Why did you want to come to Guyana?….I was asked this last Sunday by a 73 year old Rasta gentleman who I stopped to chat with after he offered me some incense for sale. (It was a drive by sale, I was on my bike and he pulled up beside me with wares in his basket) We then pulled over to complete the purchase, $100 GYD or about 50 cents for crappy Chinese incense that I will never use, but I wanted to support him as he had asked me so nicely to buy it. We then started talking and he told me some great stories of the old days, when Georgetown was the “Garden City of the Caribbean” and pointed to where Jonestown prophet Jim Jones used to come to drink tea and we even talked about the current political situation and upcoming elections, a subject I tend to avoid out of respect unless brought up by locals. It was an awesome and intellectual conversation and after awhile I finally said I had to leave. He then asked me to come around the corner and see the ghetto with him (a VSO off limits zone I realized afterwards - whoops). “You must come to the ghetto, for what will you have really seen of Guyana, if not this…” He must have seen me hesitate slightly for he gently touched my arm and said “Don’t worry you are with me, and nothing will happen”. For reasons I’m still not sure of I instinctively trusted this old gentleman, maybe it was the peaceful cheap incense as his choice of wares to sell that inspired a subliminal confidence in him, or our conversation or maybe I didn’t want to let him down. I don’t know, I can’t really say, but I felt comfortable with him. We got back on our bikes and turned the corner and toured the ghetto together from the relative safety and perch of our bicycle seats for a few blocks. I didn’t know what to expect, I suppose I was a little afraid of what I might see…and I did see.. tears came into my eyes and what I saw made my small shared cold water flat in Kitty suddenly seem like opulent luxury accommodations for I have floors, a roof, running water, a stove, more than one room, a toilet, internet and electricity and what I think of as my terrible bike also suddenly seemed fancy and new, despite it’s thrice being smashed to the ground scars and bent basket I felt like I was driving a BMW. I had never seen anything like some of the living conditions I saw there, and I used to live a few blocks away from the infamous Downtown Eastside often called Canada’s worst neighborhood. Some people did tentatively wave to me as we passed and I nodded or waved back, yet the air was hushed and I noticed no one called me blondie or baby like usual. It was the longest four blocks of my life.
We then pulled back around to the main road from “Tiger” as this particular ghetto is called and my 73 year old Rasta escort then told me it is fact where he lived, that the ghetto is his home and he wanted to thank me and share something with me for as it turns out I was the only person to stop today to buy incense and now he could eat a meal and had been just about to go home hungry for the evening when I stopped my bike. I was truly humbled by this man, still so proud, so full of ideas and words, still charming and funny and wise and able to engage his views with an idealistic foreigner here to try and help his country. That he took the time to give something back when he has so little was deeply moving to me.
I thanked him for his tour and refrained from further offers of unnecessary incense purchases lest I somehow insult his dignity and what he had genuinely offered me of himself. We said goodbye and shook hands he then asked if I was going to the pool, and I actually was and somehow I felt so obviously like the 1st world interloper that I am. Here I am a volunteer in a developing country and still I can afford to engage in 1st world privileges such as an afternoon swim on a hot Sunday afternoon.
Why did you come to Guyana he had asked in our conversation…and I have been thinking about our encounter and his question ever since…for why did I really come to Guyana?
I came to Guyana...
To try and make a difference
To understand how things are for most of the people on this planet
To be grateful
To challenge myself
To learn about a new culture
To give back…
Yes to give back… but give back what exactly…? Perhaps the gift that fate has given me to live where and how I have in this world thus far. I’m sure none of us would choose the ghetto…but if it chooses you and is your home how wonderful if can take enough pride in yourself, your country and your being to share it and give something back of your self. Thank you incense-selling Rastaman for this, for you made my week, my month and maybe even my whole trip.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Everyone Loves a Road Trip!
In my three plus months here I have travelled now to eight different places in the “hinterlands” as any area outside of Georgetown is called and once to the neighbouring country of Suriname. Five trips have been for work to visit regional care clinics and three have been recreational. Travel to anywhere outside of the city is by private 15 seater minibus, 4 person shared taxi’s and 30 seater wooden river speed boats. I have used all of the above methods sometimes in combination and negotiation skills, observation, a steely will and the ability to say NO are all key in securing comfortable travel within Guyana. First thing to learn (the hard way of course) is that unlike in my home country here they are all private transit operators and as such they do not have to nor WILL they operate at a loss, so all of the busses, boats and shared taxis only leave when they are full, not according to any time schedule, even if a time schedule is posted. Sometimes there is a small amount of room for negotiation at the very end of the day for example and they have to get back to Gtown and you might pay more or less depending…but mostly the price is set, and is fairly applied to all and it means you will just have to wait until your mode of travel is at the optimum passenger level. This is somewhat inconvenient if it happens to be a very hot day and you want to be somewhere at a set time and the bus/taxi you choose is sitting in the baking sun while they try to recruit the last few passengers. A few weeks ago on the return trip from Linden in the interior I truly thought I was going to faint, sitting stagnant in the broiling bus, knowing I needed to stay put to keep my relatively good window seat (= fresh air once rolling) while we waited desperately for just two more riders to choose us. No one wants the last two seats on any bus you see, as they are the fold down bumper seats and for a two hour trip uh lets just say they don’t provide a very comfortable ride and this I know from first hand experience as of course on my first two bus trips whitey got stuck there. While baking to death in Linden I was willing everyone who came anywhere near our bus to have mercy on us…”please lady I would pray…please choose us, pick our bus, just take the bumper seat, it's not so bad...help us leave….pleeeassse”. Finally after sitting for nearly an hour like a dog locked in a car we disembarked….and…ahhh the window seat. The bus parks are a crazy place of competition, salesmanship and tactical marketing and when you arrive you will be aggressively approached from multiple drivers simultaneously speaking to you and grabbing your arm to direct you their way, and each promises to leave “just now”. Don’t believe this for a minute. In fact some busses go so far as to pose “bats” or fake passengers that appear to be waiting on the bus to lure others on board, then they “fly away” (hence the name bats) as soon as you get on. This tactic works well as logically you will choose the bus that you think will fill up the soonest and therefore leave the quickest, so part of your assessment of what bus to choose is one that appears to be pretty full of passengers already. I was told that although this practice is highly illegal, they do recognize that it creates employment – hah! If you get duped, and feel tough, full of moxy and internal strength you can walk away and try another bus or boat, although they will use guilt, cries of unfairness and broken promises and will likely follow you and claim title to you if you try and get on another bus and often rather loudly, this “stealing” of passengers is rampant and competition is fierce. Once on board the bus awaiting your fateful and unknown time of departure you can purchase wares from the vendors that sell things to the captive audience through the bus windows. Some items for sale make sense like “hot nuts, fresh juice, plantain chips” and a myriad of other delicious things to snack on, but others are so odd, tarpaulins, hammers, shoes, bras and car touch up paint have also been offered to me as a impulse purchase directly through the bus window… WTF? ..Tarpaulins?? who randomly sitting on a bus might need a tarpaulin?. I wonder what his mid month sales sheet looks like? Okays snacks and plenty of water and maybe a bra or two loaded into your bags plus any hardware store style impulse items that you may have purchased stowed away and you’re off. Be prepared to hurtle down the highway at speeds that are alarmingly scary to notice on the speedometer. The record speed of I think of any travel in my life in an automobile was on the outward trip to Linden where I happen to get the front bumper seat on a mini bus (the middle fold down seat over the console between the driver and front seat passenger, and a very bad seat as it turned out, as your head hits the ceiling over any bump and it is way too close to the blaring music and the loads of stinky air fresheners that are so inexplicably popular)This speedometer was kept steady at about 140 km the whole way as the driver skilfully avoided other buses, horse drawn carts, passed tankers, cars, donkeys, cattle and motorcycles at rip roaring speeds. I even asked if he could slow down a bit at one point as I hung on with white knuckles and thought about the last update to my will and he just looked at me sideways and turned up the music. Most other drivers I’ve experienced here travel at a much more reasonable (comparitively)100 – 120 km hour. I have noticed that they will actually stop rather than hit a cow, but all other livestock seems to be fair game. Speed is essential as of course in a free enterprise model the more trips in any given day they complete they more profit they make. Occasionally you will get pulled over by machine gun toting police for checks, or have to wait for the toll bridges lunch closure, where they just all stop working to have lunch and let the traffic pile up…do they really have to all take lunch at once? - well apparently they do! Also bridges close daily for boats to travel underneath and that can take hours as well, which means you have just missed your meeting. Otherwise you may stop for gas or you also might stop so the driver can eat or take a detour to complete errands like pickup his laundry, his step child, a 50 kg bag of garlic or stop to yell at a drunk.
The boats traverse the scenic river waters ways in similar fashion, they must be full before leaving, have no set schedule but do seem to be somewhat more cooperative in filling first one boat then the other rather than several half filled ones all vying for customers at once. By law all passengers do need to wear a life jacket, and they actually insist on this, which is nice to see. The speed boats are brightly painted low cut wooden speedboats armed with massive outboard engines that render speech impossible and blast off skilfully down the river stopping at scenic river villages to drop off and pick up passengers. The scenery is indeed lovely with little islands and mangroves dotting the landscape, parrots flying overhead, and look in the water...was that a caiman?, nope a log, oh well. As soon as you land at the harbour you will be accosted and offered taxis, busses, more snacks and juice and again enter into fierce negotiations for the next leg of your journey. The 10 hr bus trip back from Suriname was even more nefarious with a pre-arranged 4am pick up (that didn’t arrive until 5:30am, and let’s just say this caused a little stress for a certain someone) then a flat tire in the middle of the savannah, where it was hot and rainy at the same time and they skilfully changed the tire while the nine passengers stayed on the bus, with the engine running and music blasting the entire time, losing only about 20 minutes time all in, it was a rather impressive feat actually. We topped this escapade with a side road passenger switch to allow for a illegal border crossing then endured the most insane border crossing ever with us two white girls standing quiet trying hard not to laugh, lest it be a crime to mock procedures and protocols, which are taken VERY seriously here.
I now embark on 7 more journeys over the next three weeks to introduce the supervisors training programs that I have developed and despite the chaos of travel I kind of look forward to driving down the highway like Super Mario dodging livestock, and seeing if you can stay alive until the next round. I love seeing the goats, sheep, and cattle all free and roaming the beautiful countryside dotted with shanty shacks, hindu prayer flags, farms, rice, pineapple and sugar fields. We will be passing through the candy bar named villages of Good Hope, Belvedere, Charity, and Pleasance at breakneck speeds with the Bollywood Chutney or Reggae music blaring, the air fresheners pungent chemical smell wafting in among everyone’s snacks, children maybe sitting in my lap, passengers with perhaps Rasta tails or burkas all looking at and smiling at the strange white girl in their midst. I can’t say that I haven’t enjoy the thrill of the ride, even if I do need to update my will...and who knows maybe I’ll just pick up that souvenir tarpaulin I didn’t know I needed next time it’s offered.
The boats traverse the scenic river waters ways in similar fashion, they must be full before leaving, have no set schedule but do seem to be somewhat more cooperative in filling first one boat then the other rather than several half filled ones all vying for customers at once. By law all passengers do need to wear a life jacket, and they actually insist on this, which is nice to see. The speed boats are brightly painted low cut wooden speedboats armed with massive outboard engines that render speech impossible and blast off skilfully down the river stopping at scenic river villages to drop off and pick up passengers. The scenery is indeed lovely with little islands and mangroves dotting the landscape, parrots flying overhead, and look in the water...was that a caiman?, nope a log, oh well. As soon as you land at the harbour you will be accosted and offered taxis, busses, more snacks and juice and again enter into fierce negotiations for the next leg of your journey. The 10 hr bus trip back from Suriname was even more nefarious with a pre-arranged 4am pick up (that didn’t arrive until 5:30am, and let’s just say this caused a little stress for a certain someone) then a flat tire in the middle of the savannah, where it was hot and rainy at the same time and they skilfully changed the tire while the nine passengers stayed on the bus, with the engine running and music blasting the entire time, losing only about 20 minutes time all in, it was a rather impressive feat actually. We topped this escapade with a side road passenger switch to allow for a illegal border crossing then endured the most insane border crossing ever with us two white girls standing quiet trying hard not to laugh, lest it be a crime to mock procedures and protocols, which are taken VERY seriously here.
I now embark on 7 more journeys over the next three weeks to introduce the supervisors training programs that I have developed and despite the chaos of travel I kind of look forward to driving down the highway like Super Mario dodging livestock, and seeing if you can stay alive until the next round. I love seeing the goats, sheep, and cattle all free and roaming the beautiful countryside dotted with shanty shacks, hindu prayer flags, farms, rice, pineapple and sugar fields. We will be passing through the candy bar named villages of Good Hope, Belvedere, Charity, and Pleasance at breakneck speeds with the Bollywood Chutney or Reggae music blaring, the air fresheners pungent chemical smell wafting in among everyone’s snacks, children maybe sitting in my lap, passengers with perhaps Rasta tails or burkas all looking at and smiling at the strange white girl in their midst. I can’t say that I haven’t enjoy the thrill of the ride, even if I do need to update my will...and who knows maybe I’ll just pick up that souvenir tarpaulin I didn’t know I needed next time it’s offered.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Cultural Adaptation
The other night another volunteer and I were bicycling back from the pool in the silky dusk, trying hard to get home to our flats before dark or as we have heard it called “the bandit hour”. I had my head lamp on and confidently pulled out onto a busy street and starting pedaling fast when all of a sudden from behind me she screamed “Oh my god we are on the wrong side of the road”, I panicked and pulled over because of course we were on the wrong side of the road for both of our home countries, but it was the right side for Guyana. So after two months of acclimatization the WRONG side of the road now feels like the right side of the road and apparently I have adapted. We had a good laugh at ourselves. This episode got me to thinking about how quickly and in what ways we do assimilate and what things remain strong cultural challenges.
So how have I adapted in two months of living in a very foreign culture as a highly visible minority? First and foremost I have adapted to customs of dress and greeting. I know to always greet people with the formal “good marning”, “good aftanoon”, or “good evenin”. It’s amazing to me how hard it is has been to turn off the automatic “hello” I am so used to offering. I now know that dress codes are taken seriously, any manner of dress that shows my legs or shoulders will solicit comments, and that wearing my hear down is tantamount to “take me now”.
I also have learned that if I don’t respond verbally to the thousands of offers of goods being sold, taxis offered, bus drivers stopping for me and the constant cries of “ya shoppin baby” I’m not being rude. And that to transverse through the streets successfully you must be aggressive, you must cycle with confidence and use your hands, feet, bicycle bell and voice. The alarming level of noise and the crazy jungle traffic I found so intimidating now just seems normal and I have learned the maze of side streets, which roads to avoid at all costs, and not to underestimate the speed of horses. Despite constant repairs issues and two minor bike accidents (avoiding horses and a street side machete sharpening) cycling is still the best method of transport by far and I have learned to carry all manner of things by watching the locals. By the way I have affectionately named my bike “Deathtrap”. In a moment of hilarity I recently lent it to another VSO who without knowing my bikes name, was on her for less than five minutes before she called out “my God this things a death trap”… So she is aptly named.
For safety I know to tie my bags inside my basket in case it gets grabbed, and link my purse over the handle bars for the same reason. I don’t walk and talk on the cel phone, I always take taxis at night and I carry my keys, some cash and my ID card in a separate pocket just in case my bag gets cut right off my arm and stolen. I have gotten used to locking and unlocking the five padlocks gates to my flat and know that every time I lock up my bike that I may well come back and she will be gone… although this might be a blessing in disguise.
I also know that along with the ubiquitous water, flashlight, sunscreen and bug spray that you need to carry an umbrella with you at all times, and have even found myself popping it open to shade myself from the hottest days just like a local even though I still feel little ridiculous doing so. I also carry flip flops in case of torrential downpours. They don’t wear boots, but it is perfectly acceptable to wear a shower cap on your head to protect your hair from rain, yes while walking around out in public! I also carry a book everywhere I go as just you never know when you might have to wait an hour or two. Speaking of waiting I have learned that a trip to the bank or post office necessitates taking half a day off work and I am slowly making my way through Tolstoy’s masterpiece “War and Peace’ (TRULY!) while I wait patiently in the behemoth line ups and through the officious yet rather hilarious procedures that always seem to involve Santa Claus size ledgers and two or three clerks to be completed. I have learned what day is the best for topping up my cel phone to get “free time in the free zone” (insert annoying jingle music here) and laugh to think I am paying more to NOT use my cel phone in Canada than I do to use one here. I know nothing much will be open Sunday except church and not to expect anything to start at the stated time, and that “jest now” can mean something will take five minutes or… never. Power outages are to be expected at work or home anytime and “War and Peace” and the flashlight then both come in handy.
I know what subjects to avoid discussing with locals, which ones will be of interest and can follow some fast Creole conversations now if I pay great attention. I love the accent and it’s an odd experience to be the one who is apparently difficult to understand, an example being I recently asked a co-worker who had brought her adorable daughter to work how long it took to plait her daughter’s hair in the morning, I even consciously used the Guyanese term “plait” instead of “braid”…and she answered “I just have the 3 girls”… I repeated my question, this time much slower…and then she answered “no just girls, not boys, just the 3 girls”. I decided to let it go at that point and said “how nice 3 girls”! I have learned to really appreciate how direct the Guyanese are in conversation. I was sharing a minor concern with a Guyanese friend and she got exasperated with me and said..”damn it gal just come out and say it...you are just too damn polite and diplomatic..I’m Guyanese..we are direct..so just say it” This kind of directness makes some of the street commentary you overhear more understandable and even culturally acceptable. They just calls it as they sees it, so hence terms such as “fat boy” “white girl” “blondie”…etc. The best example of this is of a lovely redhead Australian VSO who was infamously called “white man belly sweat” on his first day in country.
I am slowly adapting to living and working in a very different culture. The unfamiliar experience of being a minority, a foreigner, the one whose ways are wrong and are suspect is at times overwhelming. I have had people tell me to put a slip on, put my hair up, to cycle on the other side of the road, and grab for my bag, and offer all kinds of sincere and kind drive by advice. I have had children gingerly touch my skin apparently in awe at how pale it is and one woman was so shocked to find out that I wasn’t wearing a wig she had to pull my hair repeatedly to believe it was real. I have been called all manner of things and have come to realize that when people call me names they don’t mean to be racist when they yell out “hey whitey” or sexist when they call out “hey baby”..I now know it is just normal behavior here, and well I do stand out. I have also learned which comments are the truly derogatory ones and thankfully they are heard very infrequently. So now instead of being intimidated I often will just wave or smile back no matter what I’m called as what do we all do when we see someone different – we stare right? Most Guyanese I have met besides being direct are curious, fun loving, open, gracious and if asked will offer you good frank advice. Most have treated this foreigner well and I have experienced them making allowances, being understanding and reaching out to me….at work now they are even beginning to tease me – ask me things like have I tried the BBQ’d rat, after my semi hysterical display of fear when a rat was found in the garbage at work.
I think to advance global understanding everyone should live as a minority at some point in their lives to understand just how hard and humbling it can be, how unfamiliar a life can be to what you are used to, how values so different from your own can be discussed in front of you and you know you have to shut the f up…as your values are not better, they are just different. When we can let go of that judgment we will be rewarded when we find each other’s common ground, break down through the stereotypes we have been taught about another culture and understand our shared humanity.
So how have I adapted in two months of living in a very foreign culture as a highly visible minority? First and foremost I have adapted to customs of dress and greeting. I know to always greet people with the formal “good marning”, “good aftanoon”, or “good evenin”. It’s amazing to me how hard it is has been to turn off the automatic “hello” I am so used to offering. I now know that dress codes are taken seriously, any manner of dress that shows my legs or shoulders will solicit comments, and that wearing my hear down is tantamount to “take me now”.
I also have learned that if I don’t respond verbally to the thousands of offers of goods being sold, taxis offered, bus drivers stopping for me and the constant cries of “ya shoppin baby” I’m not being rude. And that to transverse through the streets successfully you must be aggressive, you must cycle with confidence and use your hands, feet, bicycle bell and voice. The alarming level of noise and the crazy jungle traffic I found so intimidating now just seems normal and I have learned the maze of side streets, which roads to avoid at all costs, and not to underestimate the speed of horses. Despite constant repairs issues and two minor bike accidents (avoiding horses and a street side machete sharpening) cycling is still the best method of transport by far and I have learned to carry all manner of things by watching the locals. By the way I have affectionately named my bike “Deathtrap”. In a moment of hilarity I recently lent it to another VSO who without knowing my bikes name, was on her for less than five minutes before she called out “my God this things a death trap”… So she is aptly named.
For safety I know to tie my bags inside my basket in case it gets grabbed, and link my purse over the handle bars for the same reason. I don’t walk and talk on the cel phone, I always take taxis at night and I carry my keys, some cash and my ID card in a separate pocket just in case my bag gets cut right off my arm and stolen. I have gotten used to locking and unlocking the five padlocks gates to my flat and know that every time I lock up my bike that I may well come back and she will be gone… although this might be a blessing in disguise.
I also know that along with the ubiquitous water, flashlight, sunscreen and bug spray that you need to carry an umbrella with you at all times, and have even found myself popping it open to shade myself from the hottest days just like a local even though I still feel little ridiculous doing so. I also carry flip flops in case of torrential downpours. They don’t wear boots, but it is perfectly acceptable to wear a shower cap on your head to protect your hair from rain, yes while walking around out in public! I also carry a book everywhere I go as just you never know when you might have to wait an hour or two. Speaking of waiting I have learned that a trip to the bank or post office necessitates taking half a day off work and I am slowly making my way through Tolstoy’s masterpiece “War and Peace’ (TRULY!) while I wait patiently in the behemoth line ups and through the officious yet rather hilarious procedures that always seem to involve Santa Claus size ledgers and two or three clerks to be completed. I have learned what day is the best for topping up my cel phone to get “free time in the free zone” (insert annoying jingle music here) and laugh to think I am paying more to NOT use my cel phone in Canada than I do to use one here. I know nothing much will be open Sunday except church and not to expect anything to start at the stated time, and that “jest now” can mean something will take five minutes or… never. Power outages are to be expected at work or home anytime and “War and Peace” and the flashlight then both come in handy.
I know what subjects to avoid discussing with locals, which ones will be of interest and can follow some fast Creole conversations now if I pay great attention. I love the accent and it’s an odd experience to be the one who is apparently difficult to understand, an example being I recently asked a co-worker who had brought her adorable daughter to work how long it took to plait her daughter’s hair in the morning, I even consciously used the Guyanese term “plait” instead of “braid”…and she answered “I just have the 3 girls”… I repeated my question, this time much slower…and then she answered “no just girls, not boys, just the 3 girls”. I decided to let it go at that point and said “how nice 3 girls”! I have learned to really appreciate how direct the Guyanese are in conversation. I was sharing a minor concern with a Guyanese friend and she got exasperated with me and said..”damn it gal just come out and say it...you are just too damn polite and diplomatic..I’m Guyanese..we are direct..so just say it” This kind of directness makes some of the street commentary you overhear more understandable and even culturally acceptable. They just calls it as they sees it, so hence terms such as “fat boy” “white girl” “blondie”…etc. The best example of this is of a lovely redhead Australian VSO who was infamously called “white man belly sweat” on his first day in country.
I am slowly adapting to living and working in a very different culture. The unfamiliar experience of being a minority, a foreigner, the one whose ways are wrong and are suspect is at times overwhelming. I have had people tell me to put a slip on, put my hair up, to cycle on the other side of the road, and grab for my bag, and offer all kinds of sincere and kind drive by advice. I have had children gingerly touch my skin apparently in awe at how pale it is and one woman was so shocked to find out that I wasn’t wearing a wig she had to pull my hair repeatedly to believe it was real. I have been called all manner of things and have come to realize that when people call me names they don’t mean to be racist when they yell out “hey whitey” or sexist when they call out “hey baby”..I now know it is just normal behavior here, and well I do stand out. I have also learned which comments are the truly derogatory ones and thankfully they are heard very infrequently. So now instead of being intimidated I often will just wave or smile back no matter what I’m called as what do we all do when we see someone different – we stare right? Most Guyanese I have met besides being direct are curious, fun loving, open, gracious and if asked will offer you good frank advice. Most have treated this foreigner well and I have experienced them making allowances, being understanding and reaching out to me….at work now they are even beginning to tease me – ask me things like have I tried the BBQ’d rat, after my semi hysterical display of fear when a rat was found in the garbage at work.
I think to advance global understanding everyone should live as a minority at some point in their lives to understand just how hard and humbling it can be, how unfamiliar a life can be to what you are used to, how values so different from your own can be discussed in front of you and you know you have to shut the f up…as your values are not better, they are just different. When we can let go of that judgment we will be rewarded when we find each other’s common ground, break down through the stereotypes we have been taught about another culture and understand our shared humanity.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Lots to be thankful for….
A few weeks before Thanksgiving my fellow Canadian VSO and I decide we will host a big party so we can celebrate our national holiday while here in Guyana. We soon have 12 people from six continents, including two vegetarians and one vegan coming for dinner. So how many “live and pluck” chickens will we need? How many pies should we bake?… How will it all turn out?… Well things go like this…
Thursday – I realize I better start cooking pies in advance as my oven is so small. I bike to “Nigels” the elite supermarket that carries expensive imported goods and sure enough they sell canned pumpkin and cream.. for a price!. 8 thousand GD dollars later I have my ingredients, including the makings for vegan tofu pumpkin pie. Whoops I overbought and now am challenged to transport it all home on a bicycle…much maneuvering and swearing later I do successfully tie six cans of pumpkin and six cans of cream to the sides of my bike and balance eight Chinese take out foil containers that I plan to convert to pie pans, in my basket on top of flour, shortening, sugar, and tofu. I spend the night making pie crust.
Friday - Noooo!….My fellow Canadian is sick with the flu and won’t make it to G-Town for the weekend, so I have lost my co-host and am on my own. I am very sad at this news and will miss her company. I must steal up the courage to purchase two “live and pluck” chickens all alone. I have researched where I think the cleanest “shop” is to place my order. So after work I boldly step inside the chosen store and ask for two chickens. It smells strongly like poultry and wet straw (not a particularly nice smell combination)…and oh sweet Jesus I can hear the birds in the back. Welcome to the food chain I think as I nervously await my orders completion. An alarmingly short time later, two large bags are placed in front of me, oh God did one just move…no haha just my imagination; it seems I am a bit jumpy. I am charged 4 thousand GD dollars for two large fat recently alive and freshly plucked chickens, which after the cost of my pie ingredients seems like a bargain. I get them wrapped in newspaper and stuff them in my basket and quickly cycle home in the blazing sun to my salmonella free refrigerator. I wash them in the sink and notice they need a bit more …ahem...plucking. So I set to it and think of my grandmother homesteading on the prairies as I remove a hundred or so quills one by one. Finally I am satisfied and pat them dry, rub on salt and herbs and place them covered with a towel in the fridge awaiting their big day tomorrow. I bake four pies and have to ask my neighbor to store two in her fridge as I am already out of space. It’s Friday night and fellow VSOs are in town for the party and we all go out till late drinking and dancing to celebrate “Thanksgiving Eve”…yay!
Saturday – Party Day!
I get up at six slightly hung over, and notice I have a terrible heat rash, the worst since coming here spreading from chin to knee. I look like a plucked chicken with angry red welts all over…is this “live and plucks” revenge? Itchy and painful rash aside I must start party preparations and quickly bake four more pies including two vegan ones and I’m very thankful for my 11 thousand dollar blender. A friend has spent the night and over coffee she and I make up party games, create giant turkey decorations and write a wall plaque asking “what are you thankful for?” She leaves at noon and there is still much to do for I must haul containers of drinking water upstairs, and then damn it I run out of propane mid pie cooking so must go buy gas and re-hook it up the tank to my stove. Much swearing and maneuvering later I successfully complete a job that is usually more in the male realm of responsibility. Water and gas secured I then hike in the heat over to Sheriff St. to buy adult beverages, my rash burning in the sun. I over-buy and need to take a taxi home, the driver does not offer me any help to unload my ten bags of groceries and sits idly by in his A/C’d cab smoking as I make three trip up to the flat…doesn’t he know its Thanksgiving? The afternoon flies by as I clean the flat, peel potatoes, prepare the live and plucks and on a whim also make a dozen chocolate cupcakes. By 4 pm I am all set with my cupcakes decorated in candy to look like turkeys, 8 pies cooked (vegan and regular), beverages cooling, 2 stuffed chickens set to go in oven, and the flat spotlessly clean, but decide I also need flowers and ice to make things party perfect. With no flower shops within a thousand miles I cycle up to the canal with scissors in hand to “harvest” a few wild lotus flowers. I park my bike with the kickstand and climb down the bank to a wooden board that crosses the canal so I can reach in and cut flowers. This goes really well and I collect a nice bouquet, but then hear a funny noise and look up to see my bike topple over and slide into the canal…F****!!! I rush back across the board and wade into the muddy, slimy, weedy canal water to fish out my bike which has sunk up to the handle bars. A few more seconds and I might never have known what happened to it, I would likely have walked back with my flowers and presumed it stolen. Much swearing and maneuvering later, I am slimy to the knees and my bike is gross but at least I have it. I cycle back slowly with flowers in one hand and my flip flops and bike streaming a muddy trail behind me. I wash my bike off by throwing buckets of water on it and this method gets it pretty clean actually and it even dries quickly in the hot sun. So canal sinking trauma over I then set off once again on the bike this time to buy ice with the goal of getting it back to my freezer before it melts. My basket drips icy water onto my knees as I blast homeward pedaling hard. I am required to do an entire fridge/freezer re-org in order to fit in all the damn ice in as it seems I over bought again. Despite the attrition of how much melted on the return trip, I still have to chop the bags down to make them fit inside the door. Whew…I didn’t plan for ice and flowers to take more than ten minutes so I am now running late and must rush to get my chickens in the oven and shower and clean myself and my ugly rash up. I come out from the shower to discover that the damn lotus flowers have tipped over their juice jar vases and water has spilled everywhere and I must re-do the entire table setting and mop up a huge flood…hmmm…maybe the message here is you shouldn’t steal lotus flowers…they also smell kind of bad.
The party finally starts and we drink, socialize, and have a fabulous feast of channa, curried eggplant, corn fritters, stuffed squash, baked peppers, rice and black beans, fresh fruit and lots more, all on top of my complete traditional thanksgiving dinner featuring the roasted live and pluck chickens. Which turned out very well if I do say so myself, other than the side effect of the oven increasing the mean temperature in the flat to about 50 degrees. The chocolate cupcakes from a mix prove to be much more popular than my home made pie and words are exchanged over who gets the last one. I end up with at least six whole pies un-eaten, apparently in the battle between chocolate and pumpkin there is no contest.
Throughout the night my international party guests fill out the poster sharing what they are thankful for, and besides the ubiquitous loved ones, health, world peace etc. we are thankful in no particular order for: “frozen towels, ice, insecticides, rat poison, karaoke, moth balls, cheap limes, cheap beer, cheap rum, cheap vodka, the swimming pool, umbrellas, plastic bags, mosquito nets, blenders, the VSO library, the spice shop, bus conductors, clean bathrooms (when located), hammocks, cameras, Skype and for each other’s company… And what great company it must be for the last guests leave at 5am… It's a party complete with too much food, inappropriate Christmas and rap music popping out of my iTunes all night, hilarious Dutch party games at 11pm that showcase our cultural deficiencies, second helpings of dessert at midnight, a 3 inch cockroach sighting and it's subsequent squealing slaughter at 1am, drunken dishes at 2am, musical horror movies at 3 am, stinky lotus flowers thrown out at 4am and lots and lots of leftover pumpkin pie for breakfast….. Happy Thanksgiving everyone, there is lots to be thankful for wherever you may be living.
Thursday – I realize I better start cooking pies in advance as my oven is so small. I bike to “Nigels” the elite supermarket that carries expensive imported goods and sure enough they sell canned pumpkin and cream.. for a price!. 8 thousand GD dollars later I have my ingredients, including the makings for vegan tofu pumpkin pie. Whoops I overbought and now am challenged to transport it all home on a bicycle…much maneuvering and swearing later I do successfully tie six cans of pumpkin and six cans of cream to the sides of my bike and balance eight Chinese take out foil containers that I plan to convert to pie pans, in my basket on top of flour, shortening, sugar, and tofu. I spend the night making pie crust.
Friday - Noooo!….My fellow Canadian is sick with the flu and won’t make it to G-Town for the weekend, so I have lost my co-host and am on my own. I am very sad at this news and will miss her company. I must steal up the courage to purchase two “live and pluck” chickens all alone. I have researched where I think the cleanest “shop” is to place my order. So after work I boldly step inside the chosen store and ask for two chickens. It smells strongly like poultry and wet straw (not a particularly nice smell combination)…and oh sweet Jesus I can hear the birds in the back. Welcome to the food chain I think as I nervously await my orders completion. An alarmingly short time later, two large bags are placed in front of me, oh God did one just move…no haha just my imagination; it seems I am a bit jumpy. I am charged 4 thousand GD dollars for two large fat recently alive and freshly plucked chickens, which after the cost of my pie ingredients seems like a bargain. I get them wrapped in newspaper and stuff them in my basket and quickly cycle home in the blazing sun to my salmonella free refrigerator. I wash them in the sink and notice they need a bit more …ahem...plucking. So I set to it and think of my grandmother homesteading on the prairies as I remove a hundred or so quills one by one. Finally I am satisfied and pat them dry, rub on salt and herbs and place them covered with a towel in the fridge awaiting their big day tomorrow. I bake four pies and have to ask my neighbor to store two in her fridge as I am already out of space. It’s Friday night and fellow VSOs are in town for the party and we all go out till late drinking and dancing to celebrate “Thanksgiving Eve”…yay!
Saturday – Party Day!
I get up at six slightly hung over, and notice I have a terrible heat rash, the worst since coming here spreading from chin to knee. I look like a plucked chicken with angry red welts all over…is this “live and plucks” revenge? Itchy and painful rash aside I must start party preparations and quickly bake four more pies including two vegan ones and I’m very thankful for my 11 thousand dollar blender. A friend has spent the night and over coffee she and I make up party games, create giant turkey decorations and write a wall plaque asking “what are you thankful for?” She leaves at noon and there is still much to do for I must haul containers of drinking water upstairs, and then damn it I run out of propane mid pie cooking so must go buy gas and re-hook it up the tank to my stove. Much swearing and maneuvering later I successfully complete a job that is usually more in the male realm of responsibility. Water and gas secured I then hike in the heat over to Sheriff St. to buy adult beverages, my rash burning in the sun. I over-buy and need to take a taxi home, the driver does not offer me any help to unload my ten bags of groceries and sits idly by in his A/C’d cab smoking as I make three trip up to the flat…doesn’t he know its Thanksgiving? The afternoon flies by as I clean the flat, peel potatoes, prepare the live and plucks and on a whim also make a dozen chocolate cupcakes. By 4 pm I am all set with my cupcakes decorated in candy to look like turkeys, 8 pies cooked (vegan and regular), beverages cooling, 2 stuffed chickens set to go in oven, and the flat spotlessly clean, but decide I also need flowers and ice to make things party perfect. With no flower shops within a thousand miles I cycle up to the canal with scissors in hand to “harvest” a few wild lotus flowers. I park my bike with the kickstand and climb down the bank to a wooden board that crosses the canal so I can reach in and cut flowers. This goes really well and I collect a nice bouquet, but then hear a funny noise and look up to see my bike topple over and slide into the canal…F****!!! I rush back across the board and wade into the muddy, slimy, weedy canal water to fish out my bike which has sunk up to the handle bars. A few more seconds and I might never have known what happened to it, I would likely have walked back with my flowers and presumed it stolen. Much swearing and maneuvering later, I am slimy to the knees and my bike is gross but at least I have it. I cycle back slowly with flowers in one hand and my flip flops and bike streaming a muddy trail behind me. I wash my bike off by throwing buckets of water on it and this method gets it pretty clean actually and it even dries quickly in the hot sun. So canal sinking trauma over I then set off once again on the bike this time to buy ice with the goal of getting it back to my freezer before it melts. My basket drips icy water onto my knees as I blast homeward pedaling hard. I am required to do an entire fridge/freezer re-org in order to fit in all the damn ice in as it seems I over bought again. Despite the attrition of how much melted on the return trip, I still have to chop the bags down to make them fit inside the door. Whew…I didn’t plan for ice and flowers to take more than ten minutes so I am now running late and must rush to get my chickens in the oven and shower and clean myself and my ugly rash up. I come out from the shower to discover that the damn lotus flowers have tipped over their juice jar vases and water has spilled everywhere and I must re-do the entire table setting and mop up a huge flood…hmmm…maybe the message here is you shouldn’t steal lotus flowers…they also smell kind of bad.
The party finally starts and we drink, socialize, and have a fabulous feast of channa, curried eggplant, corn fritters, stuffed squash, baked peppers, rice and black beans, fresh fruit and lots more, all on top of my complete traditional thanksgiving dinner featuring the roasted live and pluck chickens. Which turned out very well if I do say so myself, other than the side effect of the oven increasing the mean temperature in the flat to about 50 degrees. The chocolate cupcakes from a mix prove to be much more popular than my home made pie and words are exchanged over who gets the last one. I end up with at least six whole pies un-eaten, apparently in the battle between chocolate and pumpkin there is no contest.
Throughout the night my international party guests fill out the poster sharing what they are thankful for, and besides the ubiquitous loved ones, health, world peace etc. we are thankful in no particular order for: “frozen towels, ice, insecticides, rat poison, karaoke, moth balls, cheap limes, cheap beer, cheap rum, cheap vodka, the swimming pool, umbrellas, plastic bags, mosquito nets, blenders, the VSO library, the spice shop, bus conductors, clean bathrooms (when located), hammocks, cameras, Skype and for each other’s company… And what great company it must be for the last guests leave at 5am… It's a party complete with too much food, inappropriate Christmas and rap music popping out of my iTunes all night, hilarious Dutch party games at 11pm that showcase our cultural deficiencies, second helpings of dessert at midnight, a 3 inch cockroach sighting and it's subsequent squealing slaughter at 1am, drunken dishes at 2am, musical horror movies at 3 am, stinky lotus flowers thrown out at 4am and lots and lots of leftover pumpkin pie for breakfast….. Happy Thanksgiving everyone, there is lots to be thankful for wherever you may be living.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
A Morning Jog in the Park
I wake up to the rooster’s crow; it is just before five am and still dark outside. As soon as the roosters start it is open season for all the birds, lizards, monkeys and dogs in the neighborhoods to join in. A cacophony of sound explodes and no alarm clock is necessary. I roll over and slide out from under the mosquito net, use my cold water bathroom facilities and get dressed in my running clothes. As I head down my block I see my neighbor loading water into a truck, and few folks out on bicycles carrying tools, baskets, food and vending carts heading off to work, some recognize me and wave, other simply stare at my differentness. If I am lucky when I get to the end of my block I will see the goat herder bringing down his flock of at least 200 goats and kids, right down the middle of the four lane road that is usually snarled with traffic. They are a spectacle of bleating happy animals all bumping and grinding into each other some still hopefully try to mount the other as they are gently herded with what appears to be nothing more than a swatch of branches by a teen herder who looks very confident in his massive gumboots. This early in the morning the roads are still quiet enough for livestock to pass and the opportunity to move the herds to grazing grounds for the day is taken. The air is cool, sweet and it feels like running in a hot house, breathing in and out a moist warm air that would be perfect for growing tomatoes in. I get up to the main intersection, turn left and start to run along the canal past the army barracks, every other day they are out doing calisthenics on the road side in their full heavy fatigues, berets, boots and weapons and look so overheated. They call out as I run by…”go whitey”…”nice legs auntie”…”faster” etc.I wave which makes them laugh and keep going. The canal is active with jumping catfish, bouncing red dragon flies and alert predatory birds. There are three different kinds of herons and beautiful red lily walkers, all fishing for breakfast while overhead the falcons swoop for the rats. The giant lotus flowers open up to the first morning light and astound me each and every time with their size and beauty, the canal is full of them. Most mornings a group of organized cycling aficionados, storm past on their way out to the long road out of town, they even have helmets and spandex on and appear to sneer smugly at me a mere runner as they fly by in perfect unison. I turn past a boarded up old dance hall and pass through the rusty once grand gates into the entrance of the national park and wave to the security guard who has just unlocked the park sharply at 530am. On my left there is an albino horse that is almost unicorn like in presence that grazes near the entrance and ignores my hellos and continues to eat with a regal stance. Whose magical looking horse is this I wonder or does he just live there free range, a magic apparition for all to enjoy. I see the few others that are out this early, up and active in the park, some doing stretches on the ancient metal rings and bars and others walking or running. I turn right and head past the soccer fields and some mornings there is already a practice going on with several people out yelling, playing loud music, eating and drinking. I keep right and head past the deserted family picnic area towards the mangrove swamps and lagoon. I pass over the wooden bridge, wind down to the lagoon and stop to feed the wild manatees. It is the half way point in my run and I am drenched in sweat. I sit by the lagoon and whistle to the manatees, most days they come to the shore with their primitive leather faces questioningly looking up at you for some fresh grass, which they then eat out of your hand as gently as being tickled by a whisker. I can tell some of them apart now as I stroke their massive gentle faces. I get a thrill to the marrow at these creatures and their peaceful presence and seeming desire for human interaction. In Guyana there is a myth that if you fall into the sea a Manatee will save you by bringing you to the surface which feels totally believable when I sit beside them. I say goodbye and welcome the beauty of the sunrise through the trees as I feel the temperature increase and watch the sky get brighter. More people are out in the park now as I pick up the pace and head towards the centre of the park. I pass people and get passed in turn, some say hello or “gad marning” some do not, I simply nod to everyone and continue to run. I round the bend and see the sprinters out at work in the middle track. The Guyana national team practices here and it is amazing to see their long lean legs blasting forward from each whistle prompt. I round the corner and run back towards the road along the inner canal beneath the beautiful overhanging shade tress that are alive with birds and insects. Sometimes there are palomino horses grazing near here and always there are parrots up in the trees welcoming the day with loud squawking shrieks. Occasionally a giant frog will eagerly cross my path on his way to the canal. The water lilies here are smaller and more like Monet’s garden, heavily laden with picture perfect white flowers that cover the entire surface of the water. As I get back to the entrance gates a few hopeful snack vendors are now vying for position as they set up with their wares of candy, juice, sweets and beer. The sun is now out in full strength and it is going to be another warm day. I run down Albert Street past the private schools and see grazing horses tied to their work carts, and several wild dogs eating food that has been kindly left out for them in old foam containers. I get back to the busy four lane street I started out at; it’s an hour later and it's now full of traffic, blaring horns and care needs to be taken to cross safely. The goats and cattle are long gone, the beautiful pink quiet of the morning is lost, the heat is back and the smells of diesel, garbage and fried food start to fill the air as I make my way back to my flat to start another day in Guyana.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Eating and Drinking – Guyanese Style
In North America, the current culinary buzz words are local, fresh, organic, 100 mile diet, home grown, and sustainable. All of these attributes apply to the food items available in Guyana except without any of the “bon appétit” stylized hype. What they do have to eat here is fresh, plentiful and defiantly home grown, sustainable, fresh, local etc. etc. even if the range is somewhat limited for my spoiled palate. As bit of a self professed “foodie” I like to rise to the challenge and cook from the local products rather than focus on what they don’t have...like cheese, wine, sushi, tiramisu, chocolate, butter, granola, yogurt, and…sigh…coffee.Food shopping is daily occurrence with most of it done at low rent style street vendors and insanely busy outdoor markets. So what’s for sale here? Well the fruit is all tropical, fresh and plentiful. Mini bananas and water melons (like the ones sold in whole foods for mega bucks) are so cheap they are practically free. They have large long tapered pineapples for well under $2.00 that are sweet and less acidic than the imports we get in Canada, succulent red fleshed papayas as large as house cats hang in mesh bags, plump limes are about 25 cents a bagful. Also plentiful are “gimbits” a kind of a sour lychee nut, fresh passion fruit, coconuts, guavas, star fruit and mangos and avocados in season. You can sometimes also find apples, pears and grapes all imported oddly not from near by Chile but from far away New Zealand. I have broken down and bought a few pricey apples as I really miss them. Vegetable wise they have nice tight crispy little cabbages perfect for one person slaws and stir-frys, herbs or what they call “seasonin” which is large bunches of fresh thyme, chives, and basil (amusingly called married man in a poke) that are combined less than a dollar and smell divine. They sell a lot of what they call “ground provisions” which is cassava, sweet potato, plantains and “alloo” (or what I would say are small yellow potatoes) Ground provisions are eaten cooked up with rice, called not surprisingly “cook up-rice”, as a mash or even cooked into breads. I have gained a strong liking and appreciation for plantains, which are very good for you and here are sold as chips (green or yellow) cooked like wedgie fries and served with fiery pepper sauce or ketchup. Both sauces incidentally are just left out on counters in the blazing sun, but perhaps I have gained immunity to this strain of salmonella bacteria by now. They have fiery cherry bomb peppers that are hot as hades, a relative of the infamous scotch bonnet pepper proven to be the hottest pepper on earth. I accidentally ate half of one these babies whole in a curry...and HELLO!...ok we won’t discuss the aftermath of that incident. They also sell eggplants, nice little vine tomatoes, some woody carrots, cucumbers that are actually fat pickling cukes, absolutely lovely little onions, fragrant garlic, long string beans and I do mean long,….like a yard long, and giant squash the size of microwave ovens that they hack up with machetes and sell in pieces as “pumpkin”. Not much in the way of greens except for some wild spinach they call callaloo, which is kind of a weedy tasting, and better cooked than raw and that’s about it. Any imported vegetable sits insipid and expensive in the coolers of the higher end grocery stores. Fish, eggs and chicken are sold fresh....perhaps even too fresh! You can get...ahem “live and pluck” chicken and duck, and any fish you buy is usually still moving around. None of the names or types are familiar to me, even though I once worked at a fish market on Granville Island names like ”bangamary” “skake” and the so called “trout” which look a lot like mean little catfish which I fear come right from the bottom of the filthy canals, “shark”, which seem to be indeed mini sharks, ferocious brown crabs sold tied together on strings…looking very alive and ready to fight you from their death row perch, “snapper” which look nothing like snappers I’ve known more like pike or pickerel. Mostly I just point hopefully and chose them by size and they will always gut, scale, de head and filet them for you for no extra charge. A whole fish runs about $ 2.50 Cad. Quite a different price than the $50 – $70 you might pay in Canada for a whole salmon! There is a local chicken producer that sells frozen chicken in grocery stores...but all other meats here scare the hell out of me...dog meat, goat, wild monkey, iguana, turtle, paddo or bush meat, cow face, cowheel....are all wa-haay outside of my comfort zone. My vegetarian roots have come back in full swing and thankfully due to the Hindu and Rastafarian cultures here there are lots of good options including good soy proteins and legumes. They grow beautiful sugar, rice and they are disgustingly cheap and very good. Canned goods while plentiful are not that cheap and you will pay though the nose for anything imported. Butter when I finally found it was about $17 for a lb, frozen berries the same, canned olives about $12, a bottle of cheap Chilean wine that might be $8 in Canada is about $50 here...yikes!..on a $200 a month salary that’s rather out of my price range, yet a 40 ounce bottle of Absolut vodka is a mere $22. They produce a local beer called “Banks” and it is widely consumed and available everywhere including on the street, sold semi warm from coolers. The other popular drink is of course rum (it’s considered the Caribbean here even if you are in South America) El Dorado is their local brand which is proudly proclaimed to be “the best rum in the world”. Have you ever noticed all rums seem to lay claim that that title? The 15 yr old rum you can sip like scotch apparently. Sadly not being much of a rum or beer drinker I can’t comment on the merits of either national drink. I’m at a loss in a world without wine, scotch or martinis but I have discovered a nice little Trinidadian drink called lemon lime and bitters which is delicious on it own and just happens to pair very nicely with the reasonably priced Absolut vodka. They produce a nice local mineral water and have lots of fresh juices, punches and iced teas. So you know what I have been drinking…how about what I have been eating and cooking. Well lots of curries, channa (chickpeas) vegetarian stews and fried rices, poached fish, occasionally some chicken, plantains, cabbage salads, roti (homemade) yes I grew a foot as a cook when I mastered this, panneer (a vegetarian cheese) lots of fresh fruit, soy milk smoothies and …sigh..instant coffee. Rumor has it that some real coffee is on its way down to me…yay and thanks! Once or twice a week I do treat myself and go to the only coffee bar in town for a latte and croissant...(ahhh! just like France…ok not so much…but still good) Sadly my wallet won’t allow this to be more than an occasional indulgence. Somehow without trying I appear to be losing weight on this diet as my clothes are all loose. Some attribute this to the constant state of sweating but I think it is due to the lack of butter, chocolate cheese and wine, my four favourite food groups.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Working 9 to 5...what away to make a living
I am now into my third week of work as an M&E disability advisor for NGO’s in Guyana. So what am I actually doing each day in my lovely air conditioned office….oh did I mention it’s air conditioned??? Ahhhh…it’s so nice at my desk…in fact it’s almost chilly. I have never appreciated the fabulous technology that is air conditioning before. Here in Guyana it is an opulent luxury and something to look forward to on my commute to work. The said commute is either a half hour walk (I no longer ride my bike in traffic after a near death encounter with a horse) or a ten minute bus ride. Most days I walk unless it is already 40 degrees out at 8am in which case I’ll decrease the amount of time I sweat in my clothes by 20 minutes and take the bus. The mini busses (which are all 15 seater Toyota vans) are jammed with people of all kinds off to work and school children in their prim uniforms and elaborate zigzagged, corn rowed, be-ribboned hairstyles that both delight me and make me wonder what bloody time they get up in the morning to get their hair done! I now have a firm grasp of bus riding protocol from flagging one down, to where you sit, how you have to repeatedly get out to let out other passengers from the back and then move back yourself, when you flip down the extra seats, when its ok to allow them to squish in another passenger on your lap, and most important, how to get them to stop for you when you want to get off. Bus fare is $60 GD (or about .30 cents Canadian), and there are no transfers, so if you take the wrong bus, you need to pay again, if you need another bus, you need to pay again, you get the idea. The buses all blare music, honk wildly, have 20 – 30 air fresheners and other unsightly accoutrement hanging inside, drive very fast, like to remain as full of passengers as they possibly can and are highly competitive with each other for your business. Each operates with one driver and then an accomplice conductor/salesmen/doorman who yells to potential passengers on the street and gestures wildly with one cash laden arm to see if you will take his bus. Sometimes more than one bus will stop for you at a time (awkward!) and there are no actual bus stops per se, this is both great and highly inefficient. Walking in to work is much more peaceful and pleasant. I will often see the herd of 200 or so goats that graze by the canal, multiple parrots, horses and herons, and fish jumping in the murky waters amongst the rest of the Georgetown street chaos. I pass many regular locals who all wave, smile, talk and yell at me. Each day I can count on the homeless man who lives under the bridge to wave, the elderly security guard to ask me if the sun is hot enough for me today, (uh…yes, same answer as yesterday) the Rastafarian who invites me to eat at his restaurant for lunch (sometimes I even do to his great delight), and the juice lady who says without fail in Mary Knight style “Gad marning, you look lovely today miss”) Almost everyone else who passes you on the street will offer you a frank “gad marning”, never an informal hello or god forbid a Canadian style “hi”, I have learned to reciprocate this greeting. Then of course there is the incessant cat calls by it seems almost every man I pass…”hey barbie, blondie, baby, whitey, american gayl, white meat…etc.etc…I don’t even hear this anymore and just keep walking. I also will usually get 20 or so offers of a taxi ride and 10 buses or so will stop for me as they can’t really believe you are choosing to walk. I can buy egg balls, (a deep fried chickpea coated boiled egg – kind of good actually) juice in a plastic bag, freshly machete coconuts, flouries (deep fried balls with mysterious spicy filling – also actually good), bananas, pineapples or coconut jam sweet rolls if I’m hungry…but sadly no coffee…sigh.
So once at work what do I actually do? Well there is first the security to pass (natch) as we are behind a double locked gate and then another locked door that has not one but a two buzzer entry system. Hours of work are officially 8:00am – 4:30pm. I made the mistake of getting to work promptly at 8:00am the first few days only to discover that the first half hour involves sitting around in the blazing sun waiting for the one and only staff person with the key to arrive. The staff here all joke around in the morning very loudly and with great humour and when the talk gets that fast and loud I can’t understand a word they say and can truly see how Creole is indeed another language. My co-workers are beginning to open up to the strange white women in their midst who is doing some mysterious work for them they don’t seem to understand and I appreciate their efforts greatly. They now tentatively ask me about my weekend, my life here, my family and tell me of theirs, I was even invited to a cricket match and to “lime” on the seawall last week…this marks social progress folks! The agency I am working for has a policy to hire people with disabilities, so four of my colleagues have a disability and I appreciate their walk the walk policy and the efforts they make for the cause they believe in. Work wise the pace is muuuuch slower than I’m used to and this has been a huge adjustment. I have managed to complete a comprehensive work plan, done surveys, drafted reports, plans and forms, attended meetings, visited three of the national centre’s throughout the country (can you say road trip!) and am now heading up a project with the University of Guyana to work with five computer science students to create a data base (yikes). Overall it has been very interesting and a lot of changed work culture to adapt to. As mentioned the pace is slower so it takes time here to make decisions, to get back to you, to reply to emails, to think about things. I’m also unsure exactly of what if any authority I actually have as a VSO advisor, and if my work will make the impact I hope it can, but I will persevere. There is also the strict hierarchy and the dress code to contend with. The boss’s door stays closed, you always knock and he is always called Mr. The dress code is as follows; shoes should be flat and toes covered, (but you can wear sandals as long as they are leather), skirts and dresses must be below the knee, shoulders are always covered and hair is tied back or up. And like most other employees in the city I must also wear or carry my identification badge. Needless to say there are no mini skirts, fabulous tights, dangling jewelry, long hair and sexy boots allowed at work……or Starbucks. But I’m delighted to be conservative in dress, a racial minority, an apparent social enigma and to try and converse and work with these wonderful people I find myself spending my days with....in my air conditioned office…ahhhh.
So once at work what do I actually do? Well there is first the security to pass (natch) as we are behind a double locked gate and then another locked door that has not one but a two buzzer entry system. Hours of work are officially 8:00am – 4:30pm. I made the mistake of getting to work promptly at 8:00am the first few days only to discover that the first half hour involves sitting around in the blazing sun waiting for the one and only staff person with the key to arrive. The staff here all joke around in the morning very loudly and with great humour and when the talk gets that fast and loud I can’t understand a word they say and can truly see how Creole is indeed another language. My co-workers are beginning to open up to the strange white women in their midst who is doing some mysterious work for them they don’t seem to understand and I appreciate their efforts greatly. They now tentatively ask me about my weekend, my life here, my family and tell me of theirs, I was even invited to a cricket match and to “lime” on the seawall last week…this marks social progress folks! The agency I am working for has a policy to hire people with disabilities, so four of my colleagues have a disability and I appreciate their walk the walk policy and the efforts they make for the cause they believe in. Work wise the pace is muuuuch slower than I’m used to and this has been a huge adjustment. I have managed to complete a comprehensive work plan, done surveys, drafted reports, plans and forms, attended meetings, visited three of the national centre’s throughout the country (can you say road trip!) and am now heading up a project with the University of Guyana to work with five computer science students to create a data base (yikes). Overall it has been very interesting and a lot of changed work culture to adapt to. As mentioned the pace is slower so it takes time here to make decisions, to get back to you, to reply to emails, to think about things. I’m also unsure exactly of what if any authority I actually have as a VSO advisor, and if my work will make the impact I hope it can, but I will persevere. There is also the strict hierarchy and the dress code to contend with. The boss’s door stays closed, you always knock and he is always called Mr. The dress code is as follows; shoes should be flat and toes covered, (but you can wear sandals as long as they are leather), skirts and dresses must be below the knee, shoulders are always covered and hair is tied back or up. And like most other employees in the city I must also wear or carry my identification badge. Needless to say there are no mini skirts, fabulous tights, dangling jewelry, long hair and sexy boots allowed at work……or Starbucks. But I’m delighted to be conservative in dress, a racial minority, an apparent social enigma and to try and converse and work with these wonderful people I find myself spending my days with....in my air conditioned office…ahhhh.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
"Liming" with the Rats and Lizards
Living and working in a developing country is challenging,exhilarating and sobering in it’s stark contrasts to the infrastructure you are used to. The average wage here is $40 thousand GD(Guyana Dollars)per month,or just a little over $200 CAD.I get a stipend as a VSO volunteer that is slightly more than that to live on, but I also have my rent, gas, electricity, telephone and insurance paid for which the average Guyanese does not. My flat has cold and cold running water, an infuriating propane gas stove that you light with matches,loud humming fluorescent lights, metal gates and bars on every door and window, barbed razor wire fencing, a mostly flushing toilet, a working refrigerator, a landline telephone,two loud fans instead of AC, frequent power outages and a room mate. We share our back porch and the highly appealing hammock hung there with a health practitioner, whose clients use the hammock as a makeshift waiting room. VSO provided us with a personal safety alarm, a water filtering system, a flashlight, a mosquito net, a smoke detector and a bicycle purchase allowance. We pay extra for high speed internet, bottled drinking water and any laundry we do not want to wash ourselves by hand in cold or cold running water. I am keenly aware that this living situation which may appear to be a huge step down for me compared to North American standards is in fact pretty good for the average GTown resident. All around us in our neighborhood of “Kitty” as it is called, residents do what they can to augment their livelihoods from their homes. On my block alone there are two “rum shops” (bars with a strictly gentleman clientele),a furniture repair store, a laundress (thankfully right next door, a hardware retailer, a license plate maker, three “snackettes” which have so much security you can’t even touch any of the bags of chips or strange looking cookies to check expiry dates or read ingredients before buying, a barber shop and “Desiree’s Hangout” which appears to be another lockdown "snackette" except witha few chairs thrown in to sit on out front and maybe some rum shop dealings on the side hence the “hangout” or “liming” potential.("Liming"is what they call hanging out here).That is if you want to “lime” with the pack of wild dogs that live at that end of the block and chase cars and bikes ferociously. The high level of security employed here on all buildings is intimidating, visually unappealing, and a royal pain in the ass to get used to. Try unlocking five padlocked gates, each with a finicky key and three bolts ANYTIME you want to go anywhere, but sadly it is also essential. A fellow VSO who lives next door (gulp) had a break in at 2 am just a few mere months ago. This despite the excessive armoury there for protection. Then there is the ahem, wild life to contend with. I have seen rats directly out front of my flat, big fat wet rats the size of rabbits crawling out and looking right at me. I am terrified of rats and try to remain calm by telling myself that they have so much good food to eat in the ditches that they do not need to come inside. Same with the giant flying cockroaches, I have seen them and they are hideously scary but so far only outside. Inside we do have moths the size of hummingbirds and huge red dragon flies that occasionally commit suicide on the fluorescent lights and of course the nightly choir of crickets and frogs that sing so loudly on the porch it is sometimes hard to talk over them. We have a firmly entrenched resident army of miniature ants, the size of a grain of sand that converge on any crumb, speck, morsel, drip or drop of food you leave behind on the counter, sink or garbage. I have employed a strict “no crumb left behind” policy and keep all food in the fridge and remove garbage as it is created. Sadly "Lenigans Ants" also like toothpaste, shampoo, and body lotion. So they also clamor for any spittle, bristle or jar lid in your bathroom. I probably unknowingly consume thousands of them a day, a protein source if you will. I have a gecko or “house lizard” as they are called here who regularly manages to get INSIDE the mosquito net and scuttle about. After my first few shrieking sessions I have come to embrace him and his presence and have named him “Thin Lizzy”. I hope he at least eats some of the mosquito’s whose guerilla tactics allow them to breach the perimeter of the net each night and sup on my blood. I have become a ruthless killing machine that nightly hunts mosquitoes and other flying biting creatures that are inside the sanctuary of my net before climbing under to sweat myself to sleep. Despite this slick warfare I still wake up each morning with new welts. I average about fifty bites on my body at any given time. I’m clearly not batting 500 yet in this battle. Maybe I should get two lizards.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Sights, Sounds and Smells of G-Town
The sights, sounds and smells of Georgetown, Guyana are a seductive and thorough assault on one’s senses. There is the jungle traffic, the ghetto beauty of spectacular colonial ruins, the sweet fermented smell of overripe fruit, the pounding dance beats, blaring horns and constant construction all competing for an audience, the acrid smell of burning garbage and fresh manure, the sing song of creole speakin ‘n cussin ‘n cat callin, random shockingly large and beautiful flowers, lush overgrown tree canopied sidewalks, camera size insects and bright green parakeets, thousands of optimistic entrepreneurial vendors age 2 to 82 selling absolutely anything they can, leg breaking size holes in the road, random open ditches that may or may not be sewers, blazing hot sun with 100% humidity tempered by sudden hurricane style rain showers that soak you to the bone, and the continual semi comforting smell of deep fried fish. I think it is a fascinating place....and one with beautiful people.
But let’s talk more about the jungle traffic... The privatized and personalized taxis and mini busses communicate to the city in a complicated language of short, long, rapid, honks of their horns. I have yet to master the nuances of what or how many honks means what. It seems they honk to pass you, honk at you if you are a woman, (check) honk if you are white woman, (double check) honk for you to get out of the way, honk to see if you want a cab, honk to see if you want a minibus, honk for other cars to get out of the way, and the mysterious four to six rapid honks that perhaps are just for the fun of it. I have learned to be extremely careful crossing the street as they drive on the opposite side of the road than we do in Canada, and being a bit right/left side challenged, this makes it very hard for me to gage which way to look before crossing any intersection. They also drive extremely fast, do not stop for pedestrians or stray dogs and are all already honkin ‘n cussin ‘n cat callin so there are few specific audio clues as to if or when someone will be stopping for you. Added to this are many motorcycles with drivers of all shapes and sizes. The funniest rider I have seen was a large woman in a Guyanese power suit (more about this later) sporting the German SS style helmet they all wear here, with about 800 rolls of toilet paper strapped to the front of the motorcycle and she was looking sideways around them to drive. They also still frequently utilize horse drawn carts to transport goods, they trot along at good speed amongst all the crazy traffic, and I have even seen some cattle on the roads that apparently just wandered out from the fields into town for a good time. So there are horse and cow manure hazards to watch for as well. Bicycles of all shapes and sizes, some which also double as stores on wheels are plentiful and weave in and out of the horse drawn carts, taxis, cows, motorcycles and busses often with more than one person on the bike, carrying goods of all sorts. I’ve seen cakes, children, girlfriends, parrots, tires, gasoline, boxes, water coolers, ice blocks, bales of straw, live pheasants, fans, machetes and a chainsaw all being carried by someone on a bicycle. Note that no one wears bike shoes, bike shorts, bike gloves, helmets or spandex of any kind. So in this humid jungle traffic environment I will soon be commuting to work, doing my shopping, and trying to not get run over or have my bike stolen. But rest assured I will be wearing my derby helmet for protection...perhaps the only one in GTown.
But let’s talk more about the jungle traffic... The privatized and personalized taxis and mini busses communicate to the city in a complicated language of short, long, rapid, honks of their horns. I have yet to master the nuances of what or how many honks means what. It seems they honk to pass you, honk at you if you are a woman, (check) honk if you are white woman, (double check) honk for you to get out of the way, honk to see if you want a cab, honk to see if you want a minibus, honk for other cars to get out of the way, and the mysterious four to six rapid honks that perhaps are just for the fun of it. I have learned to be extremely careful crossing the street as they drive on the opposite side of the road than we do in Canada, and being a bit right/left side challenged, this makes it very hard for me to gage which way to look before crossing any intersection. They also drive extremely fast, do not stop for pedestrians or stray dogs and are all already honkin ‘n cussin ‘n cat callin so there are few specific audio clues as to if or when someone will be stopping for you. Added to this are many motorcycles with drivers of all shapes and sizes. The funniest rider I have seen was a large woman in a Guyanese power suit (more about this later) sporting the German SS style helmet they all wear here, with about 800 rolls of toilet paper strapped to the front of the motorcycle and she was looking sideways around them to drive. They also still frequently utilize horse drawn carts to transport goods, they trot along at good speed amongst all the crazy traffic, and I have even seen some cattle on the roads that apparently just wandered out from the fields into town for a good time. So there are horse and cow manure hazards to watch for as well. Bicycles of all shapes and sizes, some which also double as stores on wheels are plentiful and weave in and out of the horse drawn carts, taxis, cows, motorcycles and busses often with more than one person on the bike, carrying goods of all sorts. I’ve seen cakes, children, girlfriends, parrots, tires, gasoline, boxes, water coolers, ice blocks, bales of straw, live pheasants, fans, machetes and a chainsaw all being carried by someone on a bicycle. Note that no one wears bike shoes, bike shorts, bike gloves, helmets or spandex of any kind. So in this humid jungle traffic environment I will soon be commuting to work, doing my shopping, and trying to not get run over or have my bike stolen. But rest assured I will be wearing my derby helmet for protection...perhaps the only one in GTown.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Global Citizen?
After 2 months of speculation about whether I would go to South America or not and then another month post acceptance of caffeine and doughnut fuelled sixteen hour days that involved moving from two places, storing, selling or giving away everything I own, a roller derby championship, going to Ottawa for training , replacing myself at work, massive medical inoculations, the purchasing of a personal vitamin herbal arsenal and obsessive compulsive packing and repacking to anticipate everything that I might possibly need for a long, long time within the strict weight restriction of 25kg, I am finally headed south. In the end my bag was $100 overweight and I had to run for the plane despite getting to the airport two hours early. Security had a hey day with the massive amounts of vitamins, medications, herbal supplements, wads of cash, bags of electronics and the maximum amount of liquids, gels and roller derby stickers that a girl can take on a plane. Let’s just say I got to visit the back room and we will leave it at that. All this as I have decided to go to Guyana, South America to volunteer as a global citizen with CUSO-VSO, an international development organization. This is the fulfilment of a lifelong dream to contribute on a different level. Will I be successful? Will I make a difference? Will I help to change my planet? Will I come back changed? I know that right now sitting in the relative comfort of economy travel I have serious doubts, doubts about my abilities, about leaving everything great in my life behind, and especially about whether or not I can do something like this by myself for so long. So “welcome to the jungle” ...my jungled mind that is...aka my travel blog, which will chart my successes, failures and adventures while down south.
I just hope they at least have good coffee in Guyana.... please...!!
PS – Many thanks to all of you who have been so supportive of me in taking this epic journey..I am truly blessed to have you in my life!
I just hope they at least have good coffee in Guyana.... please...!!
PS – Many thanks to all of you who have been so supportive of me in taking this epic journey..I am truly blessed to have you in my life!
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