A Gathering of Twine

by Martin Adil-Smith

  Miguel was born to us in the spring of seventy-one, and when an opportunity came later that year to be part of a new Mission in Guyana, it felt as if God’s Plan was being shown to us. To borrow from a Presbyterian, there are none as blind as those that refuse to see.

  Our mission was based on the southern outskirts of Georgetown, and the Lord rewarded us with a plentiful bounty. It was hard. It was plenty hot in the noon heat, but we would all work on. Once off the single main road that went in and out, it was nothing but dirt tracks, and reaching a community most often meant having to borrow a mule. Randall taught at the Mission during the day and helped to sink wells in the evening. I tended the local women in matters of childcare and midwifery, as well as rudimentary general medicine. Our congregation grew from a handful of hungry parishioners to three full services each and every Sunday. We were happy.

  The people grew too – spiritually, I mean - with a number becoming active during service. That is not to say that there weren’t difficulties because there were. We were often hassled by a local gang who stole our food and vandalised the corrugated iron shack that we called a church. Similarly, local officials would impose “fines”, claiming that our visas weren’t valid or that the church wasn’t built within the grounds specified by the government lease. We came to expect such treatment, and in time there was grudging recognition for the work that we did. We never blamed our tormentors. They were poor boys, with no education or knowledge of the gospel. They didn’t know any better. Maybe it would be better for all of us if we lived like that. In ignorance.

  *

  It was mid seventy-three that we heard of another mission coming to Guyana. This one was not backed by the Catholic Church but was a splinter of the Baptists. The proposed site was far from Georgetown, out in the Barima-Waini Region, and as such, we didn’t pay it much attention. Randall said that there was less than ten thousand souls spread over some twenty-thousand square kilometres, all of it inhospitable jungle, and as such, we did not see that there would be any overlap between the two missions.

  By early seventy-four, the story had changed. It was no longer a mission that was being established but a commune, and work was to begin in the spring. What information we did receive was not encouraging, and we heard tales of political scandal, fraud, and that the leader, Jim Jones – Dad to his followers - was being forced to flee America because of drugs and sodomy charges.

  Randall, me, and the other mission members had worked for nearly three years to build our reputations as Americans and now it looked like all the goodwill we had earned would be squandered if we were in any way to be associated with this interloping hippy rabble. Needless to say, we were all deeply concerned, and several of the menfolk went to the US embassy... I say embassy. It was no more than a single storey brick building. No plaster or nothing. They came back more worried than when they left. It was a commune and a new mission. It was a done deal, and there was nothing we could do to stop it.

  The central government had agreed on a lease of nearly four thousand acres of jungle near Kaituma, a remote gold-mining colony. Even though this was some hundred-and-fifty miles from Georgetown, and across dense and unforgiving jungle terrain, we all felt uneasy at the prospect of what this commune may bring.

  *

  In the April of seventy-four, Randall told me that a delegation from San Francisco was coming to begin preparatory works for the building of the commune and that they had agreed to meet with us to discuss our concerns.

  When Randall told me that it was a ‘delegation’ I was expecting a small group of maybe a dozen men. I was not prepared for the five hundred souls that I met outside Timehri Airport. They were all so smart with their open neck shirts and big smiles - not the rabble of students and dropouts I had been expecting.

  That was the first time I met Timothy Stoen of The Peoples Temple, and initially, I was suspicious of him. Of the five hundred delegates, he was one of the few white faces, but they were all at ease with each other. Africans and Mexicans and the white men. Some Afro-Caribbeans too.

  When I asked him about this, he laughed and told me that was part of The Temple’s problem. The Temple was an integrationist utopia and saw no distinction in race, colour, or creed. There had been some mighty opposition to them from the hicks in Indiana, and they had driven Dad and his congregation out to San Francisco. Despite the relative liberalisation of California, there were plenty who did not like what Dad was doing, and the police had set him up on charges of homosexual solicitation. Timothy also told me how the fascist right had infiltrated the organisation and then tried to discredit it, showing me a newspaper article from the previous September. Looking at the happy smiling faces around me, it was hard to relate to the ‘abuses’ and ‘mind control’ that the newspaper talked about.

  Randall and I had certainly had our fill of segregationist views and violence. As a mixed-race couple, our windows had been put in more than once when we were first married. That was until Randall asked his Air Force friends to speak ‘nicely’ to those responsible. But we knew about living in fear. Fear of being spat at on the street; of being called lazy even though those folks knew nothing about us or our living. Once we even had a dead cat thrown at the house and threatening phone calls were not uncommon.

  I won’t say that Tim won us over there and then. Our minds were still too cluttered with all our preconceptions. But he did make us feel relaxed. Kaituma had an airstrip that could only handle the smaller aeroplanes, and Tim arranged for the ferrying of the other delegates to begin. It was then that we learned that the delegation was actually the first wave of immigration, and they were there to start the construction work. The building materials had been ordered and sent by boat a few weeks previously, and should be arriving just in time.

  The ferrying of the delegation that day was slow. It was nearly a three-hour round trip to Kaituma, and only two airplanes that had been chartered, carrying no more than a dozen or so men at a time. Tim said that he thought they had hotel reservations, but I could see from the look on his face that he had underestimated how long the process would take. Randall offered him and some of his men the hospitality of the Mission, and they graciously accepted.

  Their company that night was most congenial, and we learned more about their mission – a form of Pentecostal Socialism. They described a system, based on the gospels, where no man owns anything but contributes selflessly to the greater whole. I could see that Randall was unconvinced, but the way Tim described the communal way in which the children were raised, and the elderly cared for appealed to me. It seemed a good way of sharing both the bounties and trials that life brought.

  As the evening wore on the conversation grew more theological, and wearied from the day’s exertions I retired, leaving the men-folk to debate the mysteries and secrets of God’s infinite universe. I truly wish that they had stayed secret.

  *

  The next morning, my husband seemed electrified. The men had talked until the small hours and had told Randall about their sermons. It seemed that Dad would often lapse into talking in tongues, and when he did some of the congregation would experience visions of heaven and God’s Great Kingdom. Tim had invited us both to see the settlement in Kaituma, and Randall was keen. It had been many years since I had seen him in such fervour, and I agreed to go along too.

  That morning, Timehri was still crowded with more than two hundred delegates, and it was evident that the ferrying operation had gone on most of the night. Despite having had to sleep on the airport’s hard floor, all seemed to be in high spirits, and it was not long before an airplane returned that we were able to board.

  The ride was bumpy, and combined with the sticky heat, I felt sick almost from the moment we took off. Randall barely seemed to notice, so deep in conversation was he with Tim and the other men.

  My period was late and I strongly suspected that I would have to tell my husband. He would be happy, I knew that he would. But Miguel was going through a difficult phase of saying “No
” to everything, and it had been wearing on both of us.

  It was maybe a half-hour into the flight, and I was deep in my own thoughts when I heard the pilot say something. Randall leaned forward, looking to where the pilot was pointing and was joined by Tim and another member of the delegation. I craned forward, and could just see three dark objects moving across the canopy of the dense jungle. Steam was slowly rising in places, where the morning heat was meeting the night dew.

  Tim said something to Randall, who nodded, but over the noise of the engines I could not make it out.

  “What is it?” I asked him when he sat back down.

  “Three helos.” Helicopters. Randall often lapsed into his Air Force slang.

  “What are they doing out here?”

  “Tim said they are most probably from a gold prospecting company. They’ve established a site ten kilometres or so from the Temple compound and have an agreement that their staff can use the Temple facilities. In exchange, they make some donations.”

  Tim waved to the helicopters, even though there was no way they could have seen them. If I had known then what I know now, I would have kicked him out of the airplane, God forgive me for saying such a thing. It seems funny saying that now. Reflex I guess.

  *

  We circled the area that was to be the Peoples Temple Agricultural Project before flying the two miles back to Kaituma. As we came in to land, we saw a convoy of trucks driving down the mud road, taking supplies toward the site. It had been raining on and off for weeks, and the trucks seemed to be making heavy work, churning up the road. We flew low, seeing men trying to secure a load where the back-end had slid, and another filling around the wheels with what looked like sand or sawdust.

  The Kaituma airstrip was just that – a length of compacted mud that the airplane landed on far too heavily. The residents of the nearby village eyed us with some amusement, assuming that Randall and I were part of the Temple. Their village was small but attracted enough transients, who worked for the gold mining companies, to be self-sufficient.

  We were greeted warmly and joined the queue of trucks heading towards Jonestown. In front of us was an old rusting tanker, and Tim told us that this was carrying chemical supplies for the gold prospectors.

  Jonestown at that point was little more than a small square of earth where the jungle had been cleared, but the sound of construction was all around us. Chainsaws whined and trees creaked before coming crashing down. Trunks were stripped and the wood sawed before being quickly whisked away to be fitted to the skeletal frames of what would be huts. The concept of ‘homes’ did not exist. All the huts were communal, and no-one had one any bigger or smaller than anyone else. Not even Dad. The makeshift canteen was serving cooling sweet tea and, under its canopy, I saw that Randall’s eyes were alight. He could see the potential for Jonestown and his enthusiasm was infectious. I could see it too. It was like a song – everyone living in harmony. Living as one.

  Whites worked alongside blacks. Hispanics prayed alongside Koreans. Children of all colours were playing together, running in and out of the building site, laughing. Even thinking about those early days brings a joyful tear to my eye.

  Randall was unusually quiet on the flight back to Georgetown. I knew what he was thinking. He had pitched in for a few hours with some of the workers, clearing an area that was to be a field for wheat and rye. I loved seeing him so alive.

  Almost instinctively, I found myself rubbing my belly. Randall looked at me, looked to me belly and then back to me.

  “Oh, baby. We need to talk.”

  Randall broke into a big grin, the sort that went from ear to ear. “Really?”

  “Uh-huh. I think so.”

  “How far?”

  “Not far. Maybe four or five weeks.”

  Clambering over the airplane seats, he came and hugged me. I can still smell the mustiness of his sweat. I felt warm all over. And so safe.

  Back at the mission, we barely slept, talking in low whispers for most the night so that the other members would not hear us. Randall wanted to join the Temple straight away, but I wanted to wait, at least until the child was born. Whilst medical care was basic in Georgetown, it would be non-existent in the jungle. And of course, I wanted to find out more about the Temple, and about Dad.

  *

  Winter did not really come that year. It seldom did. Sometimes the winds became fresher, less sticky, but on the whole, it remained hot, and I became increasingly uncomfortable as my belly swelled with the new life inside.

  Randall remained in contact with Tim and even started casting about Georgetown for a satellite office for the Temple, but it would not be until January of seventy-five that I next saw Timothy Stoen.

  The market was alive with its usual bustle. Vendors called out and the smell of fresh fruit and vegetables hung in the hot still air. Despite being only a week or so away from being due, and advised to stay off my feet, I found myself at my most comfortable when I was up and about.

  I heard Randall’s name called out, and we both turned to see Tim with two other Temple members. I recognised them both, and they smiled warmly, shaking our hands and enquiring about the baby. But Tim looked haggard, and he had dropped a few pounds. Still, he put a brave face on, and we swapped stories of our respective Christmas celebrations. Tim began to talk business with Randall, about the office, and drifted away from me for a few minutes, whilst I picked out vegetables for the evening supper.

  Later, as I was preparing dinner, I mentioned to Randall that Tim had not looked well. He agreed but said that Tim had taken too much on with the Jonestown construction. It had taken its toll and he had been laid up with the flu for most of the festive period in San Francisco. He also mentioned that Tim was having some marital difficulties, and these had been exacerbated when a friend of his wife had left the Temple, claiming that her daughter had been beaten by members of Dad’s ‘Red Brigade’.

  It turned out that the persecution of the Temple had followed them from Indiana, with members occasionally being attacked in the street, and more than once the Church had been broken into and vandalised. In response, Dad had armed some of the members and made them into a rapid response unit, so that if anyone was in trouble this ‘Red Brigade’ could be called and they would help.

  This sounded inflammatory to me, and I reminded Randall that America was already involved in one seemingly endless arms race, and everyone would do well to remember that if everyone was a given a gun to shoot then pretty soon there would be no-one left. Randall agreed but told me that if he was in the same position he would do likewise.

  From what Tim had told my husband, it seemed that the beatings endured by members of the congregation were not random crimes of hate but specifically targeted. Tim had hinted at CIA involvement, and that Dad had taken the claims so seriously that, in addition to setting up the Red Brigade in San Francisco, he had also done the same in Jonestown, where armed guards now patrolled the perimeter.

  I scoffed at him. “Now you tell me, Randall Pitman,” I said, “why would the CIA want to go poking their nose into a little church like Jim Jones’?”

  Randall shrugged. “Probably the same reason they shot Dr King. There will always be those who want to maintain the status-quo, and if they can see someone who either is or is capable of challenging that... well, they don’t take kindly to it.”

  “Oh really? And what is Jim Jones doing that the CIA don’t take kindly to?”

  Randall frowned. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes I am, and I’ll thank you not to address me in that tone.”

  “Baby, look at what Jonestown is. Black living with white. Nobody steals nothing because nobody has nothing, and everyone is just as happy as they could be. A man just gets up with his brother, does a day’s work and gets a fair meal. Nobody cares about what sneakers you’ve got, or how much your Rolex cost, or what kitchen they should get fitted.”

  “I don’t care about those things.”

  “Neither do I, but
Baby, there are people out there who do care whether you think about those things. You see Jim as starting an arms race with the local hoods, but I see it that he’s trying to check out of the consumption race. He doesn’t want his Church to care what car their neighbours have. But if people aren’t buying new cars, then what is going to happen to all the car manufacturers? And then the economy? Do you see? It’s the same with televisions, and apartments, and everything. They just want to keep feeding you stuff you don’t need so they can keep taking your money...”

  “Yeah...” I interrupted, and leaned against the side of the counter, a peeler in one hand. “That’s awful nice Randall, and I’m sure you tried extra hard to learn that little speech.” I had found Temple pamphlets next to his bed saying much the same. “But right now we got bigger problems.”

  Randall looked confused. “What’s that Hun?”

  “My waters just broke.”

  *

  During the previous few months, many people told me that the second one is always easier than the first. Many people were wrong. It took two days to get Paulo out, and I’m afraid I may have cussed. Randall was as dutiful as ever, waiting patiently outside whilst the nurses did what they do. But you should have seen his face when he held his new son that first time. He and his two boys. Right then, I don’t think there was a prouder man on the whole planet.

  After that, our life fell back into the familiar routine of feeding and changing that I knew so well from when Miguel was a baby. Randall went back to church work soon enough, but I could see he was itching to bring up the subject of Jonestown. I give him his due, he knew me well enough not to mention it until Paulo was a little stronger, and we were both distracted enough by what was going on back in Washington to really talk about it. Rumours were flying every which way, and we did not know what to believe.

  *

  It was April, and Georgetown was a riot of gossip. The US was quitting Vietnam. I knew that Randall had served over there, but he never said much about it, although I suspected it played it a part in his coming out of the Air Force. The whole Mission sat around the small wireless on the twenty-third, listening in disbelief as Ford announced the end of The War and the withdrawal of all US aid. No-one said anything. How could we have lost?