I'd only managed to get a flight to Guyana after weeks of vetting by various British, and then American security agencies. It had been frustrating, but inevitable. When I'd mooted my idea to the editor, he'd laughed. For a little longer than entirely necessary. Once he was done chortling and saw that I wasn't smiling, he told me in no uncertain terms that even getting into Guyana would be difficult. The Americans were worried about the radicalisation of young Europeans, and they wouldn't like a journalist writing articles that would be avidly consumed by the various 'Student Friends of the International Brigades' movements. But as he swirled the whisky in his glass, I argued with him. I didn't really give a fig that the Americans wanted to keep everything under wraps. But part of the reason that so many young people were signing on to fight in South America was because the only news they heard was from sources that were ardently pro-Red. They heard the carefully censored BBC bulletins, but what did that do to dissuade them? They needed to hear the honest truth of what was happening in America, before any more of them died.
He'd agreed, and weeks later I was in the busy town of Port Kaituma. I was met at the airstrip by three CIA men. They had the same beige short sleeved shirts and slacks, the same side partings, and the same sense of humour. They were to make sure I got to my destination without going off-piste. But they told me in the car to the hotel that once they'd delivered me safely, I was on my own.
That wasn't quite accurate though. I'd made some calls before I'd heard back from the authorities, and had called in a couple of favours. I had the address of a man who ferried people up and down the rivers. He had agreed to be my guide, and his sons were apparently the kind of men who could handle themselves. It was impossible for any kind of service like his to operate without that kind of insurance.
We didn't stay long in Port Kaituma. My handlers seemed eager to be rid of me. A short stay in a slophouse in which they went over my plans in detail, and frowned at almost sentence I said, was followed by a few hours in a hot 4x4 to my destination. They barely exchanged a word with me on the way. I got the impression they didn't like dealing with 'tourists'.
They didn't actually enter Jonestown when we got there. 'Too dangerous' they said. They left me at the side of the road, and gave me one last chance to return to Port Kaituma and get the next flight home. I refused, politely and walked toward the town's perimeter.
Jonestown isn't what I expected. In the Free World, the city has something of a reputation as an ideological cesspool. I was told by my American handlers that Jonestown is little more than a huge slum. At any one time, over half of the town's population can best be described as temporary residents. Either they're veterans from the conflict in the interior, coming here to the Mecca of New World Socialism to relax and unwind, or they are fresh-faced Europeans, just off the boat from Georgetown, eager to pick up a gun and fight for the Revolution they've read about in journals at university. And of course, there is the crime. With people coming from all over the continent, from all over the world, there is a lot of corruption. Guyana's government turns a blind eye to Jonestown, the town's municipal government backs the socialists who are in power. My handlers told me that Jonestown's overseers exploited newcomers, and few of those young would-be Guevaras ever made it to the interior to fight. Jonestown ate up people who came and digested them into it's overcrowded slums, where the machinists manufacture guns and bullets for the front.
The reality was quite different. That transitory population does mean the city is filthy, and it could be charitably described as a slum. When over half the population isn't expecting to stay any longer than a month, they have little reason to keep it clean or ordered. In that respect, it is more like an armed camp than a town. Barely a day went by while I was there, without there being a parade of some sort. From the windows hung brilliant red banners, which fluttered in the breeze. There were stencilled paintings on many walls, whether they were brick, tarnished metal or woven reed, in stark black and blue. Most depicted the many revolutionary leaders of International Socialism. But most prominent of all, was Jim Jones himself.
I doubt Jones expected his little project to get quite so out of hand. While the Peoples' Temple is prominent in Jonestown, it is nowhere near as powerful as it once was, the loss of the central messianic figure of Jones meaning it has split and lost its dominating position. Perhaps it is this breakdown in such an absolutist authority which has prevented matters from getting quite as bad as the Langley men had told me.
Thats not to say there aren't problems. There aren't the beggars you see on the streets of slum-towns in many other places, including Port Kaituna. Thats because all available labour is hoovered up into the armaments factories and the collective farms. The authorities avoid using the term 'collective farm', it being a rather loaded Stalinist term. They prefer calling them kibbutzes, in line with the unique melting pot theory of New World Socialism. But they amount to the same thing. Surrounding Jonestown are wide fields tended to by men and women wearing wide brimmed hats. They live in collective tenements, and I understand that a close eye is kept on them to prevent 'hoarding' or 'reactionary evasion'. Jonestown is the doorway to the war in the interior and the town feels like it is under siege. Away from the parades is the hive of industry where the weapons and clothes of soldiers are forged and sewn. I never saw them directly, as they are heavily guarded and my attempts to get admittance was the one time I felt truly frightened in the town. The local law enforcement doesn't take kindly to snooty Westerners, and they aren't exactly susceptible to financial incentives.
I spent just over a week in Jonestown, organising the supplies I would need with the authorities and with my guides. Jonestown isn't an example of pure communism, and there is an entrepreneurial streak to the town's inhabitants. Between slanging matches with the kibbutzniks and negotiating how much space for supplies there would be on the longboat, I had time to talk to some people. One in particular was a young woman I met in one of Jonestown's many bars. She gave her name as Nikita Ferguson. I asked how she'd come to be there.
'I joined the Student Friends of the International Brigades while I was at Glasgow.' she replied. 'When I graduated, I thought about carrying on to do a Diploma. But I decided against it. Why bother fighting in the courts of the dying bourgeois democracies, when I could be here, fighting for a new kind of democracy. Through the old society, I knew a man who could get me to Cuba. From there, I was put through some basic training. A lot of those who had come with me from Glasgow washed out. I'm not sure what they expected. Anyway, after a month of that, we shipped out to Guyana. We were organised into brigades here in Jonestown before we went into the interior.' That can't have been that long ago. If she'd graduated in the autumn of 1992, and left for Cuba by the end of the year, she must only have been here for a few months.
'Yeah, it's only been since January, but it's June now and in those months the whole world has changed for me. I've fought in dozens of engagements, against every conceivable opponent of the Peoples' State. These last five months have felt so much longer. Glasgow seems so far away, so distant from what I've done here. I've met people from every corner of the world, tasted things which have been sweeter than any nectar, I've suffered in ways I couldn't have imagined last year.' Has it been worth it, I wonder. Has she been jaded by her experiences.
'Yes, and no. At the time, I thought of those who returned home from Cuba as cowards and class traitors. Now, I think differently. This battlefield is unforgiving. It's harder than anything Cuba prepared us for. They would not have survived here. I have an open mind and I have a willingness to hear what anyone has to say. International Revolution isn't for everyone.'
She smiled at me and ordered another drink. It was clear that she considered the interview over. I moved away from the blonde haired woman, her hair tied up with a red headscarf, her combat overalls smeared with mud and oil. She is exactly the type of person that I had got into the country saying I would deter. But she seemed to be totally sold on the cause. I would need to go deeper to reveal the truth of it all.
He'd agreed, and weeks later I was in the busy town of Port Kaituma. I was met at the airstrip by three CIA men. They had the same beige short sleeved shirts and slacks, the same side partings, and the same sense of humour. They were to make sure I got to my destination without going off-piste. But they told me in the car to the hotel that once they'd delivered me safely, I was on my own.
That wasn't quite accurate though. I'd made some calls before I'd heard back from the authorities, and had called in a couple of favours. I had the address of a man who ferried people up and down the rivers. He had agreed to be my guide, and his sons were apparently the kind of men who could handle themselves. It was impossible for any kind of service like his to operate without that kind of insurance.
We didn't stay long in Port Kaituma. My handlers seemed eager to be rid of me. A short stay in a slophouse in which they went over my plans in detail, and frowned at almost sentence I said, was followed by a few hours in a hot 4x4 to my destination. They barely exchanged a word with me on the way. I got the impression they didn't like dealing with 'tourists'.
They didn't actually enter Jonestown when we got there. 'Too dangerous' they said. They left me at the side of the road, and gave me one last chance to return to Port Kaituma and get the next flight home. I refused, politely and walked toward the town's perimeter.
Jonestown isn't what I expected. In the Free World, the city has something of a reputation as an ideological cesspool. I was told by my American handlers that Jonestown is little more than a huge slum. At any one time, over half of the town's population can best be described as temporary residents. Either they're veterans from the conflict in the interior, coming here to the Mecca of New World Socialism to relax and unwind, or they are fresh-faced Europeans, just off the boat from Georgetown, eager to pick up a gun and fight for the Revolution they've read about in journals at university. And of course, there is the crime. With people coming from all over the continent, from all over the world, there is a lot of corruption. Guyana's government turns a blind eye to Jonestown, the town's municipal government backs the socialists who are in power. My handlers told me that Jonestown's overseers exploited newcomers, and few of those young would-be Guevaras ever made it to the interior to fight. Jonestown ate up people who came and digested them into it's overcrowded slums, where the machinists manufacture guns and bullets for the front.
The reality was quite different. That transitory population does mean the city is filthy, and it could be charitably described as a slum. When over half the population isn't expecting to stay any longer than a month, they have little reason to keep it clean or ordered. In that respect, it is more like an armed camp than a town. Barely a day went by while I was there, without there being a parade of some sort. From the windows hung brilliant red banners, which fluttered in the breeze. There were stencilled paintings on many walls, whether they were brick, tarnished metal or woven reed, in stark black and blue. Most depicted the many revolutionary leaders of International Socialism. But most prominent of all, was Jim Jones himself.
I doubt Jones expected his little project to get quite so out of hand. While the Peoples' Temple is prominent in Jonestown, it is nowhere near as powerful as it once was, the loss of the central messianic figure of Jones meaning it has split and lost its dominating position. Perhaps it is this breakdown in such an absolutist authority which has prevented matters from getting quite as bad as the Langley men had told me.
Thats not to say there aren't problems. There aren't the beggars you see on the streets of slum-towns in many other places, including Port Kaituna. Thats because all available labour is hoovered up into the armaments factories and the collective farms. The authorities avoid using the term 'collective farm', it being a rather loaded Stalinist term. They prefer calling them kibbutzes, in line with the unique melting pot theory of New World Socialism. But they amount to the same thing. Surrounding Jonestown are wide fields tended to by men and women wearing wide brimmed hats. They live in collective tenements, and I understand that a close eye is kept on them to prevent 'hoarding' or 'reactionary evasion'. Jonestown is the doorway to the war in the interior and the town feels like it is under siege. Away from the parades is the hive of industry where the weapons and clothes of soldiers are forged and sewn. I never saw them directly, as they are heavily guarded and my attempts to get admittance was the one time I felt truly frightened in the town. The local law enforcement doesn't take kindly to snooty Westerners, and they aren't exactly susceptible to financial incentives.
I spent just over a week in Jonestown, organising the supplies I would need with the authorities and with my guides. Jonestown isn't an example of pure communism, and there is an entrepreneurial streak to the town's inhabitants. Between slanging matches with the kibbutzniks and negotiating how much space for supplies there would be on the longboat, I had time to talk to some people. One in particular was a young woman I met in one of Jonestown's many bars. She gave her name as Nikita Ferguson. I asked how she'd come to be there.
'I joined the Student Friends of the International Brigades while I was at Glasgow.' she replied. 'When I graduated, I thought about carrying on to do a Diploma. But I decided against it. Why bother fighting in the courts of the dying bourgeois democracies, when I could be here, fighting for a new kind of democracy. Through the old society, I knew a man who could get me to Cuba. From there, I was put through some basic training. A lot of those who had come with me from Glasgow washed out. I'm not sure what they expected. Anyway, after a month of that, we shipped out to Guyana. We were organised into brigades here in Jonestown before we went into the interior.' That can't have been that long ago. If she'd graduated in the autumn of 1992, and left for Cuba by the end of the year, she must only have been here for a few months.
'Yeah, it's only been since January, but it's June now and in those months the whole world has changed for me. I've fought in dozens of engagements, against every conceivable opponent of the Peoples' State. These last five months have felt so much longer. Glasgow seems so far away, so distant from what I've done here. I've met people from every corner of the world, tasted things which have been sweeter than any nectar, I've suffered in ways I couldn't have imagined last year.' Has it been worth it, I wonder. Has she been jaded by her experiences.
'Yes, and no. At the time, I thought of those who returned home from Cuba as cowards and class traitors. Now, I think differently. This battlefield is unforgiving. It's harder than anything Cuba prepared us for. They would not have survived here. I have an open mind and I have a willingness to hear what anyone has to say. International Revolution isn't for everyone.'
She smiled at me and ordered another drink. It was clear that she considered the interview over. I moved away from the blonde haired woman, her hair tied up with a red headscarf, her combat overalls smeared with mud and oil. She is exactly the type of person that I had got into the country saying I would deter. But she seemed to be totally sold on the cause. I would need to go deeper to reveal the truth of it all.
