What’s in a name?

The open wooden boat with an outboard motor, moored under the Canje bridge at the confluence of the Berbice River, held just ten passengers close together on three wooden planks, 2-3-3, in addition to the captain and the guide sitting on the edge of the stern. We ranged in ages from about 20 to 70, mostly originating from Guyana with a couple from further afield. Excited about the expedition and wearing walking boots, rain gear and sporting water bottles in outside pockets of small day back-packs, we set off under heavy cloud cover for the 88km trip up river to Fort Nassau; the site of the year-long rebellion by enslaved peoples from 1763-1764. 

About an hour into the journey upriver, the rain began. Gently at first then a downpour with wind that swelled the river further, pummelled our necks and backs as we bent over to protect our faces from the needle-like shards of rain that soaked through to our underwear, made a mockery of our “waterproof” trousers, socks and shoes. The cool winds soon whipped up waves on the surface of the river which reached within centimetres of our knees, pressed against the sides of the small vessel that held us together as we bounced along the deep Berbice river, almost 595 kilometres long its dark, clear waters hiding names spoken softly along its banks and now, long forgotten, together with the children, women and men whose blood was shed in these waters over 250 years ago, under the long and brutal Dutch rule, and the shorter, equally cruel British colonisers. 

Shielded, as if in the recovery position, arms around my head which was bent towards my knees, I envisioned the Dutch tall ships under sail or rowed by enslaved oarsmen navigating these brown/red waters. Relieved to be living in another century, in another time in history albeit with its own threats, our small craft slowed and turn into a wooden jetty, its steps sunk low into the river, white bubbles and clear spray, reminiscent of coca cola poured on ice in a tall glass.

My thoughts remained firmly with my ancestors, grandmothers and grandfathers of my family, perhaps hailed from Angoy country that bordered the banks of the wide Congo River, now The Republic of the Congo, but perhaps not… The name, like so many others has been renamed, un-named, disappeared, covered up, destroyed, discarded, undone. Who knows? The indigenous names spoken by other tongues have been misspelled, mispronounced, renamed and/or forgotten over time. The peoples who navigated these waters, the radar for the Europeans, no longer exist as they did 300 years ago and we now experience a new form of colonisation under new names; Exxon-Mobil, Chevron, Anadarko Petroleum and Occidental Petroleum.

The dense, almost impenetrable jungle inwards from the river, is separated in parts by paths made centuries ago, but overgrown and competing against the undergrowth that wants to cover up the past, our history. Coloniser’s, lay buried under the encroached forest and those that remain are engraved in Old Dutch, some with their crests and others have slid into the mangrove swamps that flank the old Berbice River and continue to penetrate the heavy clay soil. Every edifice; every church, town hall, court house, merchant’s house, assembly hall, soldiers mess, officer’s smoking room, every single one was built by the enslaved peoples of the Dutch East India Company; those who were shipped across the Atlantic and others, the indigenous peoples of the Guianas. Only a few bricks remain and some fewer grave stones, everything else has been reclaimed into the land by nature. The slave masters, merchants, priests and vagabonds that came to these shores in search of wealth both on land and below ground; timber, gold, silver and precious gemstones, together with the harvests of sugar, cotton, coffee and indigo have now left. As we walked for two hours in single file through dense undergrowth, following paths cut through the forest and into clearings, the intense heat and humidity unsettled my mind and body. I no longer feel at ease in this climate yet I am drawn to the land, the rivers, to the people and to a place I call home. 

I went in search of the Angoys in Berbice, the birth place my father and grandfather and perhaps my great-grandfather, my grandmother and maybe my great-grandmother. Who knows where I hailed from centuries ago. What are the names that run through my blood and in my DNA. Where do I come from and what’s in a name?  These questions, and many more, remained unanswered on this journey.

(All images taken by the author)