Madhia was a one street town; an administrative centre but much more notable for its varied services to the mining community - the Pork Knockers - independent prospectors for gold and diamonds coming from across the Caribbean and neighbouring South American countries. These recreational and recuperative services operated through the night. Rock and reggae boomed across rain swept trees. The Wild West was alive and well.

Part of our task was to visit polling stations across the region; 22 in total of which we managed to reach eleven.

On 4 October, we planned to visit polling stations away from Madhia.  Overnight there had been very heavy rain and the roads leading into the town were like ploughed fields, passable only by lorry with tires almost as tall as me.

Kaieteur Falls

I set off mid-morning to visit Kaieteur, further up the Potaro River, a major tributary of the Essequibo, where the Kaieteur Falls drop over 820 feet, as the river fights its way through a narrow, vertigo inducing gorge. The only way to get there was by plane and the services of Derek Leung, an experienced Guyanese pilot, had been retained for our mission. We were told that Derek could land on any village airstrip.

Part of the reason for the journey was to deliver the Kaieteur ballot box. This required the company of a policeman, a tall and stoic man who waited patiently with me on Madhia's air strip which looked more like a wide and bumpy footpath than a place to land a plane. One or two others waited with us, clearly intending to hitch a lift.

After half an hour or so, we heard a hum in the distance; a few seconds later a small single engined plane buzzed into sight, flying low over the trees. It bumped its way down the footpath, braked-hard and slewed round in front of us, sending some red pellets of mud in our direction.

The door opened and without much by way of greeting, Derek Leung invited us aboard and said let's go. Our small party - plus ballot box - moved towards the plane, climbed in what must have been a six to eight seater aircraft, only to discover a very obvious absence of seats. This didn't seem to be a matter of great surprise to my companions, so I sat on the ballot box, hung on to the straps available, and waited for lift off.

We juddered down the 'footpath'. Almost immediately we were above Guyana's dense green forests. But we were only just above the trees, as Derek swooped low over the canopy, flying in harmony with the topography of river and mountain. Flying in a straight line was not part of the flight plan. The plane weaved and banked, and so did we, straining on the straps as the sky and forest changed places through the scratched and worn windows of the Cessna.

I learned later - on the return trip - that Derek had spent some time as a stunt pilot in Canada. It certainly showed as we sashayed and skipped our way across Guyana's forests. And as we approached the Kaieteur Falls he was determined that we see the tumbling water from as many different angles as possible. We hung on, straining to stay upright.

Being a pilot in Guyana is a hazardous trade. Sadly, seven years later, Derek Leung died in a plane crash while flying to Madhia. But on that October morning, in 1992, we landed dustily on the Kaieteur airstrip, a few hundred yards away from the falls, and close to the small trading and tourist centre. At that time, Kaieteur was not the major tourist attraction that it is today, although there was a guesthouse and a few small stores.

We delivered the black ballot box safely to the polling station which, as was the case in most Potaro-Siparuni villages, was the local bar cum store. This made sense given that this was where people gathered on a regular basis. The box was positioned on the top of the bar ready for polling, the day after our visit. It seemed appropriate to have a drink.

Before plucking up courage for the return flight to Mahdia, I went down to the edge of the gorge to watch the sun flecked waters shaft their way down to the darkness of the river below. The height of the falls made it almost impossible to see the resting place of the aerated plumes of mist. And leaning too far out was not a good idea on the slippery stones bordering the void.

Derek returned me to Madhia in one piece, displaying aerobatic skills which are memorable now, less so at the time.

The Potaro River

The Potaro River winds its way eastwards to the North of Madhia. Fakhruddin and I set off mid-afternoon, in a house-sized lorry, to pick up a boat to take us down river as far as the village of Tumatimari, a small centre with a mixed Amerindian and mining community. We were accompanied by Muriel and Junita from the local election team.

The lorry slithered its way down to a landing stage where a long canoe, with an outboard motor, awaited us. It was well after 4.30 in the afternoon by the time we swept out into the middle of the fast flowing river. The light was already beginning to soften and the sun to slide towards the tree tops.

Not unusually, for the time of day, there were rumbles of thunder. But as darkness fell, so did the rain; gently at first but then with greater ferocity. The wind picked up and the river became more turbulent. Soon we were surrounded by cannons of thunder and, more alarmingly, from where we sat huddled in our tiny boat, sheets of lightening that lit the sky in every direction. The tops of trees were silhouetted sharply, waving helplessly against the storm.

We ploughed on believing - hoping - that the storm would pass. We sat low in the bow of the boat, soaked through, peering ahead through the curtain of rain, feeling very small in the theatre of light and sound which surrounded us. We could not speak, because we could not hear each other, as the thunder clapped almost continuously.

Rather than easing, the storm intensified. The boat edged towards the bank to our left, fighting the waves as we made out a soft orange light through the rain. Our boatman had decided that we should take a break.

The Pork Knockers set up small camps along the river; temporary shelters where they live and work. Lanterns light their presence at night. There was no landing stage, so the boat slithered onto the sandy bank, where we stepped into a mixture of water and mud. We climbed unsteadily towards the shelter. Already soaked, we now fell into the mud. The miners seemed to take us in their stride, although bedraggled election observers cannot have been regular visitors to the camp. We drank some water and stared out across the river waiting for respite. After half an hour so, our boatman guide decided we should move on, although we could not see any great improvement in the conditions. After acquiring some more mud we set off downstream.

In the course of the next two hours we visited two more camps when the storms intensified. When you are not used to a very explicit demonstration of the power of nature, experiencing continuous sheet lightening is unnerving. The democratic process was far from our thoughts. Eventually a landing stage flashed into sight to the right. We staggered up some uneven planks, tumbled into the bar/polling station, shook off the surplus moisture and discussed arrangements for polling day just a few hours away - with a large glass of rum. We were met with consideration and some charm, although the events of our voyage elicited little interest; a necessary reminder that this part of Guyana is a land of extremes which its inhabitants live with on a daily basis.

After two more stops, we headed wearily back up river to return to Mahdia. The rain eased, the lightening sped away to other parts of the forest and we fought the river waves in pitch darkness. At the landing stage, our lorry beamed its huge lights across the water to welcome us, before attacking the battlefield of mud which was called the road to Madhia. We fell into our bunks at 2.30 in the morning on Election Day, 5 October.

Postscript

Our intention had been to visit polling stations by air on polling day but the weather the previous night had made this impossible, so, rising at six o'clock, we spent the day in Madhia;s primary school, watching the steady trickle of voters (209 in all) move through the town's polling station. Apart from some pork-knockers complaining that they had been disenfranchised we had a quiet day. We witnessed the count by candlelight.