The Trip to Shanklands

I seem to be on a  Guyana kick, so I'll try to remember more of that incredible trip.

After spending a week at Timberhead, we were off to Shanklands, a resort of sorts on the banks of the mighty Essequibo River.
We left Timberhead early in the morning after the usual night of rain.  The six of us piled into an African Queen-like boat called the Elizabeth II.  No one knew the reason for this name-  it didn't seem to matter.  Our first leg was a quiet, putting journey along the creek, guided by Junior, our shy, smiling boat driver.  He was adept at quick stops and turns when Mike, our bird guide would hold up his hand, signalling a sighting.  I learned to sit solidly, feet planted firmly for these unexpected stops.  Birds large and small swept across the water before us- vines, bamboo and small trees looped and leaned into the water.  Long, narrow wood canoes holding one or two people pulled alongside, watching the big, white strangers in the silver boat.
We rounded a bend and suddenly we were in big water:  the Demarara River, silvery, wide and flat.  A sudden violent storm blew up from  behind us, causing both shores to disappear completely behind curtains of blowing rain.  Several inches of water quickly gathered on the floor of the partially open boat, and much of Junior's gear floated near our feet.  Junior was soaked but smiling, drinking Sprite and looking like he hadn't a care in the world.  As  the Elizabeth II tootled gamely along, the shores finally began to reappear, dim and far away.  Junior pulled us closer to river right and suddenly out of nowhere, an opening in the dense jungle appeared.  Two or three old army trucks, looking WWII vintage, rusted in the rain forest clearing.
After securing us to the steep, muddy bank, Junior produced a wonderful lunch of fried egg sandwiches, plantain rolls (fried in butter!) and pineapple.  As we were finishing, two very muddy Toyota trucks pulled up driven by two smiling brown men.  All of us piled into the tarp -covered back of one truck and we rode, military style,  thumping and banging over twenty-six miles of very rutted sand road to Shanklands.  It was the bumpiest ride I'd ever experienced.  The two elder birders from New York chuckled quietly and Al said, "You think this is bad, you should have been in Madagascar!"

Shanklands was a welcome sight.  Rolling green grass dotted with brilliant flowers and enormous trees, and white lattice-laced cottages dotted the sides of the lawn, shaded by trees.  The Essiquibo River extended the length of our view, flat and endless.  The far shore shimmered and danced in the distance.

Shanklands - some memories:  sitting under the kitchen awning out of the sun; listening to the torrents of rain falling on our cottage roof and splashing in pools in the grass; smelling the delicate white grapefruit blossoms from the tree outside our window at night;  steep, rickety stairs to the river and the long, narrow boat dock;  turquoise-colored tanagers sharing the pepper tree with the family of barbets;  screeching, clamorous parrot flyovers;  salt and pepper in dishes at the table;  free liquor setups under the awning; homemade hot sauce that was deliciously, indescribably hot.  Breathlessly humid forest walks where we heard much more than we saw; walk-in white tile showers; plumbeous kites soaring; the shy, white kitchen cat; the smelly peccary who lurked near the buildings; the loud macaw; and always,  always the unending silver ribbon of river,  moving away from us,  away.