We stayed in Paramaribo for the night and set off the next morning to spend two days deep within the Central Reserve on Fungo Island in the jungle. We were told to leave most of our belongings in storage at the hotel and to pack only the essentials for one night in the wild. We didn’t quite grasp what exactly constituted “essentials,” so each of us packed a small backpack based on their own judgment. The meals would be cooked for us, we only needed to bring personal items. It was clear, however, that waterproof clothes were a must because it rained every day in Suriname.
We were warned that it would be a long journey and we wouldn’t arrive until evening. We were to sleep in hammocks at an eco-lodge. It didn’t sound particularly comfortable, but the group was an adventurous bunch, ready to face the challenges.
Years ago, I had stayed at an eco-lodge in the Ecuadorian Amazon. Back then, “eco” meant sleeping in a wooden hut with no electricity and hot water. Instead of glass, the windows had mesh insect screens. At night, I could hear birds, the cries of some animals, the rustling of jungle foliage, and a host of other mysterious sounds – in short, a romantic experience of communion with nature.
We had no idea what an eco-lodge in Suriname would look like. Our wonderful guide struggled to explain, given his limited English vocabulary, so we decided to figure it out when we got there.
At first, we traveled along a good paved road; later, it gave way to a potholed dirt track, and further on, rushing streams began to cross our path. Before driving through an inundated spot, our driver got out of the bus and walked all over it to ensure that the bus could make it to the other side.
The locals cross the river by boat or on a small ferry. In any case, we had to travel further upstream. A rickety wooden motorboat was already waiting for us. We transferred our gear into the boat and sped off against the current.
The “eco-lodge” turned out to be an abandoned tourist camp with termite-eaten walls. It was impossible to enter the actual cabins, so we set up camp in a building where the ground floor had once housed a kitchen and dining area. We were to sleep on the upper floor. We brought with us food, water, cookware, and everything else needed for preparing meals.
The cook who came with us set up to prepare our evening meal straight away. I do not understand how she managed to cook a truly delicious dinner in such improbable conditions.
I spotted a decent-looking mattress on the floor and asked if they could simply lay the hammock on top of it for me. Since there was only one mattress, the others envied me, but no one else tried to claim it. They likely took my advanced age into account; I was the oldest person in the group. Darkness fell quickly after dinner. With no electricity, there was absolutely nothing to do.
Everyone climbed into their hammocks and settled down quietly. I, on the mattress, propped my head up with some rolled-up clothes, and despite the early hour and, to put it mildly, unfamiliar surroundings, fell asleep almost immediately.
In the morning, we shared our impressions of the night in the hammocks. Some slept soundly, while others complained of shivering from the cold all night and barely closing their eyes. I slept well on the mattress; I was warm enough in my long-sleeved T-shirt.
Our cook was busy preparing breakfast in the kitchen. The others were loitering about the small patch of ground that the jungle did not swallow up after the camp had ceased to exist. There was, quite frankly, nothing to do.
The previous evening, we spotted an airstrip on the island’s map and wondered if it was still there. The GPS showed that the strip was no more than 300 meters away as the crow flies. I can’t recall now who first came up with the idiotic idea of going to check out the airstrip, but the decision was a collective one. The most sensible members of the group stayed behind to wait for breakfast while the rest of us set off.
We couldn’t find a path leading toward the airstrip, so we just plowed straight through. This was a real jungle, the kind you’d normally need a machete to hack through, yet there we were, unarmed and wearing nothing but beach flip-flops.
There is no such thing as a straight line in the jungle; you have to navigate around fallen trees, crawl under vines, and steer clear of dangerous vegetation. The palm trees were particularly troublesome bristling with long, cactus-like spines. What’s more, the spines didn’t just grow on the trunks; the leaves were covered in them too. If you slipped on the wet, rotting carpet of debris underfoot and instinctively grabbed one of those palm trees for support, you’d jerk your hand away instantly.
The phone’s GPS kept working even in that wilderness, showing that we were heading in the right direction. We gradually made our way up a gentle slope and reached its highest point. However, the airstrip was nowhere to be seen. The undergrowth became completely impenetrable. Deciding there was no point in going any further, we turned back.
That was when it became clear that the return journey would be harder than the way into the jungle. The GPS knew about the airstrip but didn’t show the old tourist camp. Obviously, we should have stuck to the shoreline. The island was small, so there was no real danger of getting lost and perishing, but we could easily have ended up wandering in circles through the woods for a long time causing others to worry about us.
After a few wrong turns and backtracking, we emerged from the jungle somewhat scratched up but otherwise unharmed. Fortunately, nothing there bit us. We then thought to launch the drone to check for a runway, something we really should have done before heading off into the unknown. The drone returned with an image of the runway; we stopped just thirty meters short of it.
After breakfast, we loaded our gear into the boat and set off. The trip downstream took half the time. We disembarked near the ruined bridge, where the bus was already waiting for us. Heavy rains during the night caused the road to flood even more, but that no longer bothered us.
Before returning to the hotel, we stopped at the open-air museum of Jodensavanne, formerly a town that housed the largest Jewish settlement in South America during the 17th century. Sephardic Jews had fled here to escape the Spanish Inquisition; in this region, they were left undisturbed and could freely practice their religion. The town flourished until the 19th century, when it fell into ruin. Today, only the cemetery and the shell of the great synagogue remain.
