The Binnenland, The Boy, The Balloon

          “You know Tom, when I was a small boy I used to believe that if I walked through the jungle an anaconda would jump out and bite me. It was a scary thing, but now that I’m older I know that’s silly” said the Surinamese guys standing next to me just before our trek home through the jungle. I wanted to tell him that when I was a little boy I was also scared of the jungle, but still excited by the adventure of it. I wanted to tell him that the fear and excitement was not left in my childhood, but that I carried it now some 2,000 miles away from my home. I wanted to tell him that I was amazed by the beauty around me, but I kept it to myself as we strolled casually from an adventure that none of the following words do any justice too . . .

  My journey to the interior, or binnenland of Suriname, started with an invitation by my supervisor at the center I am working at to travel with her and her husband. I couldn't pass up the chance to see the beauty that so many books had talked about, so of course I said yes. Our journey began by bus, where I had the opportunity to sit snugly between two very “healthy” women for a few hours. I was so snug, that if someone had taken a picture and photo-shopped me out, they could have easily mistaken me with a Catholic school-boy on the first day of classes, my legs tightly together, sitting up perfectly straight, with my hands folded in my lap. Although my legs and neck were soon stiff after only a few minutes, the passing scenery easily took my mind off it. I’ll never forget the “healthy” Surinamese woman to my right looking at the same things as me whispering to herself, “Mooi, so mooi” (Beautiful, so beautiful). You always know you’re in the right place when the people who live there can behold the beauty of what’s around them.

After the bus ride, we came to the end of the asphalt, and the beginning of the water. We would go by boat down the river to our destination. All around, people were bustling, carrying goods to and from the long canoes that lined the water way. Men were shouting commands of what to put where, while fisherman sold their catch from old Igloo coolers. We gathered ourselves and our things, and carefully boarded our boat taxi. The canoes were old, dug-out trees, where the cores had been burned out. You could still see the charred wood at the bottom. We glided along for about an hour while our captain, a teenage boy, manned a small outboard motor with skill that made one wonder if he was born with knowledge of every shallow, rock, and submerged tree beneath the water.

The River

The women in front of me while walking.

We unloaded at a small break in the shoreline, and began our short hike through the jungle. Never have I walked at such a slow pace and garnered more sweat than that thirty minute walk, yet every minute I was transported back to my 6 year old self chopping away through make-belief jungle with my stick for a machete. It was one of those moments that we all need to have some time in our life, where you say, “Where am I, and how did I come to be here?” Not in fear, but just plain dumbfounded in the turns that life takes us in.

The Cabin

         We came to our destination, a small village/camp with a few very small wood cabins that would be our home for the weekend. We were the first people to come and stay here, so each hut was decorated with three small balloons over the entranceway to celebrate the “grand opening.” As the only non-Surinamese person there, I took my roll of sitting and watching without understanding anything around me very seriously. I

Women making cassava bread. 

watched the old women make bread from cassava. I watched the children play and bathe in the creek. I watched a boy come up to me and say, “Hello, how are you.” I watched him run away as I said “I’m good, and you?” I watched teenage boys play their drums. I watched teenage girls be impressed. I watched people sing. I watched people dance. 

         After a few days of watching, I still could not put words to any of it. We were getting ready to leave on Sunday afternoon, so I walked to the creek for one last look at the fresh flowing water and scenery. I saw the small boy who ran away from
me. He was playing with a balloon that he had taken from one of the cabins. He was so enthralled in his balloon that I would have thought him a kid from the U.S. playing with an iPhone. I watched him and I started to wonder, “Where do little boys
who live in the jungle imagine themselves when they’re playing?”

The Boy, The Balloon