Seductive Poison (28 page)

“Debbie, you continue to amaze me and make me laugh,” said my leader. I had passed this test but I knew that more trials were to come before I would be allowed back into the fold of the trusted few.

When I finally lay down on my bunk, I covered my head with my pillow. Jim’s voice was still being broadcast over the encampment, so that each shift, day and night, could receive “the Word,” and stay focused. Eventually, I fell into a restless sleep.

11
Hints of Madness

On December 15, 1977, my first day in “Paradise,” I was awakened at five-thirty in the morning and told to get up. While I was trying to remember where I was, Shanda, my Offering Room buddy, sat on the bunk across from me and explained that I had been chosen, along with a few others, to represent our community at a very important meeting of the People’s National Congress (PNC), in Port Kaituma. The PNC was the ruling party of Guyana and their black Prime Minister, Forbes Burhnam, was expected at the meeting. Jim wanted an interracial contingent there to represent his interests in Jonestown.

I pulled myself out from under the rough wool covers, confused that I had to leave again when I had barely arrived.

“Listen, you’re lucky you’re getting out today,” Shanda urged me. “This doesn’t happen often. I know you’re tired from the river trip, but that ain’t nothing compared to …”

Shanda had grown three inches taller in the last eight months since leaving the States. Her brown skin was now a beautiful copper and her once short Afro was now full. I had missed her and wished we could just sit on my bed and catch up with our lives.

“Compared to what?” I asked.

She looked around quickly, to make sure no one was in the hut, then hugged me.

“I’m getting you something nice to wear from the PR wardrobe,” she said. “Carolyn’s looking for something small enough to fit you … This is an important occasion and we need to look our best.”

“Compared to what?” I insisted. “Shanda, tell me, please.”

“Field work, it’s intense. Plus now with all the people here we’re looking for more food … You’ll get used to it … It’s different now, so crowded.”

“But everyone knew we were coming …”

“Yeah, but not so fast …

“Some weeks, a hundred people were shipped in.” She leaned closer and whispered, “When I first got here, it was wonderful. But when everyone started showing up at once … We just didn’t have lodging, latrines, food …”

“I don’t understand…. With that many people, couldn’t everything have been done real fast?”

She looked around again nervously. “We just weren’t ready, Deb. That’s why so many folks are living in them crowded and cramped huge dorms. It’s the only way to accommodate everyone. Now, if you want to live in a small cottage … like maybe two other couples, you have to go through the Relationship Committee.”

“Relationship … ?”

“You’ll see. The rules are: If you want to live with a man it has to be reviewed and approved first. There’s a trial period, sort a like dating for three months…. Anyway, I’ll tell you later, it’s getting late…. I’ll see you on the truck …”

She bolted from the room before I could ask another question. It was strange, I thought. I’d been marched down here into this cramped bunkhouse after Jim’s talking so much about my living with Mark. But now was not the time to ponder these things.

I tried to orient myself. Where was my cabin in relation to the radio room, the Pavilion, the kitchens, the bath? I needed to wash. Shanda appeared in the door again, tossed me an off-white linen jumpsuit, waved, and disappeared.

I couldn’t remember if I had seen showers on my way to the cabin the night before. Shanda had left so fast I didn’t have a chance to ask. She seemed so rushed and nervous. Looking around the room to see if any one was there before hugging me, running out of the room to get my outfit before I could ask her questions. How come she was in so much of the know? Her status here had changed. She seemed to be working as an assistant to Carolyn.

I poked my head out of the doorway to ask the senior walking by for directions to the bathrooms. I needed to get the dried saltwater off my skin and out of my hair. Mary, the woman I had always stayed with in Los Angeles, gave a start and grabbed my arm. Her
beautiful brown face was thinner than I had remembered and her surprised smile seemed tired. She came very close to talk to me and began to whisper.

“Honey, there ain’t no showers in the morning.” Her hand reached out and cupped my cheek. “It’s good to see you again, baby … My shift just ended and I’m plum worn out … I’m going to my dorm to sleep, but I’ll see you again tonight in the food line … Your mama’s here too … thought I saw her this morning.”

“We got here about midnight.”

“Well, baby, it ain’t what any of us expected. Some of the originals say it was nice ’fore Father come down here and start all his yellin’ and stuff. I don’t know … I’m just a soldier, darling … trying to do the best I can. It’s tough adjustin’, after living alone and havin’ my own place … but, it’s for the children, for socialism, and we won’t be hounded like animals here.”

She gave me an apologetic smile.

“No, darlin’, ain’t gonna be easy … but I’ll keep an eye out for your mama, she was good to me back home … Dahlia, too, she works the kitchens like me, ’cept she’s on days. You saw her last night. She the one go through your mama’s belongings …” She smiled at me knowingly. I felt a quiet defiance in her voice. Then she looked about, kissed my cheek, and hurried away, alone and worn out. I watched her disappear into a large building behind the Pavilion, which had to be her dorm.

The long ride back out of the encampment to Port Kaituma was filled with disturbing images and disquieting sensations. Groups of people were working in the fields, bandannas on their heads, sweat glistening on their arms. They reminded me of pictures I’d seen of poor Mexican migrant workers, bent over, diligently toiling over their section of plants. I was amazed that no one looked up as we passed and nobody from our truck yelled a greeting or waved to anyone they recognized. I turned to Shanda to ask why, but she was looking straight ahead, like everyone else on the truck, ignoring the laborers in the field. There seemed to be a detached and apathetic atmosphere among the residents. I felt an absence of camaraderie and warmth. Father had talked so much about the closeness of those who lived in the Promised Land, but what I observed so far was that everyone was careful, reticent, and almost afraid to make connections. There was no giggling and small talk during the long ride; everyone seemed on edge and guarded. Further down the Jonestown road we passed another work crew. Women and men were
laboring close to the road. A boy seemed to be in pain, moving and stretching his back as if he had a cramp, yet he never ceased his pace, his sickle continuing its methodical whoosh back and forth through the undergrowth.

Shanda was watching me. “They’re getting ready for a burn,” she explained. “We clear the land as best we can, then it’s burnt so we can plant.”

“Better cover your face on those days,” piped a young boy nearby. “It’s coughing smoky.”

I wondered if I would be able to do that sort of hard labor. The work certainly was more arduous than anything I had ever done. I wondered who was chosen to be a field worker and who was capable of such oppressive work.

“Everyone pulls this duty in the beginning,” Shanda explained, “’less of course you’re too old and sick. Then you just wait …”

“For what?”

“For the evening agricultural meetings. Jeez,” she sighed, “sometimes they last till two in the morning … Or socialist classes … Then there are other jobs you can be assigned to once you’ve proved yourself…. There’s kitchen, cookin’, infants … You’ll see.”

Mary and Dahlia, I already knew, worked in the kitchens. Carolyn and Maria seemed occupied in the radio room. I had seen a group of seniors sitting at a long table doing something with burlap sacks, perhaps mending them. So far I hadn’t seen anyone sitting on a porch. In fact, I had not seen a porch. There also wasn’t any grass, and I hadn’t noticed any children running and laughing as I had imagined. The Promised Land seemed more like a work camp.

It felt odd being transported back out and away from the compound in my pretty linen outfit, while the others toiled in the hot morning sun. I wondered if I was receiving a new dispensation here. Perhaps I was trusted after all.

Ahead of us, I spied a group of young people, some clearly teenagers, running down the Jonestown road. I knew some of them, but they, too, did not look at us as we passed. Then I saw they were being herded like animals by someone in army fatigues who was carrying a rifle, and a chill seeped into my soul.

“What’s that about?” I whispered to Shanda.

She patted my arm.

“Learning Crew … punishment for not following orders, complaining, or not working fast enough.” She spoke close to my ear, the noise of the truck covering her voice. “They are not allowed to
speak to us or among themselves. They eat separately, sleep in a special ‘punishment’ dorm, and they must do their work double time … so they run, as you can see, to each worksite and then work it doubletime.”

“They’re guarded,” I whispered in shock. “He’s got a …”

“Everyone’s guarded, Debs. There’s no difference here. Father says it’s to protect us from invasion. Most times you can’t see them though. Anyway, it’s not only the guards that watch, your own crewmates are told they must report on anyone not working as hard as the others.”

I stared at her in disbelief.

“It works like this … Everyone is told they are responsible for reporting on their crewmates. So, if someone writes up an incident and no one else on the crew reports it, all of you wall go on the Learning Crew. It’s a guarantee that everyone writes everything up at the end of each day.”

“What offenses are worthy of reporting? Laughing, whispering, itching your leg …”

“Debbie,” she frowned. “You can’t think in that vein anymore … it doesn’t help. It’s just different here. Like, no one is allowed to slack in their work; it’s a sign of laziness and those that are lazy can become traitors, that’s infraction number one. You remember this from our Mao classes, don’t you? Anyway, if you’ve forgotten, you’ll relearn it now. The Learning Crew is for the reeducation of those who have fallen into self-pity and other capitalistic traits.”

“Shanda, those guys on the Learning Crew looked like a group of prisoners on a chain gang. It’s really scary …”

“Sshhh …” Her voice lowered even more. “Yeah, you better figure the ropes real quick…. This ain’t the Offering Room, it isn’t anything like the life we knew in the city. And Father says that’s how it has to be till we are all equal in our understanding of Leninism. Don’t worry, you’ll fall into step soon enough.”

I wanted to ask her a million questions. But she had resolutely turned away for our safety. She knew we had already been whispering for too long.

As we passed through the gates and out of Jonestown, I noticed another armed guard patrolling our exit and I wished I hadn’t come on this day trip. I wanted to be near Mama. I wanted to go back inside and find her, make sure she was comfortable, and hold her safely in my arms. She hadn’t come here to be guarded. Then I remembered she was visiting with Lynetta Jones and I felt relieved.
As long as she had her good friend here I could concentrate on gathering my strength and, as Shanda said, “figure the ropes.”

The meeting at the PNC went smoothly. We soundly applauded Guyana’s Prime Minister when he finished his speech. As he walked over to talk to us, I noticed how tall he was. He was a princely looking gentleman. I listened intently as Lee, our spokesman, explained our agricultural project in Jonestown and the need for security. I was intrigued when I heard him talk about the Six-Day Siege, some famous socialist event, I imagined. I would need to ask; it might come up on a socialism test back at Jonestown. I had already been informed of the Marxist socialism classes on Tuesday and Thursday nights with tests on Sundays.

Lee was as tall as the Prime Minister and just as good-looking, I thought. I was impressed with how confidently he spoke with the dignitary, explaining our outreach program for the Amerindians. With his skin even blacker from the South American sun, his dark hair now streaked with auburn highlights, his voice deep with a hint of a smile in its resonance, Lee was the handsomest man in the Temple. In Ukiah and San Francisco, he had played important leadership roles, always working with the youth group and the college students. He was firm, but the most understanding counselor. When someone was being confronted he wouldn’t join in just to cause harm. His comments were always constructive. When he monitored the Offering Room of which I was head, he’d feel comfortable laughing at someone’s joke instead of moralizing. He’d even chuckle at my dramatic renditions of my former boarding school headmistress. I had a connection with Lee but, of course, friendships and camaraderie that weren’t strictly in the context of socialist principles were frowned upon.

We followed the Prime Minister over to the festivities. The Jonestown dance troupe was performing to a rhythmic beat. They were dressed in colorful Caribbean attire to show how well we had assimilated into the Guyanese culture. They were enjoying themselves and their enthusiasm made me forget the disturbing things I had heard and seen only a couple of hours before. I joined the diverse groups of Jonestown children who had also been dressed up and sent to Port Kaituma to show off our mix of ages and nationalities. I looked around at the village. It was a rustic port with a rickety dock, and I could see that there were probably no outdoor markets
here. Perhaps thirty Amerindians lived at the river’s edge under scattered thatched-roofed huts. Wooden canoes were sticking out from their abodes and partially clothed children played in the dirt. I realized the Prime Minister must have come here just for us.