What I love about Guyana

In a few weeks I will have been living in Guyana for six months.....and although living in a third world country does pose some challenges, and I have been experiencing a little bit of the predicted six month slump these past few weeks, there are many things I have learned to love about living in this country...so I will share all these perks in an effort to focus on the positive and be thankful for the amazing opportunity of living and working here.
Sunshine on a winter’s day ...As hot and humid and torrentially wet it can get here sometimes it is still always a summer day...and a summer day always beats a winter day....well doesn’t it? There is a little thrill I get inside my Canadian self each January day that I can dress in shorts, a light top and sandals and never have to worry about bringing a jacket, mittens or a hat as I walk out the door.
Tropical fruits of all kind...I love the fresh tart pineapples, mangos picked from a tree, the cat size red glossy papayas, the subtly exotic passion fruit, the elusive guavas, childhood tasting water melons, fragrant tangerines, the plump limes, the mini George of the Jungle bananas and the exciting spectacle and taste of a freshly macheted green coconut.... to which I may have a mild addiction.
My two wheels.... I used to say that my next car would be no car and I am living the dream folks. Even if is a two cent piece of shit bike that could be stolen or break down at any moment, she’s all mine and I love her. I truly enjoy the effortlessness of biking to and from work, seeing all the sights from the perch of my bicycle seat and loading up my basket with whatever I need to carry. The other day I was walking at the market without my bike on the way home from a trip to the regions and one of my regular vendors said to me...”Hey girl.. where’s dat pretty blue bicycle that matches your eyes today?” It seems she gets missed by others too when she is left at home!
Animal Farm...I get to see animals here every day, and many that are long extinct from urbanity and I delight in each donkey, horse and herd of goats I see in the city limits. I love the bored and melancholy look of the donkeys parked by the roadside. I love the focused look a horse gets when he is barrelling towards you at an intersection…”I’d advise you get out of the weighhhh”…you can practically hear them. And I love the goats that seem to be used as...well.. hedge trimmers! And then there are the birds... the squawking swooping parrots, the serious brooding falcons, the perky egrets and shrill song birds are each a wonder to behold. Even the street dogs, who at first deeply appalled and disturbed me, I have now embraced as a just a different way to be a dog. The restraints that we put on our pets (although they come with a regular meal, a place to sleep, and veterinary care) begins to seem almost archaic when you see thriving packs of wild dogs, each with their own hood, pups, sand pile and turf. I have seen dogs grieve over killed dogs, carrying pups in their mouths, digging tunnels, making out (doggie style), sleeping peacefully in packs with a small burro dug in their sand hill and I’ve even seen dogs fishing together out in the ocean tides at night. I still cringe to see the state of some of these animals, and have seen enough dead dogs to last me a life time... but they are also free in a way many dogs locked into condos all day probably long for.
Down on Main St.. I love that you can buy almost anything on the street. You can buy a cold drink, (beer, rum and vodka included) to underwear on a stick, hot food, fresh baking, corn on the cob (with gravy!!), freshly cut fruit, fresh squeezed juice (sold in a plastic bag with a straw), hair supplies, egg and chicken sandwiches, shoes, candies, deep fried anything, plantain chips, fresh nuts, sugar cane, candy floss, cheese rolls, DVD’s, ice slushies, perfume,…rat poison, school supplies...almost anything you might need on your way home from work is right there.... and you can even pay to weigh yourself right on the street corner...LOL!
The beautiful and interesting people I get to talk to....No matter what life here is not dull, everyday someone does or says something funny, amusing, curious, tragic, interesting, challenging, against my values, appalling, upsetting, kind, caring, insightful, tender, insulting, or overly forthright and this variety of conversation is so unlike what you experience at home. There are certainly no boring Canadian style stranger conversations about traffic jams, mortgage rates, or the weather. I love the surprise of my human interactions here....and how people reach out to you. The other day I was riding in the very hot sun on my bike and a man pulled over in his car and asked if I needed an umbrella to shade me......I declined but thanked him and as he drove away I thought of how genuinely kind and rare his offer was...and how generous and how much more often we should practice random acts of....umbrella sharing.

The “Soft Skills” I Learned in 2010

Happy New Year! Having rung in the “Old Years Night” as they call it here in Guyana at home in 1st world amenity filled Canada by sipping vintage scotch and smoking Cuban cigars, I am now once again back in the developing world of Guyana to welcome the new year of 2011. Perhaps another encounter with a giant flying cockroach, another bike incident or two, more liming on the seawall, another job to complete, more roti’s to try and make as good as Celia’s, are all events that may await me this coming year. I hope to continue to progress with my volunteer work, my contribution to global society and to continue to acquire new skills and to challenge myself. Other VSO’s and myself have joked about the new skills we have all developed, some of these we have dubbed to be “soft skills” You know; the things that might not make it onto a C.V. or resume but that will serve you well in over all functioning. So here is my list of the top 5 soft skills I have developed in Guyana in 2010.
1. COLD SHOWERS 101 I now have the ability to take a cold shower anytime and anyplace. I occasionally still yelp on cooler days after the first dunking of the head into the chilly depths of the overhead spray, but actually cold water showers are very good for your lymphatic system and according to my hairdresser are also great for your hair and skin too! And well I have no option other than… “suck it up princess”.

2. Entomophobia or Insectophobia 202 I have developed a fear of giant flying insects in my face. I didn’t know I was afraid of this until it happened to me. It’s a good thing to know for future jungle encounters. I also am no longer afraid of trying to kill said giant insects as they attack me although some assistance from a valiant roommate and a whole bottle of lethal banned from 1st world insecticide is also helpful. This new fear has superseded my old fear of rats....I think. OK not rats in my face...just rats on the ground.

3. Bicycle Loading Ergonomics 303 This is an advanced course in how to transport things on two wheels. In this hands on method you learn to transport loose eggs, giant water bottles, loads of laundry, grocery bags, watermelons, flowers, ice, wooden art pieces, other passengers and still arrive alive. I am getting an A+ except for the umbrella section of the course work, where you ride one handed in the rain clutching an umbrella as I have almost crashed upon each attempt. I need a few remedial tutorials on this soft skill, but I have noticed the Dutch do it well.

4. Negotiations 406 I have studied theory on this most useful of skills back in my home country, but never had it tested to the limits as I have here. I have had to negotiate HARD with men, busses, taxis, at work, in seminars, buying food, with land ladies, police, street people, at trainings, with children vendors, street people, bus conductors, and in many other human encounters. Developing the skill to state what you need or can not do, or would like to do, firmly, fairly, diplomatically and without pissing anybody off is required to be utilized here most often. I feel I can negotiate with anyone now about anything, unreasonable dictators, bring them on…bitchy soccer moms…pushy phone sales reps... aggressive touts...HAH..I laugh at you all. No means no bitch!

5. Material Possession Awareness 503 The longer you live without some material items the more you realise they are not really needed in your life. I have now lived for the better part of five months without (in no particular order) a private living space, hot water, water you can drink from the tap, a hair dryer, a car, air conditioning, washing machines, dryers, a blackberry, a lavish wardrobe, good kitchen equipment, coffee shops, cable TV, movie theatres, an art studio, malls, comfortable furniture, butter, wine, cheese, chocolate, grapes, yogurt, and lattes and well I could go on.... All of these things will never again be taken for granted by me....and a hot shower alone will feel like a decadent small miracle to welcome back into my life.
Welcome 2011 and cheers to further learning about how to live on our shared planet, and to developing more skills, soft or not....Now where’s my umbrella and my bike?

The Incense Seller

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.