyana is not on everyone’s bucket list. Indeed I have only ever met one other person that has visited the country. This is in itself one of the main reasons it attracts my interest. And even though it is a smallish country, it’s sparsely populated. Most people live on the coast. We intend to spend as little time as possible there. It is also poor and undeveloped. This is all very promising.
Other than that, I know little about the country. Obviously it used to be a British colony. I know this because I went to school and was informed the place was called British Guyana. I remember the country’s most famous son, Clive Lloyd, batting for Lancashire with lugubrious contempt for bowlers. And I recall that the government sometime in the 1970s offered its hospitality to an organisation called the People‘s Temple, whose leader Jim Jones founded a community called Jamestown before changing his mind and poisoning its inhabitants.
Apart from all that, the country is a mystery to me. I don’t even know why the British wished to colonise the place.
So rejoicing in our ignorance, sister Janet, niece Mary and I set off for the country by way of Barbados and an outrageously expensive sandwich at Bridgetown Airport, and arrive in Georgetown. I guess some king called George founded the capital, or changed its name in his honour. Which leaves the question of Bridge. No kings of that name come to mind. Whatever.
Someone is there to pick us up. His name is neither George, nor Bridge, and especially not George Bridge. He is black as Clive Lloyd and called Colin. He doesn’t say much but he has a nice smile and takes us to our lodgings. This is called Rainforest B&B, which is a very jolly name for a hotel, even if it is in the middle of a very shabby town. It is run by a beautiful woman called Saïda. She looks like Michael Jackson would have looked if they’d got the surgery right, and she is Indian. By this we mean from India and not a member of one of the many indigenous peoples. To avoid confusion, in Guyana she is called an East Indian. There are a lot of them in Georgetown.
So (East) Indians and Afro-Caribbeans. Excellent. A real melting pot.
We are to stay here a couple of nights before heading for blanker spaces. The only downside is that Saïda owns a lot of dogs. I mean a real lot, and they do what dogs do all over the place.
Next day our bird guide calls for us. He also looks E. Indian but is called Carlos. Carlos Ali, it seems. Even more exciting. Whatever else he is, he’s a great guide. Colin drives us all to the Botanical Gardens through a patchwork of shanties and mansions of faded elegance. The mansions are on the point of falling down but look much better that way.
The same can’t be said for the Botanical Gardens. These, Carlos tells us, are a popular place for picnics. But not so popular for gardening or litter collection. Never mind. The birds don’t. Mind, that is. The place is as popular with parrots and toucans as picnickers. There’s even a manatee in what looks like a drainage ditch. I’ve never seen one before. It looks like someone stuck a hippo’s head on a seal’s body. It doesn’t look happy, but then it’s hard to see how it could. At one point it almost hauls itself onto the grass. Carlos explains it is begging for food. We give it some grass. It probably wanted some Cheez Doodles.
This all brings my wife to mind. Not that she looks like a manatee. But she likes Cheez Doodles. I wipe away a tear.
On our return to the B&B we are met by two reps from the local tour firm. Supria is Indian of the Eastern kind. Shalome is stunningly beautiful and looks oriental. This place is a regular world in microcosm. The reps are most attentive to our needs and explain our itinerary in detail.
The next item on the itinerary comes in the afternoon when we are taken back by Colin to the airport for our trip to Kaieteur. We are flown out to a landing strip in the middle of nowhere, along with a small group of tourists in a tiny plane. There we meet up with the very Lone Rangers of the National Park in their very lonely Ranger Station. They do not look happy at being so far from the action.
But they escort us to the main attraction. For most people the Falls are the only attraction since they are the highest single-drop cascade in the world.
But we are here to see the birds too. Our efforts are held up slightly by a very old tourist, dressed in a navy three-piece suit that like him has seen better days. We take pity and walk with him until the effort becomes too great. Then tear ahead. I take in the falls and am impressed. Then look down and take a step or five back from the edge. It is a long way to fall. I regain my debonair man-about-town air a little when we see the birds. The middle of nowhere is also a lek for the Guianan cock of the rock, a preposterous bird about the size of an overfed chicken. It is bright orange in colour, has no discernible neck and bears a crest that looks like it’s been fixed in place with hair spray.
These males (the females are more modest in appearance) are gathered round the edge of a clearing right next to the falls. By all accounts they should all be squawking and displaying their plumage in an avian Mr Universe contest. Instead they look bored, and in fact a little spaced-out. I suspect there is marijuana growing in the area.
We make our way back to the ranger station to claim our lunch (it is our second one) and attempt to find out more about the solitary life of a forest ranger. The old man in the suit dominates the conversation. He is happy to inform us that he is travelling the world in an effort to leave nothing when he dies to his worthless son. I do not know what his son has done to offend him. But I am also seriously tempted to offend the father. The man shows no interest in where he is going or where he has been or who he has met there. But claims to know all there is to know about anywhere, whether he has been there or not.
Examples:
‘Goa? I know it well. Southernmost tip of Spain.’
‘Scotland. Well done in shaking off the colonial yoke and getting independence from England.’
When we get back to the B&B I take a shower. This is interrupted by screams of panic and appeals for help from Saïda. I rapidly rinse off and put on, and rush out to save her from the cad that is threatening her honour. I have been anticipated by a young fellow called Charlie. He is also staying at the lodge with a couple of friends, though his presence remains an enigma.
At this moment he is nursing one of the dogs. Somehow, the creature has managed to pierce an eyelid through a strand of wire that is attached to an immovable object. The dog is howling. So is Saïda. Charlie remains collected. Perhaps he is a doctor. He has a great bedside manner – with dogs at least. He untangles wire and eyelid and Saïda drives off with dog to the vet’s. I drip water onto the floor.
Next day the adventure begins in earnest as we head upriver, even if we’re not entirely sure which one. There are a lot of them.
Leaving the bulk of our luggage at the lodge, we drive to the airport, stopping en route to pick up some booze. I buy half a bottle of rum and a cigarette lighter and get change from $5. This is turning out to be my kind of country. We still manage to get to the airport in good time. We need it. Not only is our luggage weighed, but so are we. Are they sending us up in a hot-air balloon?
If so, we will have company. The small waiting room is crammed full and un-air-conditioned. The plane is delayed. But a trio of Afros keep us entertained. They have waged war on a vending machine that refuses to cough up. The discussion takes them into a critique of technology in general. They play to the tourists (us) by translating everything they say from Creole into Standard English. Eventually a member of staff helps them out. The fact that the assistant is female only confirms them in their technophobia.
Once we are sitting comfortably on the plane, the pilot lists the number of stops. This is literally an airbus. Our destination is Fairview. He mentions this last, so there should be no chance of us missing our stop.
We fly over endless stretches of pristine rainforest and a deep brown sluggish river, punctuated only occasionally by illegal gold mining on the banks.
Before long, the plane begins its descent, then lands on a strip of grass surrounded by trees. The pilot proudly announces Fairview. We gather our things together and scramble for the exit. It turns out the custom is to give lists in reverse chronological order here. There has to be a moral in that somewhere.
We’re met by an Amerindian driver, who looks like a scaled-down Sumo wrestler, and a young light-skinned Afro from the coast called Leroy. He will be our guide for the remainder of the day and the next morning. He shows us to our cabins, which overlook the Essequibo River. Then we lunch in the Fred Allicock building, wondering who Fred Allicock might be.
In the afternoon Leroy takes us along the trails at the back of the ranger station. He insists we must have target birds and refuses to start without us naming them. We provide a few likely candidates and hope the species exist in Guyana. He then assumes blinkers and disregards any life form that isn’t on the target list. As for the targets themselves, he plays back endlessly from his phone in the hope that one will appear. We eventually track down a sorry-looking capuchin bird. No reflection on the bird or Leroy. All capuchin birds look sorry. And so would you if you looked like a desk ornament.
After dinner we set out on a night river tour. Leroy terrorises a flock of roosting swallows and a potoo with his spotlight.
Early next morning we boat upriver. The boatmen helps Leroy out by pointing to birds. He translates their names into English. We moor up and head off on a trail called Turtle Mountain Walk. We don’t see any turtles but we climb the mountain. At the top we gaze down on rainforest as far as the eye can see. The mobile reception is good here, so Leroy heads off on his own to socially mediate. As we sit on the bench provided, a couple of king vultures fly across in line with our eyes then circle back. As vultures go, these are amongst the largest and most beautiful – black and white with a rainbow of wattle on the face.
Suddenly a small falcon soars up from the cliff-face and chases them off before wheeling back in triumph. High drama! Has Leroy stage-managed this?
A little later he re-emerges from the undergrowth and solemnly escorts us to an orange-breasted falcon perch, which we only make out by curving our spines to the horizontal. We tactfully point out that we had a much better view from the top while he was away. Equally tactfully, he chooses not to hear this.
Back at the ranger station we have lunch and are given twenty minutes to shower and pack. Luckily we have not much body surface between us and few belongings with us.
Next on the itinerary is Atta Lodge. We are to travel there by ‘road’. If ever a road deserved inverted commas, this is it. It is basically an extended clearing through the forest. It is unsurfaced, or rather the surface consists of the red clay of the earth. In most places it is all rut and pothole. We pass some weary-looking Afros working on the road. Sisyphus must have been laughing his rocks off.
A little later, we come across a minibus that has sunk deep into the mud produced by the night rains and spend some time towing them out. This is the main road between Georgetown and Lethem, the largest town in the south. Luckily there is very, very little traffic. This rapidly becomes one of the most attractive features of the interior. But we can see why many prefer to fly.
Much later we arrive at Atta, a few small cabins in the middle of a garden in the middle of the jungle. Here everyone is Amerindian. Ryan, Delon and Kendrick insist on taking us up onto the canopy walkway before darkness falls and we collapse. It is pouring down. But they have a scope and are very helpful. We see birds here we are never to see again. We are also never to see a scope again.
Before dinner, I wander over to the dining room in search of a beer. Kendrick emerges seamlessly from the shadows. He is clearly a skulker. Audrey is the cook and Callista the server. The food is good and the banter even better. I fail to see why everyone (to wit, Graham Greene and Evelyn Waugh) describes the Indians of the region as devious, lazy and unreliable. They are the most equable and honourable people we meet on the trip. Delon eats with us and smiles at my jokes, or perhaps is amused by what we consider to be funny. We are apparently due to meet his father later down the line.
We spend the next day and a half wandering the trails. The weather is wet but the birds are wonderful. Cotingas, jacamars, fruitcrows, trumpeters and lots and lots of hummingbirds.
We carefully give a wide berth to what Delon claimed to be a fer-de-lance snake on the way back to the lodge. It is smaller than I imagined. Or perhaps this is Delon’s idea of a party trick. The snake is lethal and deserves the benefit of the doubt.
They have been very welcoming. I suspect they may be bored. They don’t appear to get many visitors. But I love this place. It is beautiful and so are our hosts. I seriously consider moving in.
But Surama awaits. And our next guide, Marvin, picks us up to take us there. Ricardo drives. We stop en route to take in a potoo roost and another spaced-out cock of the rock lek. As we enter the village, a tapir crosses our path. We look at each other. Then at Marvin. He is looking at his phone. Ricardo takes it in his stride and doesn’t even stop.
Surama is another Amerindian community, with the emphasis on community. We stay in traditional round thatched cabins, seriously in need of interior refits. Palm tanagers use my wash basin as a toilet and generally resent my intrusion.
Offbeat names are popular here too. Marvin’s aide-de-camp is called Ravon. Perhaps he is named after the Buddy holly song. Marvin’s hair takes its cue from the unkempt thatch of our cabins; Ravon’s is rockabilly on speed. His quiff flies off violently to the side, threatening to take his head with it. More Flock of Seagulls, really. He smiles a lot but says little. Marvin says a lot about everything except birds. He is a lovely bloke and a hopeless guide.
Next day we visit a harpy eagle’s nest. Sadly the bird isn’t home. On the way back Marvin checks himself for ticks and flaps at mosquitos while we keep an eye out for birds.
Back in the village we are taken to the local primary school and kindergarten. Not usually my favourite pastime. We have come to see wildlife. But the children are sweet, like children in Europe used to be. Wide-eyed and enthusiastic to try out their English, despite not understanding ours.
We find out they nearly all have the surname of Allicock and assume they are thus related Fred. It turns out the Allicocks are ranchers that married into the local Makushi tribe and bred prodigiously.
After lunch we head for the Borro Borro River accompanied by Marvin and Ravon and three paddles. After a hike we get there to find the boat has been ‘borrowed’ by local fishermen. Never mind, there is another one in a mile or two. It turns out to be half-submerged so Marvin and Ravon gamely bale out for the next half hour.
Eventually we set off down river. It is heartbreakingly beautiful – a small creek flanked by willowy trees – the sun casting beams and shadows through the foliage. No sounds other than the flutter of wings and the plash of paddles. I think I see the stunning agami heron. Marvin confirms. I suspect he was on his phone again and is just trying to please me.
Back at base, we squeeze into the thatched cabin that serves as kitchen pending the completion of the new communal dining room. The deadpan cook provides a wonderful vegetable dish with a cassareep sauce, made from bitter cassava, and takes pleasure in explaining how one small step in preparation would render this lethally poisonous. They have small bottles of rum for sale in the kitchen cum shop. I buy one for prophylactic purposes. I drink it with Mary outside the mud huts. This is getting to be a very pleasant routine.
Next morning, we are picked up by Ryan and Kendrick and taken to the next stop down the Georgetown-Lethem Highway – Rockview Lodge, where we are shown to our rooms by the English owner, Colin Edwards. The rooms are good – terracotta style cabins with a mezzanine level and an extra bed in case I decide to breed while here. The grounds are well laid-out but neglected, as are the feeders.
Cassius, Delon’s dad, shows us further round the neighbourhood before we head for the main house and lunch. There we meet the only tourists we’ve met in the interior – a German couple, called Hans and Heike along with their guide, Andre. They have arrived after a tour of Suriname and are very pleasant. I would like to get to know them better.
Instead, we get to know Colin better. This is unavoidable. He constantly interrupts to advertise his own glorious career. This consists chiefly of his construction of the road from the capital – not something I’d have boasted about, charming though it is. In any case, it is difficult to picture him with a pick and shovel. So I guess he had help.
Sadly, he seems regularly to forget what he has just told us. So each mealtime, the torture is repeated. Andre suffers most. Colin seems to hold him personally responsible for the breakdown in the ferry service over from Suriname. He demands Andre take this up immediately with the relevant authorities and inform Colin (immediately) of the result.
Reassuringly, it turns out Colin is a committed socialist, although he feels the welfare state has gone too far and treats his staff like servants.
Next morning we are offered a choice of activities. We opt for a drive out to Moura Bridge and the savannah with Cassius and Colin’s son, Georgie. (Colin: ‘It’ll do him good. Had terrible problems. Psychological, you understand. Give him a chance to learn something about birds too.’)
We see lots of birds: raptors, cuckoos, jabiru stork. Both Georgie and Cassius can identify them all. On the way back to lunch, Cassius agrees the afternoon schedule with us. Then another parody of a country house table manners with the increasingly dejected Germans.
I enjoy a siesta.
When I awake, my sister tells me, between sharp intakes, that Colin has been looking for me. In my absence, he reluctantly told them that there had been a terrible mix-up, due to shortage of staff, lack of reliable transport, unfortunate double-booking, us not following our own itinerary etc. To sum up, none of this was his fault but would my sister be so good as to inform the head of the party that our bird guide will be accompanying the non-birding Germans on their own walk in the Pakaraima foothills.
I decide Colin is a very brave man, saying this to my sister. Or possibly an extremely stupid one.
We hunt up Colin and get him to get Georgie to take us up the road to somewhere called Cabadi Bash.
‘Not sure he’s up to it though,’ he adds. ‘Bit out of practice,’ he adds, tapping his temple with his forefinger.
The Bash turns out to be a creek with a few birds on it, including a sun grebe. We’re happy. So is Georgie.
Early next morning it’s our turn for Cassius and the foothills.
On our way there we come across a figure sleeping the night off at the side of the path, then a little farther along someone who has decided not to sleep it off. It looks like he is trying to beg from us in a pathetic and half-hearted fashion. Cassius softly dismisses him and tells us he was a policeman but was sacked for corruption.
As we climb, Cassius assumes a tracking position, crouching low as if to steal up on his prey. He doesn’t put his ear to the ground. This is a pity. But we still see some lovely birds, including a spectacular trogon.
On our way back, he apologises for the mix-up the previous day. ‘This shamed me,’ he says. We point out it wasn’t his fault. At breakfast, Cassius surprises us all by saying the same to Colin. The Man Himself decides to misinterpret this. He apologises for the state of the trail. So difficult to get good help.
He is the only English expat we are to meet on the journey. We mentally congratulate Guyana on its independence.
After breakfast we’re picked up once again by Ryan and Kendrick who drive us out to Ginep Landing, where Karanambu guides will pick us up in a boat.
We look down at the water. Doubtfully. There is no quay, only a patch of mud at the end of an overgrown creek. Nonetheless, Kenneth and his son Gordon arrive fairly punctually wading through the water to bring the boat up, so we don’t have to get our feet wet. We bid Ryan and Kendrick goodbye and are rewarded with affectionate hugs from Kendrick and a huge grin from Ryan.
The idea of us not getting our feet wet is immediately scuppered (nautical joke) by Mary being asked to get out and wade as we negotiate the shallows. Before long we are in the much wider and deeper channels of the Rupunummi and head for the final lodge of the interior area. Here we are in the Deep South and not far from the border with Brazil.
We moor up close to the lodge, which in this tail-end of the wet season is still surrounded by water on all sides. As we arrive at our accommodation, I hear the sound of a squeaky toy being squeezed repeatedly. I turn my head and see an enormous (1 metre-long) baby giant otter bounding towards me like a concertina on heat. It stops a few metres away and inspects me then turns its head towards its minder who is pursuing it. In the meantime, Janet and Mary peep out to see what all the noise is about. Eventually the otter loses interest and is led back to the pound from which it has escaped.
At lunch we serve ourselves from the buffet, then have to guard our plates carefully to prevent them being removed by the young Amerindian girls that wait on us. At the end of the meal, they remove the crockery with an air of triumph, one plate at a time. The food is awful.
Late afternoon, Kenneth and Gordon boat us out to a lake covered with giant water-lilies. As the sun goes down, we drink rum punch and watch the lilies open very gradually to allow small scarabs to enter and germinate them. This is my kind of decadence.
We’d been told we’d dine with Melanie, the wife of the owner Edward McTurk, who in turn is the nephew of the famous otter lady, Diane. But she is delayed and we eat in eerie silence punctuated by strained conversation with sweet Sheryl, one of the waitresses. The insects abound, hardly held at bay by the 20% deet supplied by the lodge. Luckily we have our own stronger supply.
We get up early next morning to travel out to the savannah in search of a giant anteater. Because of the season, we have to drive to the water’s edge, park up, boat a short distance through overhanging branches, moor up, then get into another vehicle to drive onto the plains.
While frenzied radio-messages are exchanged, I get bored and wander off in search of birds. I nearly tread on a nest deep in the short grass. I call Kenneth over and ask. This turns out to be the nest of some kind of tapaculo, which sounds rather rude given what ‘culo’ means in Spanish. It’s a small bird apparently, and very rare. Guides and drivers gather round. I feel very proud of myself. Perhaps I am a real birder after all. I wonder what the bird looks like. I‘ve never heard of it.
As for the ant-eater, we luck out, although I manage to see the arse (culo) of a sun bittern on the way back.
Later we boat out to another bird lake, colonised by hundreds of egrets and herons including an old favourite, the boat-billed heron. Highlight is a duet from a pair of donacobius, thrush-sized birds in pastel colours. They wag their tails in time to their exuberant song.
Finally we have some company at dinner. Melanie McTurk has arrived. She is some kind of mix, though it’s difficult to figure out of what exactly. It’s probably more than two. She is very smart and articulate and gives us the lowdown on the political shenanigans in Georgetown. They sound much like political shenanigans elsewhere though they seem easier to avoid here. This maybe has something to do with the infrastructure.
During the night there is a tremendous thunderstorm. Bleary-eyed, the next morning we renew the search for the anteater.
This time the vacqueiros have managed to locate one and radio in the location. They corral it with their horses and drive it towards us. We get a grandstand view of the poor creature as it careers right past us. This is a mighty guilty pleasure.
At lunch Melanie tells us of the damage wreaked by the storm. The office has been flooded, boats submerged, vehicles disabled. And they are expecting a party of German tour operators and travel journalists to arrive for a BBQ dinner.
All efforts are devoted to rescuing the situation before they come. So we spend the rest of the day playing hide-and-seek with the young otters and looking for birds that don’t want to be found. As darkness falls, we make our way back to the lodge through nighthawks and bats.
Then the bloodletting begins. After the storm, the sandflies are out in force. By the time we make it to the barbecue they have gathered an army. We meet the Germans, eat some more awful food and swat and scratch as if we have St Vitus. By the time the meal finishes, a couple of the Germans have retreated to their rooms in tears and streams of blood. I’m not joking. These bloodsuckers are the most vicious insects I have ever come across. I bear the scabs for weeks afterwards.
Next day it is time to leave. The service has been poor, the food worse and the insects a plague. We’ve had a great time.
Kenneth and Gordon boat us up to Cayman Lodge where we link up with a driver called Alfonso. He takes us to the nearest airport along the usual rutted roads in a car with an automatic gearbox. He accelerates and brakes all the way to Lethem.
We have some time to wait before the flight back to Georgetown. So we walk down to the bridge that leads over the river into Brazil. Back on the plane, most of the voices we can make out are Portuguese. The theme continues when we are picked up in the capital and driven back to Rain Forest by Dennis ‘the Menace’, a scruffy Portuguese with a great line in local gossip. He tells us Saïda is known as the Dog Lady by those that matter. Apparently she once rescued the Prime Minister’s dog from drowning.
In the evening Mary and I feel like tasting some Caribbean cuisine, so we trek out along creepy poor-lit streets to a cafeteria called Hot and Spicy, where I eat black-eyed beans and pouri along with a suspiciously-coated egg. The others have curry and mountains of rice. The waitress is beautiful, so we are charged tourist rates.
When we get back to our lodgings, a meeting is going on. We are dragged into so we can be taught something about Guyanese politics. There is an election coming up. It turns out this is why Charlie and other young people are staying at the lodge. They are advising one of the party leaders.
It turns out the political parties are divided along ethnic lines: that is, Afro- versus East Indian. So is the discussion. We stay for an hour, but I am little the wiser after listening in. Though I’m intrigued why one of the parties (I never find out which) should bother to hire Brits fresh out of university. Especially when revenues from the recent huge oil strike are at stake.
Needless to say, there are no Amerindians present at the meeting.
Our last day is once again spent in the company of Carlos and Colin. Early in the morning, we drive out to what looks like an irrigation canal but goes by the name of the River Mahaica. There we link up with a local East Indian who takes us out in his boat. We manage to track down a bird I very much want to meet. It’s called the hoatzin, or ‘Granpa Stinkie’ here. It is a prehistoric relic, looks like a permanently startled turkey, and is (endearingly, since it really is ugly and smelly) the national bird of Guyana.
Back at the lodge we are visited by Shalome and Supria again who want feedback on our tour. They have been very attentive. Given the almost total absence of tourists in the interior, it may well be that we are their only customers.
Carlos returns and takes us out for the grand finale. We walk through the market to a jetty where a number of boats are moored. These are for hire as a cross between water taxis and ferry boats. Carlos gets one for us and the pilot takes us out around the bay. He seems bemused by the request. I guess if you see this every day you take it for granted. We don’t, so we are enchanted.
Come sundown, flocks of egrets and more importantly scarlet ibis fly in to roost in the trees that line the northern end of the bay. As the light fades, they look like brilliantly coloured Christmas tree baubles.
The day of our departure is Friday 13th. This should have told us something.
We wait outside the lodge for the taxi that Saïda ordered the night before. It doesn’t come. Then it still doesn’t come. In the face of impending disaster, I do my usual impression of a catatonic ostrich. Mary rushes back into the lodge and phones for another. We get to the airport with 5 minutes to spare.
On transfer, we have half a day to fill in Barbados before the flight to London and have booked a short tour. We wait on a bench. The tour car doesn’t come. Then it still doesn’t come. A funereal but very helpful taxi marshal phones through and the local company disclaims any knowledge of the booking. So he fixes for a taxi driver to take us out to a place of interest, drop us off and pick us up later. We visit an interesting botanical garden, have a meal, get picked up and arrive back at the airport in good time for the flight.
Good time means another meal before we go through security.
We eat, go through security then find the flight is delayed by five hours. I engage in some emergency retail therapy at what must be the most expensive airport in the world. Then we go the gate where we are given vouchers for a meal. We chase around using the vouchers to buy a year’s supply of confectionery, then board.
And that was it. The silver lining was that we got our money back for the missed tour, and for the delayed flight.
So Heart of Light? Well, we went deep into the jungle in one of the least developed countries I have ever visited and met with some of the most beautiful birds and some of the nicest people I have ever come across. Most striking was the almost total absence of tourists.
At our final meeting, Shalome and Supria asked us to sum up the holiday, I replied it was the best trip of my life.
God only knows what the oil strike has done to the country.
But it still makes my heart light up to think of the place.
Many thanks to sister and niece for the lovely photos.
Letters from Sweden 