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The Seventh Day Journal
April 8, 2004
- The Guyana Trip -
Dear Friends of The Seventh Day project,
I’ve just returned from a quick trip to the jungles of Guyana in S. America, where - would
you believe it? There’s a Sabbath story!
But first, an apology for not keeping you up with all that’s been happening here on production
of Parts Four and Five. That includes our Canada shoot in January, where, with a great Canadian
crew we filmed the burning of Ivan Kuritsin in 15 th -century Russia, Charles Dellon and the
Inquisition of Goa in India, Theophilus Brabourne of Sabbath fame in 17 th -century England
and more.
And I didn’t tell you about our shoot with Hal Holbrook and Frank Gonzalez just a few
weeks ago either. Hal was in jovial spirits and kept interrupting himself to comment on how
interesting he found the script to be. It all went very well and we’re editing now, with
plans to be finished in May.
Well, back to Guyana:
Our trip began Tuesday night, March 31, when Paul Zenk, the cameraman, Jim Wood, the writer,
and I met at the San Francisco airport for our 12:50AM flight bound for Georgetown, Guyana
via Houston, Miami and Barbados. Once on the flight I didn’t waste any time staying awake!
By the time we left Miami I was wide awake. No problems getting through with our equipment,
except one security agent did have a hard time figuring out what Paul’s video camera batteries
were all about. After inspecting them thoroughly herself, she took them to another agent who
also laboriously examined it carefully, then disappeared to have yet another authority take
a gander. They finally sent us on our way.
After flying over the most gorgeous blue waters of the Caribbean, seeing islands with white
sandy beaches, we stepped into the heat and humidity of S. America. Missionary pilot Gary Roberts
and his wife Wendy met us - more about them later - and drove us frantically through streets
crowded with cars, cows, horses, vans, carts pulled by horses and people meandering down the
side of the road as so though it were an abandoned pathway. Frantically because if you slowed
down or stopped you’d never get anywhere.
After a refreshing sleep and a breakfast with fresh pineapple and other new and exotic fruits
we boarded the Cessna 172 and taxied down the runway. The plane circled Georgetown and headed
up into the wild blue yonder, which looked for all the world like a bank of billowy white pillows
to me. For almost 2 hours we bumped through clouds and rain, in and out of clear spots, above
green jungle that stretched forever over rolling hills.
At last we came to strange-looking mountains - flat, square, jutting up and suddenly down,
with bald rock faces and rivers winding way below. Somewhere among these mountains we flew
over a beautiful valley - and looked down on a village of scattered, 2-story, grass-roofed
houses, in a large, grassy area, bordered by a winding river. Our destination - Paruima. The
plane nosed down on a grassy airstrip across the river. Climbing out we were met by a short,
dark man - Brother Belsiano Edmunds. He was to be our helper for locating the people we needed
to talk to, and translating for us.
Our next transportation was a dugout canoe with a motor that carried us upriver, between large
smooth rocks where children jumped into the water while their mama’s did the family laundry.
It was hot and I wanted to be in that water too!
We lunched with the Student Missionaries and staff of Davis Indian Industrial College, just
a short walk from the village. My first chance to taste the local staple - cassava bread. Baked
in large, flat “loaves”, it was almost white, about 25" across and 3/8"
thick, with a texture similar to dense bread, but a little more sour tasting and quite chewy.
Not bad.
Oops! Did I forget to tell you why we’re here? We’re chasing the story of Chief Owkwa,
an Amerindian of the Arecuna tribe, who died about 100 years ago not far from this place.
Owkwa was literally stopped in his tracks by an amazing dream. His people could not wake him
and thought he was dead. Some say he did not breathe. In the dream a bright Being stood beside
him and told him he must put away all of his wives except one. He was told which one to keep.
The Being taught him about God, Jesus Christ the Son, the plan of salvation, the crucifixion,
the Sabbath, tithing, what to eat, what not to eat, cleanliness, and much more. The Being taught
him new words, like “Sabbath,” “glory” and “hallelujah.” And
promised him that white people would come with a black book to teach him more. The Being gave
him the name, “Owkwa,” which means “Light” in his language.
Our quest was to find these Indians, the descendants of Owkwa, and interview them for The Seventh
Day , Part Five.
Brother Belsi, as we called him, took us down the trail to meet our first contact. A tiny,
weathered lady, she was swinging gently in a hammock cradling her baby great-granddaughter,
under the grass roof of her outdoor kitchen. Nearby her granddaughter swept the dirt floor
while cassava bread baked over the fire. Cheva Lot Fredericks did not know how old she was
for sure, but she showed us her marriage certificate dated 1950 which gave her age then as
26 years old. That would make her 80 yrs. old. This precious little lady is a great-granddaughter
of Owkwa.
Born, of course, after Owkwa died, Cheva heard the stories from her brothers. She heard that
the people thought he was dead because he didn’t move or breathe while the angel talked
to him, and no one could wake him up; that the angel told him not to work every 7 th day -
Sabbath; that some animals were clean to eat and some were unclean and mustn’t be eaten;
and that white people would come with a black book to teach his people more.
Next we headed on down the path, past the SDA church on a hill overlooking the river and the
village. A few raindrops began to fall as we ducked under the roof of a picnic pavilion in
the middle of the village. Here we met with James Chambers while big raindrops pelted the tin
roof so hard we could hardly hear ourselves talk. James’s father had been a child in Owkwa’s
village and had told him many stories. He said the angel came many times. When the first missionaries
came with the black book, James’s father listened carefully to what they had to say, comparing
it with what Owkwa had taught them. In spite of Sabbath, James’s father would sometimes
sneak off fishing, only to be reprimanded by Owkwa with a reminder that Sabbath is a holy day
and he must not work. While we talked the rain let up and two green parrots went screaming
by us.
Viola, whose mother had been a friend of Owkwa, is the oldest lady in town. She must be about
90, still strong with hardly a gray hair in her long black braid. She told us they knew which
day was Sabbath because they tied 7 knots on a string, the 7 th one larger, for Sabbath. Every
day they untied one knot, until they got to Sabbath, when everyone came to worship with Owkwa.
Sabbath stole peacefully into this jungle paradise; the sun sank behind the trees in the west
just as the moon, almost full, rose in the east. We walked its moony path to the church for
a meeting put on by the DIIC students. From all over the village, families walked quietly through
the moonlight toward the white church on the hill.
Sabbath afternoon we struck out through the jungle toward Paruima Falls to enjoy God’s
handiwork. Thick, dense, green, knotty roots, tangly vines, leaves of all sizes and shapes.
That describes the jungle. Tea-colored water cascading around and over boulders, just the right
temperature on a hot day. That describes the falls. I got wet. Over and over. I climbed, slipped,
slid, scrambled and waded my way to the top and back down again. A clump of yellow green orchids
grew out of a fallen tree. So unique and beautiful. Back at the school, standing in the river
under a full moon, listening to the night sounds of insects. It felt awfully close to Heaven.
Sunday morning we were down at the village with camera and tripod to begin immortalizing the
story of Owkwa and the “Davis Indians” as they’ve sometimes been called, after
O. E. Davis, the first missionary to come to them with the black book. Davis died only weeks
after arriving, but his memory and teachings lived on.
We went to film Nalee Dillea Arthur, great-granddaughter of Owkwa by Sarah, his one wife. Nalee’s
grandmother and mother told her how Owkwa taught everyone that on Sabbath they should not go
fishing or hunting, should not cook or make fires, should do no work. They would meet together
and Owkwa would talk to them about God.
Sunday afternoon a talented team of actors and actresses (including Bro. Belsi’s children
and grandchildren,) staged a re-enactment of Owkwa’s dream and the coming of O. E. Davis.
They set up an old-fashioned village, dressed up in loincloths and face paint, and showed us
the story. We filmed it all.
The fascinating and inspiring story of Owkwa will be in Part Five of The Seventh Day: Revelations
from the Lost Pages of History.
Monday morning Gary Roberts landed on the grassy runway again to pick us up. We left friends
behind, people that we look forward to seeing again, in a place where we can hear the story
again, from Owkwa himself.
It’s hard to come back to this real world, in some ways. I miss the noisy quiet of cicadas,
parrots, toucans, and no cars driving by or planes flying above. I miss the simplicity. Will
that be what Heaven’s like?!
And just a note about the work in Guyana. Gary and Wendy, another couple living in the jungle,
the staff of two schools, and all the SM’s work for God on a rather unusual basis: Full-time,
fully committed, but with no regular salary. These young people are all under 30, dedicated,
capable, with vision and the will to make high demands upon God. They are inspiring. Working
with David Gates, they live by faith, and they see God answer their prayers and supply the
needs of His work there. Please keep them in your prayers.
And please keep us in your prayers as well!
May God bless you intensely,
Pat Arrabito
Seventh Day Journal - May 2003
Seventh Day Journal - Sept 2003 |
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