John Gimlette's Voyages

Although the Madeiran immigrants of the 1830s came to Guyana to work in the fields, the venture was not a success. They readily succumbed to the heat and to disease (and ended up being fed by the 'Africans'). In a relatively short time, they moved into trade, and became the colony’s shopkeepers. By 1851, ½ of British Guiana's shops were Portuguese.

Arriving in Georgetown, the early Madeiran immigrants of 1835 cannot have experienced a greater contrast with the land they'd left behind. Whereas the sugar fields of Guyana are hot, low and flat, the Madeiran landscape is unimaginably precipitous. The island forms part of a volcano that sits, twice as high as the French Alps, on the Atlantic Ocean floor.

In 1835, a year after the abolition of slavery in British Guiana, the colonial authorities began to import the first indentured labourers, a shipload of 430 starving Portuguese from the famine-ravaged island of Madeira. Despite the warnings of the Governor of Madeira that they’d be branded like slaves, a total of 31,0000 Madeirans left for BG.

These are some of the last houses of Macushi territory, in the southern savannahs of Guyana (near Shulinab). At this point, the road curls round the southern side of the Kanuku Mountains.

Pubs and bars are always a feature of travel books. Many are dreary and functional (the worst I've come across were in Norway and the outports of Newfoundland). But some stand out. In Heidelberg, the old 16th century student pubs often have a pianist and a sing-song; at the Shire River Hotel (Malawi), the bar was invaded every night by hippos; meanwhile, there are a couple of places in Havana, Cuba, that mix drinks just as they did in Hemingway's day (although without the punch-up).

Isn't odd the whole business of staying in someone else's house for money? In Labrador, I once stayed with a completely disfunctional family, who prowled around all night, and fought over the food. In mid-Wales I stayed with a farmer whose house hadn't been re-decorated for almost 100 years.

This may not look much but, to hydrologists, its heaven. It's a watershed, deep in the Rupununi Savannah (Guyana). From here, the water runs off to join the tributaries of Essequibo in one direction, and the Amazon in the other. During the wet season, these two mighty river basins are linked by floodwaters, and the eastern Guianas become – if not exactly an island – completely encircled by water.

Most of us are relatively familiar with the horrors of this abhorrent trade in Guyana from c1630-1834 (and which I described in 'Wild Coast'). Less familiar perhaps are the small liberties that survived slavery.

Every now and then, I come across a town with a wonderful antique feel. Take New Amsterdam, in Guyana. Even my hotel felt like a relic from an earlier age. The Hotel Aster was built like a clipper, and had hardwood decks and a thick cream hull. Inside, it was so dark and cramped that I had to wriggle my way to my room.

This is Karanambo, deep in the interior of Guyana. It's been home to the McTurk family since 1922. Back then, the Rupununi was still an odd place to settle. It took as long to get to Georgetown as it took for Townies to get to London. There was no doctor, no government, and still a handful of tribes who’d shower you in arrows. But Tiny McTurk didn’t seem to mind.