Guyana: Larger Than Life by Nick Maes

Guyana is a rarity compared to its glitzier Caribbean neighbours – it isn’t enslaved to package tourism, tacky time-shares, be-thonged B-listers or bored billionaires.  It’s actually a bit knackered, louche and shambolic – traits that I like much more.  And old-time civility – a rarity anywhere – is a quality you’ll find by the trunk-load in Georgetown’s dusty domestic airport. In the oppressive dead weight of the midday heat an improbably polite man ushered me through security.  Everything felt momentarily pukka. Behind him I could hear the gurgling of a Dam-Busterish, chocks-away, synchronised-watches type of plane waiting for me on the tarmac – I was euphoric.

Some ten times the size of Wales, Guyana’s population is well shy of a million and most of them live on the coastal strip.  That leaves the interior thrillingly short on human habitation.  Mile after mile of rainforest splattered with swollen rivers like unravelled guts and endless stretches of virgin savannah passed below me without a town in sight.  After picking up and putting down a few passengers, the air-borne mini bus eventually dropped me off at Karanambo Ranch.

First Impressions: Giant Otters and Anteaters

It’s not everyday that I’m met by a living legend. Diane McTurk is world-famous for looking after orphaned giant otters. If there’s ever a natural history doc focussing on the Amazon then Diane’s nearly always there; and rightly so, she’s great. Karanambo has been in her family for about a century, but she returned permanently about thirty years ago and soon began to welcome paying guests. We had to dodge a giant anteater, as you do, as she told me her story on the way back to the compound.

Gigantism is big in these parts. On a lazy boat trip along the Rupununi River I saw dragonflies the size of Churchill’s cigars, lily pads bigger than satellite dishes, the scaly backs of arapaima (a colossal fresh water fish) and of course the giant otter. They were squealing and begging for fish and obviously ecstatic to see Diane – but perhaps not quite as ecstatic and foolishly eager as I was to see them.

We got back to the ranch just in time for lunch.  It’s a simple, communal affair for those who happen to be around and chance for me to meet my fellow guests, a couple of twitchers and a Scottish woman who was revisiting the country with her daughter after thirty odd years away. I checked out my room too; the accommodation is basic, there’s no hot water, there’s a frog in the loo and the roof is open at the sides to the elements. I loved it. Where else in the world would you find wardrobes without doors to stop bats from roosting?

A Boat Trip and Birdwatching

But there wasn’t time for me to waste; I’d got another river trip lined up. It wasn’t long before the boat was engulfed with butterflies and all sorts of birds that were seemingly released to order as we glided by. Boat-billed herons, ugly guys with pitta-bread beaks and great egret chicks, punkish with scruffy Mohicans filled the air with screeching. Other more haughty creatures deigned to look down on us with imperial and querulous gazes. I was spell-bound.

Birds are big business in Guyana – so I equipped myself with cheap binoculars picked up at Gatwick for the task of spotting them.  Likewise the fabled jaguar is a big a draw.  I wanted to know if there were any in the area.  Diane said: “there are, but you should ask me how long it was before I saw one.”  I did: 27 years apparently.  But two days later I saw evidence of big cats for myself, a peccary skull with fang holes in it. Finding the remains of a jaguar’s supper was almost as exciting as seeing the beast itself.

Waifs, Strays and Idle Conversation

Idle conversation is the only night-time entertainment in Karanambo. I was told how indigenous war clubs hanging on the wall were used to break arms and legs before leisurely crowning hapless victims. And stories about the week it took to get a message out of camp were fondly remembered. That all changed during the war when radios were given to ranchers with tips on how to spot fifth columnists. If you’re interested Skype is used nowadays, it’s not half as romantic.

And best of all I got to meet another of the waifs and orphan strays that Diane regularly takes in, a lovely creature I reckoned on being part dog, part cat with a splash of monkey. I’ve never felt the need to have a pet before, but if anyone reading this has a spare racoon cub up for grabs, then I’m your man.

Over my last rum punch of the evening Diane mentioned that she’d been asked to upgrade the place, something she’s keen not to do.  “I don’t want to turn this into a sausage factory and I don’t want big parties of people.”  Of course she’s right; people should come here and enjoy it for what it is and because they want to.  Why does every tourist experience have to come with hot and cold water, plunge pools and patios?
I left the next morning under duress, I didn’t want to go.  But I was rewarded with the transfer of a lifetime.  A speedboat whisked me through rainforest doing corners on the snaking river like a motorbike would in a street race.