By Marvin A. Hokstam

SIPALIWINI–Having just undertaken the three-hour drive to Atjoni and the enchanting but butt-numbing boat ride over the wild sulas to the laid back Maroon village of Pingpe three hours further up the Upper Suriname River, a four-hour hike through the thick rainforest wasn’t exactly what I wanted to do. It was Saturday and I wanted to sleep late in the comfortable cottage in the resort and then be static in my hamock looking out at the river for the rest of the day. But since I had signed up for a “back to basics” trip way up in District Sipaliwini, “backing down” was terminated from my vocabulary; I went along.

Next I knew I was marching hill up and hill down, climbing over fallen trees, and balancing on makeshift bridges spanning sweet water creeks. No complaints from Udo and Ute, the adventurous German couple that went along for this hike with our quiet guide Chapeau. Chapeau’s strides never wavered and he kept on telling us pleasant stories about the areas we were hiking through, the various uses of medicinal plants we encountered, the names of the trees we saw and of the wildlife that dashed off in our wake. But one hour into the grueling walk in this thick green, with little rivers of sweat meandering down my chest, left and right didn’t exist anymore; by the third turn I had lost my bearings and my legs had gone on auto pilot. My calves were mouthing inaudible screams of torture, and I started to get annoyed with Chapeau, because the hike didn’t seem to come to an end. I wanted to yell at him:  “What the hell are you taking us so far into this jungle for. This place where we’ll spend the night at better be worth it.”

And it was. Big time! Chapeau’s Anyumara Camp where we would spend the afternoon catching fish and the night under the open skies watching the stars, made up for every time I stumbled on the path, every torn that tore into me, and every blister on my pinky toe. It even paid up front for the three days of muscle ache that would follow. The Back to Basics tour to Pingpe is about eating what you catch and enjoying the places you can reach; definitely not for those who aren’t down for some adventure and rather laze around the poolside of a posh five star hotel.

KINGS

I was there through an arrangement with my friends at Chetskeys who were carrying out a project to gauge how visitors experience the various tourism resorts in the country. The options had been to either take a 40 minute flight to Djumu and then paddle back, or go by bus to Atjoni and then onward to Pingpe. “Who would want to fly?” I asked when the options were presented.

So on Friday morning I hopped on the minibus for another adventure, leaving the reality of busy Paramaribo in town. It took a while to get going; the driver had some stops to make. Pick up a package at Saramacca Straat, get ice at Molenpad, gas at Sol, and some woodfixtures at Indira Ghandi weg.  It took a whole hour after we set off, before we were really on our way. With the Afobakka road now paved and the ride smooth, I slept for part of the three hour drive to Atjoni that followed.

At this bustling village at the far end of the road, I saw how much tourism in this remote area is in an upswing; dozens of European tourists were being herded into boats upstream, their pale skin like specks amongst the smooth dark skin of the Maroons that have inhabited this region since their ancestors fled slavery in colonial days and started villages here. The true conquistadores of Suriname, hunted like runaway cattle, they penetrated deeper and deeper into the rainforests. No outboards, no cars, RVs or GIS mapping tools. Just bare ingenuity and an instinctive will to survive in a new land they were shipped to beyond their own will. Their descendants now rule here with a subtle grace.

As our boatman took us to our destination, conquering ferocious rapids with huge boulders hiding just below the surface that would spell doom for anyone who doesn’t master the river, I found renewed respect for these people yet again, for these Kings of the forests, Masters of the rapids. Chattering incessantly with his friends in the back of the boat (Ute called them human waterfalls) he had crossing the river down to a science.

The consistent availability of Digicel’s Blackberry service notwithstanding, Paramaribo, 300 kilometers away, quickly became a vague recollection; the clean air that blended with the fresh scent of forest that enveloped the rivers, certainly took care of that. Udo, the bespectacled German tourist turned out to be an atmospheric physicist who couldn’t help himself. “I must tell you that even though the air smells so fresh there are little particles in it that are not so healthy for us,” he said. That would be one of the two times during this trip that I wanted to scream at someone in my hike party.

PINGPE

Tourism here is definitely taking flight, albeit still at infantile stage; almost everybody who owns a piece of riverside land now builds cabins to lure tourists. The cottages range from comfortable to bareknuckle primitive. Pingpe tourist resort is smack at the middle of the two extremes, consciously so because its edge is back to basics.

The resort, comfortably nestled among shady mango and coconut trees on the left bank of the river, shares its name with the village Chapeau was born in. Perched high up on the right bank of the river, Pingpe is home to a few dozen people. Time almost seems to have taken a pause here. A former guide for METS, Chapeau started the resort in 2008. “The people wanted this; they wanted to share their lives with visitors,” he relates. It does indeed look like the entire village is involved in the operation; the cottages, an open kitchen and dining area are built on the spot where back in the day villagers used to gather to celebrate Suriname holidays.

Several Pingpe women have roles in the business. The friendly Amoni who serves up wonderful meals, the happy Sandrien who just loves to dance and the bright Cornelia with the long legs, are at the resort daily keeping guests company; the stoic Caloetta who refused to talk, and the cheerful Akesi and Magnolia who sang church hymns all day, went ahead into the forest to prepare the camp in the forest. And beautiful, beautiful six year old Isini with her big brown eyes and captivating laugh stole all visitors’ hearts. She certainly stole mine! The infatuation was instant, and mutual.

No wonder business has been steady from start.

One could easily go up to Pingpe and just stay there, move only when necessary … for instance, to walk down the stairs to one of the big boulders in the river for a bath. And there certainly are enough of those virgin mid-river beaches all around, that could rival any beach in the Caribbean, and make you want to go run around on them for a while. Even if just to know you left your footprints on them.

NO CLICHE

But Chapeau obviously put some thought into not making the Pingpe experience a cliché. The Back to Basics experience is a winning element. To walk among what nature has designed and the Maroons have left nearly undisturbed for centuries, is truly humbling. The sentiment of being dwarfed by the magnificent, gigantic Kankantrie, or to bump into a mysterious green frog; poisonous and rather elusive. Or  to drag a two-foot anyumara from a narrow stream that looked like it could not be home to more than a few sriba and the occasional krobia. I started to understand why Chapeau is so calm.  

In fact, I learned at Chapeau’s basecamp that all the hype about Turkey’s nibble fish that eat dead skin from people’s feet, is not overrated. Here, if you sit still in the knee-height, clear water, tiny fish come and nibble at your feet too. People should know this!, I thought. Why travel all the way to Turkey, when right here in Suriname you can also get this micro-massage nibble fish therapy?.

I’m notoriously scared of cold water and the creek water chilly, I went brrrr at the thought of swimming and chickened out at first; but eventually I found myself stretched out on my back on the granite creek bed, enjoying a wondrous moment of nothing, water softly crashing against my shoulders, fish nibbling at my feet. Udo soon joined.

Of the scientist who on the way to Pingpe wanted to discuss the atmospheric composition of the air we were breathing, there meanwhile was little left; the new Udo sat next to me with his eyes closed, thoroughly enjoying every second of that moment when the only thing in motion was the water. In fact, this time it was I who said something stupid I am sure he wanted to scream at. “I hate cold water,” I bitched, and he wise-manly responded: “Right now there’s not a thing I can think of that I would hate.”

I am sure he was only partially joking when on Monday on the way back to Paramaribo he told Ute: “Let’s buy a piece of land and stay here …”