Crossing the trip-trap bridge at Marshall Falls
Resolute motoring back down Essequibo River
After our somewhat lazy sojourn in Tobago it took some effort to rally ourselves once more (!). Our passage to British Guyana was to take about 5 days. Including the first part of Essequibo River entrance it was going to be about 400 nautical miles. Of course to the Atlantic sailor (moi!) this is not a mileage to be challenged by. However, the likelihood of the wind direction being from ahead of our course was high and this impacts on our comfort during the voyage (i.e. we would be healed over – making everything on board more difficult). From the comfort of Tobago, when we factored in the amount of current against us (about 2 knots in some places) as well as the wind direction we were beginning to question the sanity of undertaking the voyage at all! However, the Guyanas were beckoning us and the other rally participants were gathered (including the 23 foot Yarmouth and a US catamaran with 2 young children aboard)..so bottling out was not an option.
With our misgivings safely stowed away along with our fresh provisions (tomatoes) and part-baked-easy-to-complete meals, and even a home-baked apple cake we set sail one fine September morning. We knew the first day of the trip would possibly be the most taxing as it was necessary to stay as hard on the easterly trade wind as we could in order to have good clearance from the Trinidadian oil fields and then a good angle to bear away a little to the Essequibo river entrance, British Guyana. Although the Atlantic trade winds are always from the east, crucially for us they also have a variable amount of south and north in them too, along with the prevalence of the annoying and sometimes violent thundery squalls. No amount of forensic weather forecasting can predict these small variations. Hence, it is necessary to go with the flow – taking the variations and using them to your advantage….which is where our friend Harriet proves her worth. Remember her? Our trusty, sensitive Hydrovane who, once enabled, can steer to the wind without us needing to put a hand to the wheel. Once up and running once more she gladly took on the task of steering us as close to the wind as possible. For the duty bow-watcher it is slightly disconcerting as Harriet moves the bow a little sideways to port and then a little sideways to starboard to find her course and the ‘course over the ground’ instrument shows a course variation of about 30 degrees at times but once the sails are balanced she happily sorts it out. The proof of her good works evidenced by the crosses we plot on the chart every two hours. Clever girl!
Needless to say then, the first hundred miles or so were not terribly comfortable but good progress was made and we were soon leaving the heights of Tobago behind us and seeing the jagged outlines of oil rigs on our starboard side. The sails of the other yachts who had set off with us began to fade in to the distance and once again Resolute was alone on the blue ocean.
What can I say about the rest of our journey? It was a mixture of pleasurable time in sunshine and full sail -albeit living at an angle and in full bounce almost directly into the 1-2 metre swell. Like old pros we soon got into the swing of the 4-on and 4-off watch system again: strange and somewhat lonely at first (for the Mate at least) to be in the cockpit alone and with the seemingly onerous responsibility of keeping Resolute sailing correctly. However, over time it became second nature again and those hours alone with only your own thoughts for company became something to be almost relished, especially under a wonderful canopy of stars and nearly full wondrous moon. Truly soul-stirring stuff. Of course there were also times when we could have happily not been there. There was the occasion as we were tantalisingly close to the river entrance, the sun having just set (at 6.30 p.m. sharp) and we found ourselves surrounded by black clouds which in turn turns the water to an ominous heaving grey; suddenly increasing winds and the distant but nonetheless distinct bright flash and rumble of an approaching thunder storm. There was no escape so into it we plunged, reducing sail as we went, in the full knowledge we were going to get very wet and very blown. And so we were of course – and the squalls did not seem to abate for hours that night. As soon as the relief from one was felt the anxiety of the next was visible. Once under dark clouds of course there is no comfort to be found from stars or moon. Exhausted Skipper eventually took his leave of apprehensive Mate to have some sleep below. Several hours later he heard the plaintive Mate saying “… the wind has just increased from 8 to 28 knots……I have reduced sail…anything else I can do?” In translation Skipper realised he had languished long enough below in taxing conditions above and he should lend his moral support and decisive presence to the long-suffering Mate on watch who, he sensed, was at this very moment examining the small print in her contract of employment aboard! His interpretation was correct.
That horrible squally night behind us, with much relief we approached the river entrance. Now please do not imagine this was a river entrance where both sides of the bank were in close proximity. No, no this was vast and wide with swathes of rather unattractive brown tea-coloured fresh water gradually camouflaging the blue clear seas. Our relief at having arrived at last at the outer reaches of the Essequibo River was tempered somewhat by our navigational doubt s. There are many dire warnings on the trusty Admiralty charts about this area – basically warning that any buoyage is not to be trusted and that the river has not been officially surveyed since Guyana became independent. The good news was that instead of the coral we had become used to navigating through and which could easily gouge a nasty hole in the hull, the danger in the river was merely a grounding in thick mud. Thus we made our way very cautiously up the wide brown river, glimpsing buildings at last on the low-lying land and wondering about the life-style of these English-speaking inhabitants…the only ones in South America. The tides too in the river were something of which we needed to be constantly aware with a 10 foot tidal range making some of the river impassable to us at low water. More by luck than judgement we had arrived at the mud bar some way up the river (the shallowest part) at highish water making it easily navigable. The only indication that some parts of the water was very shallow indeed was some withy sticks helpfully placed to ward off wary sailors and on which to hang fishing nets of course.
On our chart we could see there was an anchorage place just off the first island in the river mouth. Safe in the knowledge that the ocean part of the sail was now behind us and that we were at last on South American soil, we ‘slung our hook’, celebrated with a glass of wine and a supper eaten at the cockpit table off proper china plates and sunk into a deliciously still and long sleep. The next day saw us catching the tide to continue up the river to the Rally boats designated anchorage off the mining town of Bartica. With the wind behind us we were able to augment our speed with a little headsail too – anxious as we were to reach Bartica before the ferocious tide turned against us. Skipper had put careful waypoints into our chart-plotter to try to avoid the shallow mud-patches, but with no recent chart data available it was all rather ‘seat of the pants’ navigation and at one point we did gently ground but were able to reverse ourselves off, try a slightly different approach and make headway again. The other great obstacle along the way was fishing nets – everywhere. Innocuous-looking small local fishing boats threw out huge nets around about them the edges marked by little white floats barely visible to the naked eye and the end of the net marked by a little flag. Now it was obvious why we had been warned against sailing the river in anything but good daylight. We passed little shanty huts on stilts, old plantation ‘antebellum’ mansions, set as high as possible (none of the land was very high) on the river bank with grandiose lawns sweeping down to the water’s edge. Aloft a couple of small islands called Two Brothers stood a beautiful modern mansion complete with a water-sifting system which apparently provided not just fresh water but gold particles. We later found out that Two Brothers is owned by the soul singer Eddy Grant…..who originally hails from Guyana.
Now we could see Bartica ahead and carefully made our way to the assigned anchorage just adjacent to the town. Two other Nereid’s Rally yachts were already there. As it was a Saturday and nearly sundown we assumed we would not be able to clear-in immediately but we were soon informed on our VHF radio that we were expected by the customs and immigration officers ashore who had come to work on their day off particularly to check us in. We hurriedly prepared the dinghy and motored ashore…..excited at the prospect of our first experience ashore in South America. We had to find a convoluted route on to dry land from the ferry dock which involved a walk along a wall and over a plank , but we then found ourselves on Bartica’s high street with bustling shops and businesses doing good trade. The main street was little more than a dirt track with no pavement to walk on meaning cars mingled with people who in turn mingled with the dogs who roamed freely and even a cow walked past. Trying not to be too distracted by this first glimpse of Guyanian life we focused our minds on finding the Police Station on the corner which looked as if it had not been updated since Queen Victoria was a girl. Copperplate-written signs at the main desk informed us when the prisoners could expect their meals! We were gratefully directed to the Immigration office further down the dark stone building where we were warmly welcomed and swiftly cleared in and directed over the road to Customs which was in an office above a take-away. All proceeded smoothly. We were told where we could find a bank from which we could draw our Guyanese dollars too and having done so we treated ourselves to a local beer in a roadside bar. We sat back and took it all in: dusty roads; many signs stating ‘gold bought’ which we now realised was not referring to that misshapen ring or bracelet in the back of your drawer, but gold hewn from rock or sifted from the river bed; very different facial features – the tawny skin and slightly pinched eyes that told us, if we were in doubt by now, that we were now in South America. Bartica felt like our very own English-speaking cowboy/gold-digger frontier town…but without any of the associated hostility – just wide, welcoming smiles and waves.
The next few days saw us joined at the anchorage by other rally boats whilst we further explored Bartica. The treasure in the otherwise pretty basic but colourful town was the market. All life and produce were here in abundance. There was no hard-selling just an anxiety to shake our hands and load us with more produce than we could possibly eat – very different river fish; huge prawns, all sorts of meats roughly hewn into cubes (bones ‘n’ all); but most gratifying of all was the huge supplies of fruit and vegetables in colourful array the like of which we had not seen since leaving Europe.
When we were all assembled it was time to move on as an official arrival ceremony and other festivities awaited us back down the river where the ‘resort’ of Hurakabra sat on the river’s edge in post-colonial splendour. The colonial theme was further exemplified by the owners of Hurakabra who,we were soon to learn, were as much a large part of the political and cultural heritage of British Guyana as their forefathers had been. The banners were put up across the trees on their sloping lawns, glasses were filled, high brow introductions made (“this lady is the wife of the next Prime Minister”)and then the speeches began. The Great and the Good from Guyana’s emerging tourist industry –national representatives from on high alongside those from Region 7 where we were currently based. Then there was some Big Announcements from our host at Hurakambra Kit and from the organiser of the rally David. There was to be built downriver a yacht marina and boatyard – in fact the training of those individuals to work in the yard would shortly be underway….this is a proud moment for the country to welcome Yachtees and a sure sign there will be more to follow……. As the applause rang out on that lawn we realised that to some extent we were just pawns in a much bigger game. David was himself instrumental in this project and Kit and others assembled had financial and political stakes in this project and we were the evidence that it could and would be a success. No pressure then! Optimism was the only permitted stance of the day and it was made clear that misgivings were not to be tolerated (e.g. the fact that the river was not properly charted and buoyed).
On the next two days we were all treated to river trips courtesy of the Tourist Authority – to the Marshall rapids – where, during the white knuckle ride in our little passenger boat, I was definitely mistaken for someone who enjoyed water sports. Wrong! The Marshall Falls were reached by about an hour’s hike through the dense rain-forest and once at the diminutive falls we were able to cool off under the falls themselves. Along the way we passed big barges with dredging and sifting equipment constantly churning up the river bed…sifting for gold no less and completely busting any imaginings we had of scraggy desperate men panning for gold. One of the original tribes of Guyana before the British came were the Karaow. We were taken to their village where an annual fair was being held. Behind all the razzmatazz we were able to glimpse some of their former culture and lifestyle and of course taste their hooch which was definitely a taste to be acquired over centuries! More socialising followed the next day with a beach party at Hurakabra the tickets for which had been bought for quite a sum by members of the public who were inquisitively dinghyed out to our boats for guided tours to see just how we lived aboard our vessels. To most of them it was a complete world apart and we were asked time and time again what had possessed us to leave our homes and do such a thing! Other guests included diplomats, political activists and potential sponsors for David and Kit’s dream project.
9 of us opted to blow our budgets and take a trip to the famous (in these parts at least) Kaiteur Falls on the Potaro river. This involved another boat ride, then a minibus to the air-strip on a road which was definitely more holes and darn than sock and then a light aircraft (lighter than I at least had ever flown in) over miles and miles of dense rainforest which my friend Deb aptly described as looking just like broccoli. I was sat next to Deb for the nervous flight up to the Falls because when the pilot had asked who would like to sit in the co-pilot’s seat (as there was none of course) Colin had his hand up first. Why are you not surprised?! After about 45 minutes in the air we got our first glimpse –wow! The pilot circled us round and round descending as he went for every perfect angle before landing on a little air strip at the HQ of the Kaiteur National Park. We were met by our smiley guide who informed us we would first be walking through the forest to see the falls from the furthest point in the park, followed by a further three vantage points each getting closer and closer to the waterfall’s actual precipice. Along the way he told us that the Kaiteur Falls are nearly five times the height of Niagra, with a drop of 228 metres and are a massive 100 metres wide. Unlike Niagra, Victoria and the Iguazu falls they are surrounded by unspoilt rain forest and what was most amazing and terrifying to us was that one was able to stand right at the edge…..only a little sign stood there to politely ask you to consider your mortality and stay back a tad. The treks through the gladed forest in the steamy heat and the gasp-making views of the Falls as we emerged was something we will never forget. Superlatives don’t cover it……but awesome and spectacular come close. At last we found ourselves right at the actual fall – where the wide, meandering unsuspecting river suddenly lost its grip and plunged into the depths, foaming and roaring as fell. Rainbows shone through the spray – just to add to the magnificence of the picture. Back to the plane we trudged musing over the natural wonder we had just encountered with inadequate praise before flying back over the miles of ‘brocolli florets’ towards Bartica. This time we were landing at a little airstrip attached to the Baganara Resort – a beautiful terraced lodge house surrounded by guest cabins and rooms in the most tranquil of river settings. We discussed with the Manager if it would be possible to anchor in the river in front of the resort and he promised us a warm welcome if we would ever did so….a promise which we have kept in our back pockets for our return trip towards
Hoisting the Guyanan courtesy flag
Eddy Grant’s retreat on Two Brothers islands, Essequibo River.
Bartica, High Street.
Ex British Military 4-tonners being used to ferry supplies to the mines.
Sifting for gold – the modern way!
Normal Guyanese river life.
Colin et al under the Marshall Falls
Hurakabra
Parrots in the trees in Hurakabra
Gilly on tourist boat!
Our plane
First glimpse of falls
The legend of the Falls – nasty!
The Falls
The Falls
Us at the Falls
rainbow
Baganara Resort
Trinidad and Tobago once the Rally has finished.
Thus Nereid’s Rally sailed back downriver and bade a sad farewell to British Guyana….Surinam was waiting for us about 2 days sail away.
resolute-en-voyage 