Before we arrived in the Guyanas I had this idea we would get some beach time on the Atlantic coast, a notion that did not seem unreasonable given the population spread in all three territories where the inland areas are dense jungle and everyone lives close to the coast.
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| The Road To Brownsweg |
It turns out in Guyana and Suriname no one goes to the beach and in fact there is no coast road and the reason for this I am told is because the Amazon River spews mud and the Atlantic Ocean hereabouts pours the mud back onto the beach. A Google satellite view of the coast of Guyana backs that view up as unlikely as it sounds. |
| The not lovely coast of Guyana |
So the residents of Paramaribo (“Parbo” to the locals) go inland for water-sports to Brokopondo a name in English that sounds odd but that is what it’s called. We decided we had to go check out this broken pond too so on Friday we did. Rusty stayed home by his choice and we tested Layne’s post malaria travel endurance aboard GANNET2. Two hours out and two hours back on a paved highway through the jungle to see an artificial lake. We left at eleven figuring to get there by lunch time, a meal we planned to be taken overlooking the water and then back by four or five well before dark at six. Brilliant planning which as usual came up a bit short. We never did see the lake but I have a screenshot for you.  |
| The lake as seen on the Internet |
The reservoir was created in the 1960s by the Dutch colonial government to provide electricity for the Aluminum Company of America to extract bauxite and process it into aluminum. The extra electricity went to help power Paramaribo. The reservoir is huge, rated at one percent of Suriname’s entire surface area but 5,000 people were displaced by the flooding and miles of tropical rainforest were lost. Furthermore they chose not to harvest the logs prior to flooding as a result the lake is a minefield of submerged trees, and dead trees sticking up above the surface as obstacles to boating. All of which they are now trying to harvest to make back some money and clear the waters. And we are told the lake is one of the most inefficient hydroelectric projects around as it requires millions of acres of floodwater to produce its electricity. This creation may not have been The Netherlands’ finest hour. We first shot through this intersection below, which had but one tiny faded sign pointing to our destination off to the left so some back tracking was required to get to Brownsweg. |
| The turn off to Brownsweg with no signs |
Trying to find the vast body of water was certainly not our best struggle with exploration either. We did leave Paramaribo with a full fuel tank so we had no worries there in the 150 mile round trip but our research was limited to asking a local where to have lunch and they said there’s a restaurant near Brownsweg overlooking the lake. So off we went. And from the map Brownsweg looked the closest to the water so that was our destination, but it’s not well sign posted at all. I got the distinct impression tourism isn’t on the agenda. Obviously there is a paved road here thanks to the hydroelectric dam and the transmission of electricity to the capital, and locals undoubtedly know their way around as they come here for fun on weekends judging by the boats we saw being towed on the highway. There are no tourists coming here to get lost except us so tough titties if you don’t know where you are going.
But we made it to the right area probably because there is only one road. Power pole work underway at the district boundary: Flat tire country:
There were a couple of broken bridges requiring brief dirt detours. They brought back fond memories of crossing the Amazon basin in dust and mud but the gravel didn’t last long.
Bridge broken; no repairs so handle it is the message. I assume the country’s leaders don’t enjoy water sports or I guess the road would be repaired.
We got to the town of Brownsweg population 5,000, with no idea what to expect, and we should not have expected much. We took a quick tour to look for the lunch spot overlooking the lake but despite our effort at following what looked like the major street through town we ended up totally lost. It looked like this below on the map.
We came in past the restaurant, “Brownsie’s Eat house” the only one in town, and drove to what looked like the main road headed to the lake, depicted as a thick gray stripe and on the ground it looked like this:
The commercial hub of Brownsweg, not at all what I expect in Suriname but it appears the indigenous Maroon population is as abandoned here as rural indigenous are in other countries elsewhere.
This is the main road to the lake? Okay then, in we go with our giant van.
No idea what this is, possibly a church, possibly abandoned.
The big building ahead was a supermarket, the first I’ve seen in Suriname that did not appear to be Chinese owned.
It was clear we weren’t getting anywhere and the road became a track that barely fit the Promaster.
Heading back to the main road and the eatery for lunch, lake views be damned:
We had no other option so here we stopped. We spent twenty bucks and it turned out to be excellent. I had Indonesian Nasi Goreng (fried rice) Layne had Indian chicken roti. The orange thing is a boiled egg with a spicy coating which Layne gave to me.
The owner was solicitous and helpful and spoke perfect English thank god.
The roti bread always comes with manioc flour inside and I don’t know why because it makes a mess and gets everywhere and adds nothing to the flavor. Aside from this cultural oddity the food was delicious even as left overs Friday evening.
Fortified we decided to have another go at finding the damned lake. The second road started out better but it soon deteriorated into giant potholes that reduced our speed to walking pace. It was three pm by now and it was clear we had to turn around to get home to Rusty before dark. So we did. There was a small fly in the ointment however, and we noticed it on the way out. It happened that we passed a police checkpoint but they were only checking vehicles on the way back to Paramaribo. As we passed on our way to Brownsweg it suddenly occurred to us we had forgotten to pack our document pack with our passports and GANNET2’s temporary import permit and insurance. Well hell. I had my drivers license and credit cards but that wouldn’t be what they want to see. We were screwed.
All I could think was we’d get a ticket or a request for money and a lecture. We shrugged our shoulders and figured we’d have to take our medicine when the time came. Maybe they’d have gone home by the time we drove back through the road block.
No such luck, there they were stopping a logging truck. Quick I thought, maybe they’ll be distracted. No, we slowed and he walked to the passenger window because drivers are on the right hand side of the car in Suriname. Here goes nothing I thought. I hate not having the proper papers and not being ready to meet the bureaucrats head on.
Hi the cop said smiling. Everything good? Fine we said. Have a great weekend he said. We drove on.
Sometimes god looks after drunks and fools and we certainly weren’t drunk.
Deeply rutted melted asphalt was turned into channels by truck tires. Some drivers drove on the right just to avoid them. Layne in the passenger seat took this picture: How we didn’t scrape I don’t know.
Closing in on Paramaribo.
Friday afternoon lines of traffic in both directions. Ours seemed marginally faster going in to town, as you’d expect.
Gratuitous Rusty picture, he does not miss van life.
Thank god the cab had air conditioning for the hour long drive to the international airport sensibly located in the distant suburbs where residents don’t get their conversations drowned by passing aircraft, one of my many pet peeves about commercial flying. 
I know Key West airport has been modernized and improved to handle the millions of passengers vacationing nowadays in what was once an eccentric destination, but Paramaribo is not following suit with the modernization theme so I got to enjoy a small taste of my past in an airport designed for maximum inconvenience serving what is in reality a very small capital city. Security couldn’t find enough bins to keep the line moving and the people in charge of the electricity kept losing it, as though the electrical energy was a cat hiding under the furniture. Now you saw it, now you didn’t. 
I had two hours to sit so I sat and observed the Hard Rock Cafe never lost power. Either they had a generator or better cat wranglers. The public address system was only in Dutch, spoken at extremely high volume by someone with a peculiar falsetto voice. I heard my name called syllable by syllable at one point and I waited patiently for instructions in English. None came. Oh by the way if you need to fly with fresh vegetables they are for sale in an enticing array in the departure hall after you pass through security. 
A fellow bi-lingual passenger helped me out and I got my passport scanned and I continued to sit watching the lights go on and off. I was reading a novel of Scotland by Peter May about murder and salmon farming and shooting stranded whales and other uplifting subjects so my mood was as you might expect, when I was also faced with eight hours of sitting in a box far from Layne and Rusty and GANNET2. 
Verizon reminded me my madcap journey was complete with a second message in a day from their international service. 
“What is the purpose of your visit?” the immigration officer asked in that Celtic brogue native to the Highlands. “My sister’s getting married in Ullapool on Saturday,” I said. His eyes lit up. “Oh” he said. “You’ll be having a grand time then,” as he handed me back my US passport.
Well yes except of course…
