A larger problem remained unspoken: that Jonestown was not the Promised Land depicted in promotional films and brochures. The soil described as rich was poor, even by Guyanese standards. The trees did not even produce mature fruit, let alone a fruit that tasted like ice cream sherbet. The people could not fish and swim; the nearest body of water was almost seven miles away on muddy roads. Jonestown required sweat and strain for survival itself.
The grim transition sapped the pioneer spirit and enthusiasm of many. Nevertheless, Jones continued the same old propaganda on the shortwave radio, trying to convince his people in San Francisco and perhaps himself that Jonestown was indeed the fulfillment of their dreams.
Using Albert Touchette’s license, he spoke oftentimes over the international radio network, as if he were a head of state. He assumed, correctly, that people eavesdropped on Temple communications. In fact, those radio relays probably entertained hundreds of amateur radio operators around the world. They also provided the best source of intelligence information for defectors, such as Elmer and Deanna Mertle (Al and Jeannie Mills). Even the Examiner enlisted a ham radio operator to monitor the transmissions in hopes of finding out something about Jonestown.
The Examiner’s radio operator was listening at 6:00 A.M. on August 23, 1977, while Jones spoke from the settlement to the San Francisco temple. Sounding tormented, Jones pleaded unjust persecution by the news media. “I have always heard that it was the government that represented corporate elite interests, and that it was the press that exposed things like Watergate. What in the world is going on?”
On the radio, his loyalists in the Bay Area relayed the day’s press treatment. He sighed relief each day nothing was reported. He would not face the press in a news conference or interviews, but spoke to the world at large about these allegations, proclaiming his innocence like a man already convicted.
“People are saying it’s all work down here, no time to play,” Jones said over the radio. “They haven’t seen the community center, the TVs, the videotape. We have comedies, documentaries on social conditions. We had a dance tonight. We will go for a hike this weekend. It’s really fantastic.”
Speaking of the 130 young people the Temple claimed to be rehabilitating from lives of crime, he sounded like an American patriot: “We’re serving our country in two ways, taking a burden off the taxpayers, reducing crime, astronomically, and then helping good relations by building agriculture in a country that is trying to feed, clothe and house their people.”
In times of crisis, the Jones family, like any family, drew closer. The spate of negative publicity united them on the airwaves this day. Marceline Jones put her mother, Charlotte Baldwin, on the radio, and she asked Jim how he was feeling.
“I’m a little concerned, you Republican lady.... It’s wonderful being out here in a part of the jungle where you don’t get any news. ... We’ve got some marvelous laying hens and some broilers and fryers. You got plants of every variety, and tea ... the papaya aren’t really ripe yet.... Here comes your grandson, who looks healthier than I’ve ever seen him in my life.... He’s learned every kind of skill available. Here’s Steve.”
After Stephan chatted briefly with his grandmother, Marceline then came on to talk to her son: “How are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m fine because, thanks to Dad, I’ve got a job I’m happy with. I’m happy where I can pretty much work by myself. I’m really enjoying it here.”
“That’s beautiful. I’m so glad. I know that Dad recognizes your leadership abilities. I know that you’re a great help to him. I’m so proud. Did you get my note?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Well, I meant every word of it. I’m telling you what I’m seeing happening here [with the press] makes me so glad that all of you are there.”
There was a long pause, then Stephen said: “Mom, I love you and miss you.”
“I love you too and miss you, but we’ll be together before you know it. ”
After having a similar conversation with Jimmy, Marceline concluded the transmission: “I feel so optimistic about everything. I think everything is going to work out just fine.”
PART SIX
THE EMPEROR JONES
“I can do anything I want because I’ve sacrificed to give everybody the good life. ”
JIM JONES
September 1977
ham radio broadcast from Jonestown
THIRTY-SEVEN
Heaven on Earth?
Despite the litany of allegations back home, no outsider visiting Jonestown for the first time could fail to be impressed by the physical site itself. The people, through sheer hard work and perseverance, had converted three hundred acres of dense jungle into a neatly laid out, administered and maintained town of nearly a thousand people. One needed only to walk the boardwalks to see the pride that had gone into constructing the colony—the row upon row of weeded crops on either side of the long road into Jonestown and around the cottages and dormitories, the vegetable beds and citrus groves planted in and around the settlement.
Visitors coming from Port Kaituma passed under a large sign hanging over the road: GREETINGS, PEOPLES TEMPLE AGRICULTURAL PROJECT. Behind the sign was a guarded gate—nothing more than a chain across the road—and a small security shack equipped with radio and tall antenna; routinely the guards advised Jonestown of approaching visitors. Along the roadsides, plantain groves and acres of cassava flourished. A final turn into the compound revealed the banana shed, kitchen and eating area on the right. Surrounding buildings included showers and toilets, sheds to dry and store food, an outdoor laundry area and even an herb center. On the other side of the road rose the dominant structure—the Jonestown pavilion—an open-air structure with a peaked aluminum roof. Here Jim Jones held his meetings and here the band played. Immediately adjacent to the pavilion stood two long school rooms with green canvas roofing. Beyond the pavilion, five large sexually segregated dormitories had been built for single women, problem children and the elderly. Beyond those lay a cluster of small wooden cottages. Other buildings were interspersed throughout the compound: the nursery, preschool center, the radio room and an outdoor play area. On opposite ends of Jonestown stood East House—accommodations for overnight visitors—and West House, home to Jim Jones; these cabins were named after early communes in Redwood Valley.
With the logistical problems of the initial influx behind them, the Jonestown administrators could practically watch the place run itself. The organizational plan, with modifications owing to the poor soil, was essentially working. Joyce Touchette ran the kitchen, central supply and laundry. Charlie Touchette oversaw construction, mechanics, the wood and machine shops, transportation and power generation. Marceline Jones, who commuted between Jonestown and San Francisco, ran the medical department when she was around. Tom Grubbs ran the school. Johnny Brown Jones, Carolyn Layton and Harriet Tropp served as Jim Jones’s chief administrative officers: “the triumvirate.” Stephan Jones sat on the steering committee, which planned for the farm’s future, basing its decisions on reports from heads of various departments—banking, sewage, sanitation and engineering, roads, public relations, movies, video and guests, livestock and agriculture.
Jonestown’s workforce was comprised of about 950 Peoples Temple members, two-thirds female. Nearly 70 percent were black, 25 percent were white, and the rest a smattering of mulatto, Hispanic, American Indian and Asian. Nearly three hundred were under eighteen years old.
An extensive report to the Guyanese government in the summer of 1977 detailed the progress of these pioneers. A preliminary draft was sent to the San Francisco temple with a note from Harriet Tropp: “[It] does show that the project is indeed something other than a ‘penal colony.’ ”
The section on cassava production illustrated the care taken to use every bit of the precious resources available: the cassava mill could grate one hundred pounds of cassava root in three minutes. The gratings then were pressed; when the starch settled in the resulting liquid, t
he remainder was boiled, strained, then cooked down to a heavy syrup called cassareep. This was used to flavor foods and to make fudge. The starch was used for cooking and in the laundry center. The leftover cassava pressings were made into flour that was mixed in pig feed or turned into bread.
Eddoes, a root similar to sweet potatoes, were planted in 900-foot beds. The orchard, upward of a thousand immature trees, yielded only small fruit. But the agriculture section expected a crop of 1,000 pineapples and harvested 2,000 pounds of bananas a month. As the settlers invented a mechanical planter and their farming methods improved, they experimented with a wide variety of crops: onions, mung and cutlass beans, even coffee.
The pig population had grown from one young boar and five small pigs in 1975 to 130 animals. Pork, though served only when outsiders visited, was plentiful—and regularly sold downriver to earn income for the farm. The chicken population of several hundred soon multiplied to a thousand.
The Jonestown kitchen, though spartan by American standards, nevertheless was efficient and came equipped with large commercial refrigerators and icemakers, two gas and kerosene stoves and large aluminum sinks. It stayed open around the clock, as teams of workers took turns preparing the meals. At first the diet was varied: fresh fruit and vegetables, rice, chicken, cheeses and bread, among other things. A hand-dug well provided excellent water for cooking, drinking, cleaning, laundry and bathing.
The medical unit was well staffed and supplied. A large room served as an infirmary and drug dispensary. Detailed medical records, even a gynecological history on each woman, were kept.
Don Fields, who held a doctorate in pharmacology, manned the dispensary. The medical personnel included Dr. Larry Schacht, who had interrupted his internship to come to Jonestown, plus a pediatrics practitioner and a respiratory therapist. A registered nurse was on duty twenty-four hours a day.
The hard-working staff soon learned to cope with health hazards of a jungle life. They had workers kill off mosquito larvae to prevent outbreaks of malaria. The herb staff experimented with various teas to treat serious cases of constipation, a common consequence of the increasingly starchy diet. The seriously ill were taken to Matthews Ridge or, if necessary, to Georgetown.
The preschool nursery was a wood frame cottage with a corrugated metal roof. A rising sun had been painted on its wall, in back of the sandbox. Toys, crayons, children’s books and dolls were arranged on ledges. A clipboard held “preschool stool reports.” The day’s lesson plan was chalked on a blackboard: “1) Perceptual motor skills; 2) water colors; 3) play dough; 4) paper cutting; and 4) sandbox, manipulative toys.”
Elementary school classes were organized according to ability. The learning pace was individualized. In addition to the three R’s, the students were taught physical and earth sciences, social science “with emphasis on Guyanese history and culture,” socialism, arts, crafts and music. The high school provided vocational and technical education, stressing agricultural skills.
For many of the several hundred senior citizens, Jonestown might well have seemed better than life in America, especially for southern blacks who came via the ghettos. Nearly two hundred seniors turned over monthly social security checks to the church, but in return they enjoyed a measure of security. All their needs were met, and they no longer had to fear urban crime. By and large, seniors could relax. Those not desiring to work on communal projects could tend small gardens. All could visit the library for books or watch videotapes. Sometimes they took short nature hikes on carefully marked trails. It was difficult for some, but they adjusted out of necessity to crowding, strange food and weather, and other negative conditions. Still, they shared a sense of community in Jonestown—and some believed that Jones was God. None was in a position to pack up and leave.
Not all was work, hardship and structured activities. Occasionally, Stephan Jones would face his stereo speakers toward the cottages and turn up the volume. People would gather spontaneously to sing and dance. Visitors provided relief from the routines, too. When outsiders came to Jonestown, Jim Jones would pull out the stops; the settlers could count on pork or chicken for dinner, with several kinds of vegetables and sometimes a piece of pie. The Jonestown Express and the Soul Steppers would provide the musical entertainment while comedians did their slapstick routine. When the band got cooking—soul, gospel, rhythm and blues, disco—everyone would join in.
Above all, the pioneer spirit kept Jonestown alive. Despite the hardship, this group of city people had carved a new life in the rain forests of South America. Most new arrivals felt a special sense of adventure. They also felt their experiment was significant: that they were building a model for socialism.
Nevertheless, factionalism developed with the sudden arrival of so many people. Stephan Jones and some other early settlers resented the well educated new arrivals, who second-guessed their work. When one so-called expert suggested “a better method” for milling lumber, they invited him to try. Then they gloated after he managed less than 10 percent of the regular crew’s production and gave up.
It did not take long for one woman to realize that Jonestown was not for her. During her May 1977 visit to the Promised Land, “Mrs. B.” became convinced that people were losing weight rapidly on a high-carbohydrate diet. As a city person, she was put off by jungle sanitation; she did not like using a cold water shower and an outhouse, or wiping with a newspaper. The flies pestered her so much that she had to eat with one hand and shoo them off with the other. It rained nearly every day, leaving the ground constantly muddy. Mildew crawled everywhere.
Mrs. B. got the impression that Temple leaders did not want her to speak with her friends from San Francisco—James and Irene Edwards and Emmett Griffith, Sr., and his wife Mary—who had arrived earlier. Yet the two couples privately told Mrs. B. that they were not getting enough to eat. Edwards, a powerful man well over six feet, looked as though he had lost fifty pounds. Both couples wanted to go home. (Earlier, of course, I had heard what another friend, Le Flora Townes, believed about Edwards’s weight loss—that he was not emaciated but fit, and happy, in Jonestown.)
Such revelations had made Mrs. B. afraid to speak to anyone else about leaving; she feared being reported. She believed others were unhappy, too, but were stranded without money or passports. Someone advised her to pin any cash she had to her underwear, so it would not be taken away or stolen.
Though she was squired around hospitably, some hardship and brutality could not be hidden from her. People worked from sunup to sundown, performing the most grueling physical work in the broiling sun. The children were pushed to the point of unquestioning obedience. In one case, a child who defecated in his pants was forced to wear the soiled garments on his head and to go without food while watching others eat. An eleven-year-old boy who said he was tired of hearing about Father’s sacrifices was knocked down by one man, and Charlie Touchette had to throw his body over the boy to prevent him from being hurt further. As punishment, some were made to eat hot peppers. Edwards told her of one offender who had a pepper jammed up his rectum. Other guilty parties had their heads shaved. Mrs. B. also heard Marceline Jones and Maria Katsaris lecture a women’s meeting, saying sex was banned, because there was time only for labor.
To complain was to be punished. So Mrs. B. used ruse to return to the United States. The others—the unhappy and the true believers alike —were doomed to stay behind.
On a daily basis, Jones had to deal with the dashed expectations of the many settlers who recognized that Jonestown, their tropical paradise, really resembled a primitive jungle workcamp. Jones had to crush any thought of leaving or escape, but that was no more difficult than disabusing them of their fantasies. At last, he had people where he wanted them —on another continent, in a jungle with no law except his own. Their isolation was complete. Events in the world—and reality itself—would be filtered exclusively through him. His lust for control could be almost sated.
During a May meeting taped by the Temple, Jones was in
a light-hearted mood as he played with his power. He would interrupt the meeting with hideous laughs, prolonged, high-pitched whinnies that were both eerie and sadistic. Perched in his light-green wooden chair at the front of the pavilion, he singled out an eighteen-year-old black youth named Jerry.
“Tell me why you want to go back to America?” Jones began almost playfully, “so we can reeducate you.”
Jerry thought for a moment, then repeated what Jones had said for years: “It will be destroyed by nuclear war.... I just want to go back, when probably it’ll be taken over by socialists.”
An opening had been provided. “When nuclear war comes,” said Jones laughing, “and they blast everything to dust and you can’t drink the water and you can’t breathe the air and your apartment is blown to hell, there’ll be damned little left.”
“It was always my impression that some of us would go back and take over the States,” Jerry said.
“All the black folk’ll be blown up because they don’t give us no caves, no bomb shelters, so I’d be going back to help white folks,” Jones said, shooting down that argument. “You want to make another case for me to go back there?”
“We can just wait a while till the radiation cools,” Jerry offered, hopefully.
“I’ll tell you, son,” Jones said, after one of his long squeals. “Your balls will have done shrunk up by the time that happens. Till it’s safe to wander around, it’ll be fifty years.” Everyone was laughing now.
“I figure,” said Jerry, undaunted, but a trifle more tentative, “if we go back and probably kill off white folks, I mean ...”
Laughter.
“You’re my best argument against going back,” said Jones. “Keep on, Jer.”
“I figure it this way. It wouldn’t make no sense to let that land go to waste.”
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