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As a
white protestant Canadian of Scandinavian heritage, my natural
sense of rhythm is predictably impaired. Like many of my white
friends, my dancing is an exhibition of comedy for onlookers. But
while living in Paramaribo, Suriname, a six year old boy in the
jungle taught me what it was like to truly “dance like nobody is
watching”. Let me explain.
The
canoe slid gracefully into the muddy groove worn into the bank
from a thousand other launches and dockings. Though narrow and
overburdened with gear, our canoe had easily and solidly navigated
its way through twenty miles of the Upper Suriname River. Our
friend Nesta had invited us to join her for this weekend trip to
visit Jaw Jaw village where she had to transport some supplies to
the chief. It was to be our final expedition in this amazing
country as our unforgettable time in Suriname was soon coming to
an end, and we would be off to our next assignment.
Nesta
was originally a client of my wife’s as she had done some website
development for her travel business. She soon became a good
friend of ours and showed us an entirely different side of
Suriname from what we had seen on our own living and working
there. Nesta was kind hearted, friendly, and extremely
knowledgeable and well connected in the community. Of course, we
were thrilled when she asked us to accompany her on a trip she was
making to the tribal Maroon village of Jaw Jaw on the Upper
Suriname River. The Maroons are the descendents of the runaway
African slaves who were originally brought from Africa to work on
the plantations owned by the Dutch colonists in Suriname.
We
were met at the shoreline by a hundred white eyes and a thousand
white teeth. The naked village children gathered anxiously on the
muddy banks to greet their friend Nesta and see what she had
brought. To their surprise, amongst the gasoline containers and
crates of supplies in the canoe were two foreigners staring back
at them with interest.
We
clumsily lurched our way out of the skinny dugout canoe, nearly
falling into the water, which I would later discover was full of
piranha. Nesta led us up to the village and showed us to a small
cabin which had been constructed for guests of the chief. After
dropping off our bags, Nesta took us for a walk through the
village, which consisted of 2000 people and almost as many huts.
During our walk, we visited some of the older ladies making
cassava bread and were offered samples which were lacking in much
flavour but had a most interesting texture. The villagers
communicate together in their native language but many also speak
Dutch, a leftover from colonial times. We also learned that men
are allowed to have several wives, but in order to take on a new
wife he must build her a hut and buy her a set of dishes. The
wives each sleep in their own hut but cook for their husband in a
communal kitchen. I’m sure this system would work just as well in
North America as long as there weren’t any sharp knives around.
After
our walk, we spent the afternoon swimming with the village kids in
the river as well as fishing for piranha in the same water which
seemed rather risky to me, but unlike the children, at least I was
wearing swim trunks to protect the dangly bits.
After
dinner that night, which Nesta and her friends prepared, we
gathered in the main village hut for a special treat. The local
band from a few villages away would be there to play traditional
African drum music. It seemed that the whole village turned out
for the event. As one would imagine, there is not normally a
great deal to do after dark in the middle of the jungle. The
village did have an electricity generator they used to generate
light until 8pm but for the show the village chief authorized the
generator to be used until 10pm to keep the lights going for the
party.
The
band consisted of five young boys, each playing a different sort
of drum. The music began with one drum, one rhythmic, pounding
drum. It was then joined by another then another joined in and
soon all five drummers were furiously hammering their
instruments. The beat infected all who were there, but the first
to respond to the call of the drums were four little boys who
looked to be six or seven years old. It was one boy in particular
who kept me entranced as he worked his jiggy across the wooden
floor boards. He appeared to be the youngest of them and was
dressed in what looked like blue pajamas which immediately
conjured images of Hugh Hephner. That amazing little boy was
throwing down moves like I’d never seen before. His feet moved
together in small jumps as his body and arms pulsed to the beat of
the drums. He moved around the floor to the music, but without
actually moving his feet, he almost seemed to hover as his body
throbbed to the sounds. The other boys were also amazingly
rhythmic but it was this one boy who held me entranced. Before
long, we had joined in the dancing and I did my best to emulate
the smooth moves of the jungle boy and felt in my heart that I had
somehow been possessed by the beats, controlled by the jungle
rhythms, overcome by the spirit of Suriname and completely
conquered by the magic of the Amazon.
In
retrospect, I’m pretty sure I just looked like an epileptic
chicken.
Many
skills can be studied and learned. I believe that dancing
cannot. But every time I find myself dancing, I think of that boy
and wonder where he might be and what he could be doing at that
moment.
And I
hope in my heart that he is dancing. |
