When I’m speechless (fortunately that doesn’t happen very often now, does it?) I’m forced to borrow lines from my favorite writers, praying to the gods of plagiarism and all clichés to forgive my trespasses, as I forgive those who trespass against me (debts are another story). But Paramaribo is a traveler’s dream- one of those little unwashed gems tucked away in the farthest recesses of the globe’s folds and hidden faults. I stress the term ‘traveler’, as in ‘adventurer’, as opposed to the typical ‘tourist’, who might find Suriname’s offerings lacking in cache’. For all the world’s amazing cultural heritage sites and assorted architectonic treasures, most tourists are just looking for a sunny beach and some multi-colored cocktails at sunset, maybe a show or two to spice things up. True adventurers are looking for the ‘real thing’, life as lived by locals, though preferably in a state of exalted bliss. Suriname is one of those great unknowns, a question mark on the map, like Madagascar or Ethiopia or Cambodia or Yemen or maybe even Tunisia, awaiting discovery. With the exception of Tunisia, these places are not particularly easy to get to, nor necessarily easy even once you get there. Their pleasures are more subtle and you need some time.
I’ve been daydreaming about Suriname for years, enticed by the ethnic mix, but put off by the presence of a local dialect called ‘taki-taki’, which I assumed- wrongly, it turns out- to be some sort of pidgin (i.e. bad) English, destined to follow me around like some fart that just won’t go away. Mea culpa mea culpa mea culpa mea culpa hail Mary hail Mary hail Mary hail Mary. While Taki-taki, aka ‘Sranan Tongo’, is technically considered to be an English Creole, it goes back to the earliest days of colonialism and, unlike Jamaican or other Caribbean creoles which usually can be partially deciphered, is a complete mystery to me even when written. Unlike many other bilingual countries where languages fall within vertical lines separating different ethnic groups, the line between Dutch and Sranan Tongo is a horizontal one separating at least educational, if not social levels. In a country comprised of large percentages of Africans, Javanese, East Indians, and even some Amerindians, Taki-taki is the language of no single one, but of all. Still Dutch is the language of government, education and commerce, and educated native-born Guyanese, many of whom have been to the Netherlands, will speak it amongst themselves.
The big linguistic surprise in Suriname is that touts and hawkers will bark at me in Dutch and not English. This is especially surprising considering that English is widely studied and known, though outside of the rather small ‘tourist zone’ not likely to be used at you, unless you stand there at the cashier dumbfounded for more than about ten seconds. It’s also testament to the very low level of tourism here and the high percentage of those who are Dutch. I know this because for about the first three days I used nothing but the international lingua franca. That’s about my limit. Interestingly, though any counter help can take your money in English, those who actually speak it tend to speak fairly well, and this does NOT necessarily follow class lines. Now I’m studying Dutch, since I like the place and have a five-year visa. This is interesting, since I’ve never studied a Germanic language (except English) and, except for Frisian, it’s the major European language closest to English. The goal is to have a conversation in Dutch before the week is out. Whatever, I’ll survive. I can always try Bahasa with the warung people or Mandarin with the Chinese if I get desperate. Hunger speaks every language.
Oh yeah, then there’s the Chinese. Their presence here is out of all proportion to their numbers, as it is elsewhere also. I don’t remember the phenomenon of the ‘Chinese grocery’ in my early years of travel in Latin America, but that could be my fault of memory, or it could be that they’re multiplying in exponential proportion with China’s new economic clout. They were certainly mentioned in the book ‘The Mosquito Coast’ and they certainly like keeping business in the family as much as possible, so new realities ‘back home’ could have a huge ripple effect (interestingly Koreans will even go places that give the Chinese pause, like Guatemala City and South LA). But here the Chinese influence is even greater than normal. There’s a huge Chinese ‘Tong’ association occupying a prominent corner in town, as large as any in Thailand btw, and they seem to own almost ALL the businesses, not just the grocery stores and trinket shops. They may very well have come in originally with the Indonesians (though usually referred to as ‘Javanese’), given that rice and noodle dishes are universally known as ‘nasi’ and ‘bamie’, whether warung or Chinese or ‘roti shop’ and the steamed buns are ‘saw paw’, same as Indonesia if I remember correctly.
The old waterfront of Paramaribo has been declared a UN world heritage site and justifiably so. It’s strikingly beautiful and unique, truly one-of-a-kind, suggesting nothing so much as… maybe… grab a beer and have a seat… antebellum Mississippi? Huh? If the buildings had yards, they’d be almost identical. As it is they front the street in continental style. The tall white Greek columns are there. The red brick, white shiplap, and green shutters are there, like the tri-color flag for unrealistic expectations and broken dreams. The derelict ‘servants’ quarters are not far away, fallen into ruin, fallen into the footnotes of history. If this suggests a sleepy backwater, the modern reality is a bit different. Hotels and casinos dot the landscape like a little mini Las Vegas, presumably to amuse the Chinese, gamblers from way back who apparently invented playing cards as well as paper money, likely the same thing originally. I can’t imagine high-rollers rolling in here to get lucky. It’s still a backwater, even if not so sleepy anymore.
Then there’s New Year. New Year here is pretty wild. My first three days in Paramaribo I stayed in a great little place a half hour’s walk from downtown called Guest House Amice that had everything you could ever want for the price of a U$ Grant- Internet, full breakfast, AC, in–room coffee & tea, and as spic-and-span as my German grandmother would have it. If anything it was just TOO nice. I was afraid of losing street cred with you, my readers. You don’t want to hear about what’s happening ‘in there’; you want to hear what’s happening ‘out there’, right? So I reluctantly moved into the center of town yesterday 30 Jan., even lying to the inn keepers that I was going on to Guyane Francaise so as not to hurt their feelings. Can you believe that? But I was right. There was a huge street party last night and today was even crazier, crowds in the street by mid-morning drinking and dancing and partying to the local music, much of it quite good. Lyrics are all in taki-taki.
Then there’s the Chinese again. Somewhere sometime along the way they brought their fireworks with them, not elaborate sky-high displays mind you, but reams and reams of firecracker ‘rounds’, ready to unroll and be set off like gunfire in Palestine, leaving burnt red paper and a few near-deafened ears in the literal wake. You’d think they just invented gunpowder or something. The noise is deafening. Car alarms routinely go off from the percussion waves unleashed. Traffic stops mid-street like when the national anthem plays in Thailand. There you have to go to Chinese cemeteries on Ching Ming Day to see displays like this. But it’s moved way beyond the Chinese community in Suriname now, though they still profit from sales of the red devils in their stores. Everybody’s doing it now, from official functions on down. It seems as if everything must be blessed and christened by the purifying noise. It seems as if the mentality is ‘just one more’ or maybe ‘mine is bigger than yours’…
New Year’s Eve is actually an anti-climax. By sunset the party’s largely dissipated and has degenerated into roaming bands of teens indiscriminately lighting firecrackers. I go back to my crib. Outside the noise crescendos until what must be midnight, then finally dies out… until daybreak, when it starts up again. New Year’s Day is like death itself, nothing open but the biggest hotels and a few stalls that normally cater to tourists. So I sit and study Dutch while watching BBC and al-Jazeera in my cheap hotel, where I’ve got a fridge and a water kettle and even a kitchen sink complete with dishes, almost like home, except no wi-fi and no wifey. Fortunately I stocked up on groceries already, instant noodles and eggs and onions and papayas and mangoes and a couple of smoked fish at a buck each. You can do a lot with a water kettle. You should see me with a microwave. Finally Tang calls on my emergency world phone to wish me a Happy New Year while she waits for the Gold Line train to go to Pasadena. She and her immigrant Thai friends heard there’s a party there so decided to check it out, something about a football game. Life’s weird.
