The Cauldron

Suriname is where Bollywood meets Reggaetón,

where chow mein mingles with pickled herring,

and where Kuan Yin greets Krishna alongside the jungle Orishas.

Its demography is a true rainbow of cultures, colours, and creeds.

The population is largely Asian: Chinese, Indian, and Javanese (brought by Holland from their Indonesian colonies after the abolition of slavery).

Then there are the tall, blue-eyed Dutch, the local Amazonians, plus the African Creole and Maroons, splashed with a few Latin immigrants from Cuba, Brazil, and the like.

And even though these numerous races have been stirred in a cauldron for centuries, they all seem to maintain their cultural traditions and DNA quite intact in what appears to be a peaceful co-existence.

We settled into our corner of the river after having completed the relevant bureaucratic procedures and watched Tara’s dance moves with every turn of the tide.

She would point upriver for six hours, and then gently spin around, taking her bow to sea, in sync with the river’s inhales and exhales.

Sitting on the edge of the brown water, I wondered: now what.

Hurricane season was underway in the Caribbean, so we had decided to chill out in these latitudes for a while, at least until after Wrecktember—or October (it’s not over).

Turns out we were not the only ones with this idea, and not long after our arrival in the steamy flat jungle, other characters started drifting in, riding the trade winds’ magic carpet from further south.

This was The Internationals sprouting into existence.

A ragtag flotilla of eclectic adventurers coming from all sorts of backgrounds in floating vessels in various states of disrepair, all pushed by a similar thirst for freedom.

Not boat owners, not sailors, not cruisers or liveaboards; all of the above.

There were families with children, retired couples, experienced professionals, seasoned seadogs, and novice voyagers: a multicultural mélange within the macro-cauldron.

The little yacht club where our floating homes rested became the base of operations.

The inner sanctum was a small swimming pool, which was meticulously maintained with near-religious devotion by the peculiar character known as the harbour master and club manager.

He had a rigorous pool-cleaning routine which involved some powders, vacuum contraptions, hoses, and scoops, and would be there almost daily, absorbed in his mission to keep the water reasonably transparent.

Because out here in the guts of the hot, humid jungle, a flickering distraction could rapidly result in green, murky, larvae-infested pool water—and considering cyanide poisoning (from gold mining) and the outrageous currents made the river unswimmable,

the pool had to remain clean.

Or else we would all wilt, shrivel, and compost.

There were karaoke nights on Thursdays, which somehow upgraded to weekly costume karaoke.

There was football every second day, dinghy-building underway below the tropical almond trees, collective mending of sails, bimini covers and various canvas projects, endless hot pots, shared meals and beers—and overall, a feeling of heartwarming camaraderie.