of a man native to this environment, while I
stumble around like a drunkard in a library.
As well as the unending worry of
stepping on one of the spiders, my eyes feel
overwhelmed by my surroundings. Some
of the larger trees are being inexorably
devoured by termites, with ghost leaves
hanging from dying boughs. There are spiny
palms that could easily cut open my arms
and burrowing ticks hanging from sticks,
eager to feast on the next passing beast.
There are more benign sights, too — mosses,
ferns, vines, roots, fungi, new growth, old
growth, some things withering, many more
thriving — but it certainly feels hostile to
me, and itting that this kingdom should be
ruled by giant spiders.
Eventually, we ind one of these fat
terrors outside its nest, its green-black
form seeming to drain what little light is
piercing the canopy. Perhaps exhausted
ater shedding its old skin, it’s in no mood to
move. I’m in no mood for it to do so. As well
as having a ferocious, poisonous bite, the
goliath has the ability to shake loose hairs
from its considerable legs, which can irritate
the airways and skin of would-be predators.
We take what photos we dare before
returning to the river and I feel like I’ve come
up for air ater a dive that’s lasted a bit too
long. From here, we’ll begin our journey back
to the lodge, but en route, staf meet us on
a large, sandy riverbank, where they set up
tables and chairs so that we may dine under
the stars.
Lodge manager Dickie Alvin is there too
and, while a ire is lit and the meal prepared,
he talks to our group, a waxing moon
illuminating him from on high. “In our irst
year, we had just one single visitor and the
local community wondered what we were
doing,” says Dickie, who’s been involved
with the project since the start. “The next
year, it was three, then suddenly we had 18
Americans visit at the same time. When
the children from the village saw them, they
ran away. I had to explain that they were
our friends.”
Rewa now attracts around 200 visitors
a year (Dickie says he wouldn’t want that
igure to exceed 400). This is thanks
largely to its impressive roster of fauna:
giant otters and jaguars, as well as
the extraordinary range of birds and
disturbingly muscular spiders. Lagoons
of the main river are also home to gigantic,
endangered arapaimas, surface-breathing
armoured ish that have been the focus of
local conservation eforts.
“People who come here from diferent
countries love to see what we have,” explains
Dickie. “Now our community understands
how important our environment and
resources are. The income helps our
communities, especially the school.”
As Dickie is talking, I notice that the chefs
preparing our dinner are cutting of bits of
the sticks holding a large peacock bass
above the ire. As the lames dwindle, they
shorten the sticks, rather than add more fuel.
“I get asked if I want to expand, but more
buildings and more boats would maybe scare
away the animals,” Dickie says.Tides of change
At the 2.5-mile marker on the dusty road to
Surama Eco-Lodge, there’s a sign that reads:
‘Development is a Human Right It Belongs
to Every One’. Throughout the rest of my
time in Guyana, I oten ind myself thinking
of that sign, and not just because of the
curious grammar.
Surama was one of the irst eco-lodges
in Guyana, and it’s oten championed as
an exemplar of the concept in these parts.
During our visit, it’s receiving a major
refurbishment of its main buildings — a
telltale sign of how well-established it is.
We head next to the nearby Makushi
Cultural Village, originally built as part
of a ilm set. Today, community leader
Glendon Alicock, his extended family and
a handful of adolescents from Surama
village, use the place to demonstrate fast-
fading Amerindian traditions. There’s no
doubting the sincerity of their project, even
if at times feels a little kitsch — the cultural
displays include some singing and dancing,
during which many of the embarrassed
teenagers look like they, too, would like to
shed their skin.
Later, while some of the youngsters grind
cassava into lour, Glendon regales us with
stories of killing a jaguar that had come
into a family home, and explains from
which birds his extraordinary headdress is
assembled. “I’m a real child of the forest,” he
says with unmistakable pride. “I was born
out here, not in some sophisticated hospital.”
Glendon is content, too, he says, with how
this cultural preservation project is going.
“For a time, all of our grown youths were
gone, but now these young ones have stayed,”
he explains. “I think our culture is comingAmerindian villagers
demonstrating traditional ways
of life at Makushi Cultural Village106 nationalgeographic.co.uk/travel
GUYANA