10.55am - Saturday, 27th September.
The sun growing ever hotter demands that all brows are shaded by wide-brimmed hats or caps. But the brown-blue river water cools, so too the speeding boat, creator of a phantom breeze.
As we stop for gas we pass through a shallow opening - the water now a muddy brown. The mangroves in close proximity look like tall old men with long gnarled legs wading through the water. David, the boat driver, gets out of the boat. Gets back in the boat even faster. The gas man's dog, a ginger brown Staffy, snarls a low growl, revealing the wet pink and long white teeth of its ferocious mouth. Guyana's dogs. Real dogs. Most are common or garden Rice-Eaters. And most wild, free and always a little hungry. But loyal too. Ginger-brown hushes when his not-master but friend (the gas man) let's him know, with a short, loud, 'hup, hup', that all is ok.
As I wait in the boat, I watch the river's bank crawl sideways with hundreds of barely visible crabs. Guyana is alive. Always. Even the dead teem with life: visibly transform into something new. A small fish leaves a trail of bubbles in the water. Another popping up to the surface makes a 'shlip' with a flick of its tail.
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