The Best of Both Worlds

I’ve often thought, lately, that I seem to be experiencing the best of both worlds. And there’s some guilt associated with that, but then, I wonder, would others feel the same as I? Family and friends back home seem to give me more credit than I feel I’m due, because this has been pretty great so far – very enjoyable and not too crazy. Maybe me being so content is why I get so much credit? I dunno. Because I feel VERY content with all I get to do and see:

I get to experience LIFE, living life, stuff you have to work at and earn to enjoy. I get to be in an environment that encourages and fosters personal maturation – skills and understandings I’ve lacked. Because before, some things have been prepared and handed to me, I’ve not had to learn certain things, not had to confront certain facts of life – facts as profound and personal as the realities of alcohol consumption, or as shallow and silly as cooking oatmeal or rice without a box with step by step instructions on it, or as medium as scaling and gutting a live fish.

I get to be removed from dozens of sinful temptations – gluttony (food and possessions), sloth (transportation and basic needs at arm’s length away) and all the other temptations of modern conveniences that can be distracting like TV and computers and stores.

I get to experience nature – raw, scary, beautiful nature – every day, unrestricted, in my backyard. Forget Kodak moments, fake flowers, staged oasis’s, it’s here, it’s real.

I get to LIVE in, not just visit, a village in the Hinterland region of a country in South America. I see and learn day to day happenings. I participate and help in those happenings. I get to be a part of life outside the life I’ve known thus far. I am given a place here in my village and I have accepted that place. Not bona fide yet, I don’t fit like a glove, but there’s been extension and reciprocation on a more than superficial level.

These are some of the more meaningful reasons I feel so lucky, but there are several secondary “perks” that I can think of, too:
-I get to travel and get cultured. I am taken care of with the basics, as well - and don’t have to worry about income (or taxes or gas or stuff like that).
-I get to gain some killer stories and pictures for back home.
-I get to still be connected with home and receive love, support and letters/packages from them. Tons of TLC; I feel spoiled.
-I get to make friends and have fun here – it’s not a solemn affair!
-I get to work with and be inspired by and meet so many different and amazing and accomplished and ambitious people! PC and HCN alike. (I think this is a more major reason, not secondary, actually)
-I get to spend my days with kids and BOOKS – books that inspire me to no end.

I get to be in a place that keeps me aware and responsive, that is relaxed enough to feel comfortable, but, at the same time, that calls me to work towards something, to give, to work with others. It is a higher calling than I’ve experienced before and I am honored to be attempting it, grateful for the opportunity.

Nick, a fellow volunteer in the region, said to me right before I left for my village that “sometimes, you need to take before you can give.” I have taken all of these “perks” and I have enjoyed and appreciated them. The spring term begins next Monday, and now, five months after that piece of wisdom from Nick, I think it’s actually time to start giving back on a higher level. I hope I’ve “given” a little thus far, but now it’s time to kick it up a notch. The familiar anxiety creeps up as I realize this and become unsure, but I now have five months worth of experience and relationships going for me. Let’s see if the new year can be rewarding on two different levels.
Happy New Year!

"Me" Defined

I just found out that Anthony, one of the first people I met here in Y, and one of the people I interact the most with, is engaged to Maria, a woman who works at CH and they live together and have a little daughter. How could I know Anthony for all this time and not know he had a wife and kid? It amazes me I could not have already known such a big fact about someone I’ve known for almost 5 months. How unperceptive of me, how rude of me not to find out such a staple component of one’s life.

Though as I reflected on my lack of proper attention to things and deficiency of questions asked, I also began to reflect on a big cultural difference – maybe it is not considered a staple component here? Sure, I hadn’t asked him if he had a family of his own – but neither did he tell/show me he had a family of his own, nor did the situation to find out by happenstance (before now) occur. To me, Anthony appeared to be acting as a single guy – I never heard Maria’s name mentioned, she didn’t accompany him places, he didn’t talk about home or the baby. Franzea (her and Anthony are brother and sister) never brought it up when talking about her family. No family outings to be seen, no rings on fingers.

Which leads me to an observation of MY culture – Americans are a lot more self conscious. We have a strong idea of what it means to be “me” and are quick to inform others. You know, those basic things like profession, family status; anything we feel defines us, clarifies who we are, separates us from the crowd. Also, to Americans, to meet a person is to share names. Our names are the first thing that makes us distinct. Sure, you may learn someone’s name and then forget it and have to ask again later or find out from someone, but you go into a conversation with that simple understanding. Our basic human interactions are to share names, share occupation – how one generally occupies their time. It is to share significant others and small details of the relationship – been together 3 years, engaged, just married, married 2 years, recently divorced, widowed. It is to share if you have any children and it is customary for parents talk about their children. TOO much, even. Is this done out of pride? Need for self definition? Pompousness? Or just assertiveness? And a clear self concept? Not sure.

Attention to the self is not stressed here. There is a certain humility and quietness about those I meet. There is definitely pride in accomplishments and they know how to enjoy themselves, but that “I” factor seems fairly non-existent.

How do we define who we are? Is it our daily activities? Those we surround ourselves with? Our actions? What are the key things about you you’d want people to know?

Perhaps Anthony does not need to be “Husband” or “Father” to be a good friend, guide and village representative... but don’t those roles add to and further define who he is? Can you really know someone without knowing some of these basic facts? Or are these facts even considered basic by Guyana?

The Giggles

I've had (and heard) the giggles a lot lately. Possibly one of the most enjoyable sensations. Delight, giddiness, humor (or sometimes lack of humor) and an overall pleasant feeling or sensation that comes over you. And then there's second-hand giggling, that comes from hearing someone else's giggles and being compelled to giggle, too.

Besides the slight giggles I experience at least once a day, I started a phase of really good giggles the other day -

Sunday, while fishing (or trying to) in Simoni. Despite the abundance of fish in the river, the quality of lure I was using and the time and mental effort put into catching something, I could not. All the others around me were pulling them in left and right, but me - nothing. Towards the end of the day, the boats' concentration was on me getting a fish. "OK, you're gonna catch one now, I can feel it," Fernando would say. But its as if fate's plan was for me to NOT catch a fish that day. As for why, I'm not sure, but apparently she was serious about it. So upon considering all this, plus reflecting on this particular need of mine to ensnare a fish through the mouth, and then pull it onto the boat by myself, I began to get the giggles. Tee hee hee... It didn't help me catch a fish, but it made the disappointment easier.

Wednesday - camp out with Wildlife Club on the sandbank. Russian and I had supervised the set up of camp, volleyball, dinner and we gave a brief speech of welcome and shout out to WC activities. We later went on a nature walk, looking for any sort of creatures. It was kind of silly, because no doubt our noise level had scared off anything interesting, and so we kind of just found regular things to study. As the torchlights were shined around, I could hear a group of people, Russian included, debating on whether a form in the tree was a bird or not. I was only half paying attention, but I did notice a rock being thrown into the air at the tree. Something took flight and at the same time I put two and two together, Russian says "Yep. It's a bird." For some reason, the unnecessary declaration greatly amused me and I had the giggles for several minutes over it.

Later that night, after some alcohol, we go to our hammocks. Chris is fumbling with his net, Franzea is conked out, I'm silent, but Shamir is giggling. No other sound, just giggling, then stop. After 30 seconds to a minute, again. No idea why. So every time he'd laugh, I'd start to join in. "Hee, hee hee..." -"Hee, hee hee!" Apparently, he was laughing at Chris, struggling with his hammock.

Friday - Bike ride. No breaks, night time, unfamiliar terrain, mud, loose gravel, wavering, steering. Not been on a bike in years. Giggles WHILE pedaling.

Some say "Just breathe," others say "Just dance;" I'm going with "Just giggle."

For Future Reference:

For future reference:
-Torchlight
-Long sleeves and pants
-Soap
-Hammock (as well as rope)

To what do these items refer? Essentials for a Rupununi outing – ones that I failed to fathom, this time at least. These essentials, as well as others that my party did remember to walk with, such as salt, farine, a pot and a cutlass, seem to be staples any outing from a simple picnic, to a day trip on the river, to camping overnight. I’ve participated in two and will experience the third in a few days, so I should pay attention.

Torchlight – for when the day trip turns into a night trip and you need to see the river’s path – or just your hand in front of your face – to guide the boat back to the landing. For when you are walking up a steep path back to your village, one filled with tree stumps and crevices. Long sleeves and pants – because even though it’s the dry season and the mosquitoes, caboras and sandflies have abated in general, by the water, they are by the thousands and show no mercy. There’ll be no tank tops and shorts on THESE trips to the river. Soap – because it’s more efficient to bathe at the same time you’re swimming, besides, everyone else is doing it. Hammock – because while you’re eating and liming in between fishing, you need a place to lie around. It requires minimal assembly and provides a place to sit off the ground, a place to swing for fun, and a place to take a five... or ten.

All these things and more I learned today because I had the pleasure of accompanying CH and Ashley & family to Simoni for fishing and it was great. “The guys” go to this place for some serious fishing, and I was excited to finally be out on the water, seeing a part of what they do when they go out. The invite to go with them sometime has been open for months, and it was a nice time to cash that invite in since it wasn’t just a guys thing, plus Franzea was going, too. The day was perfect – except I couldn’t catch a fish! Ok, fine, I caught two pirie and one piranha, but I didn’t catch a TRUE “fish.” Lukanani is one of them, it’s THE fish to catch here. It’s what they all come back with each fishing trip, what’s abundant in the waters, and what’s delicious to eat. And, you might say “Oh, you just need practice,” or “Well, you still caught 3 fish!’ but you wouldn’t if you knew how amazingly plentiful Rupununi fishing was like. It’s practically like shooting fish in a barrel – excuse my all-too-fitting analogy. The fish are abundant (in the dry season, at least) and the fishing is simple – lure with 2 4-prong hooks on a line with a spinner – toss out and hold as the boat goes forward at a slow, to medium pace, pulling the line behind it. You feel resistance, pull your line in, letting it gather at your feet. Unhook fish, throw on boat floor and toss out your line again. Repeat a dozen or more times in a few hours, more if you’re lucky, less if you’re me. Sure, Ash did some fly fishing, Cindy used a rod, and the boys did some diving with spear guns, but that’s the basic method of producing mass quantities of fish. Ash’s boat came away with more than 30, and our boat with at least 25. Mostly lukanani, but Juju caught a big tiger fish, and some hooked pirie, which were mostly tossed back – yeah, my fish were tossed back. Anthony caught a basha and there was another weird looking one in the boat, a mangi, too.

No matter how many spots they went to, how many lines they unknotted, checked and did maintenance on for me, a lukanani would not hook itself on the line I was holding. Fernando gave me his good line, with Ashley’s good lure, but nothing. Gah. Though I know we created distractions and were somewhat high maintenance (as well as bad luck, they said), I appreciated the aid and attention from the guys. Franzea was obviously more competent than me, but they all helped us with our lines and things. Then there was reciprocation at “camp,” our base for the day.

Truly the women made our camping back home look like a stay at Holiday Inn. The entire style of the day was basic, yet effective. I noticed this when I went fishing the last time with Franzea on that picnic. With few more items than the ones I’ve mentioned, food and rest was more than adequately provided. Hammocks were hung, a fire was made and means for cooking lunch and then roasting the extra fish were quickly constructed. The river became sink, drinking fountain, rubbish bin, bath and dishwasher all in one. As fish were brought in, they got cleaned and prepared on the water's edge. I even jumped in and gutted some still moving fish! Once they were cleaned and prepared, the fish were carried and placed over the fire on sticks held up with forked sticks in the ground. It was amazing to see such a feast and such an outing come from so few carried supplies.

The outing was enhanced by the unbelievable ambiance surround us. Capuchin monkey pounding a nut against a tree. Herons and cranes. Iguana. River dogs. Caimans 50 feet away. Bad luck birds (I can’t remember their name, but Cindy said they bring bad luck). Sandbanks, winding rivers, sunset on the river, stars on the river...

As I held a plate of farine soaked in fish broth and a cup of cari while the boat bumpily sped home as darkness was fast approaching, I couldn’t help but think “This is the life.” Sure, Juju and Anthony were cleaning the last of the fish in the front of the boat and I probably had fish scales and fish guts flung on my face, but who cares? It’s an experience! How many minutes of how many days do I go around withOUT fish guts on my face? Plenty. How boring, right? Sure, I fell into the river at the drop off where our boats were and was soaked for the windy ride back, but how many times have I experienced that? It’s a story, it’s dynamic, it’s fun! All sorts of things like that really add up to make my experience here great. I seriously appreciate the dynamo of these experiences, it makes me feel alive. If temporary discomfort is part of it, well, that’s ok. And anyway, discomfort is all in the eye of the beholder. I felt pretty darn good and content.

And it occurred to me again today that many people go away to have fun on the river or at the lake or go fishing or bathing or lounging in hammocks. But not me, not my village – it’s our backyard! Mountains, rivers, wildlife, fruits, boating, fishing... it’s all right here. So, even though I did not catch a lukanani, something that vexed me to no end, I’m still able to be pretty happy and thankful, not just about the day, but about my placement here in general.

“Don’t feel no way,” Anthony said several times as I sat, hand holding my line, waiting. And I didn’t.

One Small Step for Womankind, One Giant Leap for Woman

Pumpkin pie. Roasted chicken. Mashed potatoes and gravy. Rice. Cabbage. Yes, all this and more can be and was on the menu for last Thursday, aka T-day! Thank you, thank you, l'd like to thank my mom and my grandma for showing me what I know in the kitchen - bet you didn't think I had it in me, huh, Ma? And I'd like to thank the CH boys .... or is that "I'd like to blame..."? I dunno, maybe both.

Cooking hasn't been easy here. When you have microwavable things up the wazoo back home, and a simplified interest in food here, it leads to meals that mostly consist of Guyanesed versions of American food, like scrambled eggs and farine, or tuna salad in bake or baked beans with clap roti. I`ve definitely had some culinary moments of pride, some of which I commemorated with pictures. Yup, that veggie fried rice, a stew-like dish, pumpkin curry, different types of noodles, french toast... and then of course, there`s my endeavors into the meat group - preparing and then cooking fish, and once chicken that I declared inedible afterwards. Though admittedly, a lot of what I cook, I don`t feel is fit for the queen, or even our village captain. So I`ve been shy to share my cooking with my Y people, even though they`ve allowed me the opportunity several times.

So I dunno what it was, on Thursday, that actually got me movin and groovin in CH`s kitchen, but move and groove I did. Out of desire for maintaining tradition and trying to bring a little of home to Y, I planned to try to make pumpkin pie. Baking is more of my thing anyway, and I LOVE me some pumpkin pie. So Mr. So-where`s-the-turkey? himself brought back supplies we might need, and on Thursday morning (so I'd have time to start over if I messed up), I started chopping pumpkin (with help). Early on, I realized I needed evaporated, not condensed milk, I didn't know what the round nut things were until someone told me they were nutmeg, and while I was in the process of making this one sort of pan function as a pie pan, an actual glass pie pan appeared out of thin air. The recipes I looked up were American, and functioned on Fahrenheit, but the gas stove at the CH was Celsius, so I had to find a conversion chart. But despite all this, everything went smoothly. The crust worked well, the pumpkin stewed beautifully, and the mixture of spices I used were fun.

One pie was for our weekly teacher's lunch, and another, I was making for after hours at the CH.Yet again, Mr. Turkey (that nickname works on so many different levels, it's great) was requesting turkey, and perhaps out of contentment in doing ok with the pies, I finally agreed to try. And then pumpkin pies turned into pumpkin pies and roasted chicken (obviously, a turkey could not be as easily obtained), and then THAT turned into pumpkin pie, chicken and side dishes - you can't have just chicken for dinner, can you? So I mentally added mashed potatoes and an attempt at gravy to the menu, and Frannie talked about adding fried rice to it, as well. Heck yeah, we've got a feast on our hands!

From 6 til 9, we were in the kitchen, my hands going into uncharted territories with that chicken, and taking off it's neck. With pointers from a fellow volunteer herpetologist, Chris, the chicken was cooked and finished by 9 ish. And the potatoes and gravy from scratch were finished, too. Chris thought, and I agreed, that we needed veggies with the meal, so he steamed some purple cabbage. For the gravy, I heated water, stirred in flour with pepper and salt, then added juices from the chicken and some purple cabbage stock... yup, our gravy was purple - but it totally thickened and tasted good! Frannie's rice came out first, and we started covering and waiting. Thanksgiving dinner, though we hadn't intended it to be, is done around a table, all eating at once, so to me, it was only natural we waited for those who were out on business to come back. I actually was feeling bad the food was taking so long to cook, though we certainly finished before they come back.

They return around 10, and it's not the time they come back that finally propels me into an insanity I think only females can possess, it was the fact that they came in, having already eaten and requesting "just some pie." (You know who you are, and you know this was quite a ballsy move on your part.) At first, I said ok, but then I began to get frustrated; I cooked a meal, one that you, joking or not, requested and knew was coming. Here I am, busting my novice ass off, and creating what was NOT a disaster of a meal, and it was gonna be demoted to "tomorrow's food"?

I am proud to say I had the guts to insist a small portion of food was served and tried. Thank you, boys, for accepting orders slightly humbly. Only slightly, though. I had to learn to compromise, too, and throw my fantasy of a meal around the table out the window. Still, though, as we sat on couches with plates on our lap at 10:30 Thursday night, and I had a forkful of mashed potatoes, purple gravy and a piece of roasted chicken, it felt and tasted like Thanksgiving, and it tickled me beyond belief. To not even be expecting Thanksgiving dinner, let alone be the one to cook one (of course, with the help of two great co-chefs), but be eating it in the middle of the Rupununi with some of my favorite people was pretty damn cool.

I finally got a taste of my pumpkin pies, and while they weren't my grandmas' they definitely contained the essence of pumpkin pie. I even got to pick at the chicken bones, and go for a small second of pie later. Pretty damn cool, people, pretty damn cool. And I gotta say, I didn't miss home too much on Thursday. Seriously, just knowing that THEY were enjoying a Thanksgiving meal, even if I couldn't enjoy it myself, was satisfying. The only thing I truly missed was the wine with the meal (and the preparations... and after the meal....)

The Human Touch

The importance of the human touch, of that physical connection between living beings, has never meant so much to me as it does now.

A hug from your mom, dad, brother, sister, grandma, aunt. Using your best friend as a human pillow, your boyfriend/girlfriend as a leaning post. A squeeze on the shoulder that says a thousand words. A playful slug in the arm between buddies. A shoulder rub. Hands held. Ruffling or smoothing down hair.

These are all things that seem to be in short supply for not only myself, but other PCV’s I’ve talked to, also. But it’s not just these forms of contact, it’s even more general forms, such as proximity while sitting on a bench/couch, being mindful of people’s personal bubbles, casually brushing someone’s arm, back, hair… or NOT doing so for fear of that knee-jerk response of them (or you) pulling back, afraid you’ve offended.

Then there are all the other factors that add to physical proximity and contact such as familiarity, past history, inside jokes, and overall comfort in one’s presence to make you feel at ease.

When you are someone who is bringing different perspectives and thought processes somewhere and already are operating on that separate and metaphysical level, the harsh separation on the physical level makes one feel doubly isolated and strange.
I first became aware of this on my birthday, actually. It was a good day; I truly counted myself lucky to be able to celebrate a couple different ways with people. It was a quiet night, with rum and music, right up my alley. However, I started to feel separate from my roomful of friends and friendly people. These people felt comfortable with each other, they acted comfortable with each other and it was obvious they overall were comfortable with each other. Comfortable enough to share a hammock, tease about things, etc. Not only was I not a part of this comfort, but I wasn’t around those I do feel comfortable around.

Of course, before this, I’ve experienced my fair share of “I want my mommy!” moments, where your mother’s lap or shoulder is the object of one’s desire. But, it was the first time that I totally treasured and missed those moments of comfort between friends, or significant other.

I’ve slowly built up my acceptance and enjoyment of hugs, though never have they meant more to me than seeing all my GUY20 buddies at our PDM conference a few weeks ago. You could practically feel the support, understanding, and care flowing as we all held each other close for a moment (or two). Though we only had spent two months together in training before going off to our sites, those relationships have become a sort of lifeline.

During PDM was when I got to share this dilemma or what have you with others, and find out that some were experiencing the same thing. Some, whether in response to this need or just because it clicked with someone on that level, are in relationships with HCN’s (host-country nationals). In fact, I was one of the only females NOT to be involved with someone, either Guyanese or American. Not that it’s because I’ve made it a point not to, it just hasn’t happened.

And interestingly, I’ve had the “are you seeing anyone?” question thrown my way a couple times recently. Well, no…. Then I get asked, are you interested in anyone around? Well, what do you say to that? “No, I hold myself above reproach in that regard.” “Yes, some of these guys are dreamy, I’d like to be hooked up with one.” It’s not like there’s a fervent search for male companionship, but sure, for the above mentioned reasons, it couldn’t hurt. Actually, to be quite honest, I’ve never found myself desiring a relationship as much as I am now. I can only conclude it’s for the above reasons, actually. It’s interesting to think about, because there seems to be a separation between a PCV’s professional life and their personal life. At least it seems so to me, or perhaps I just seem to struggle to integrate the two, because I do know it’s not a black and white issue.

All I know is, when I see mom or whoever comes and visits me for the first time, there’s gonna be a lot of tears and a whole lot of huggin.

Pumpkin and Trick or Treating for Halloween

Because Meena’s pumpkin and shrimp curry was one of my favorite dishes during training and since Gie and Shannon made that great dinner in TBC a couple weeks ago, pumpkin has been put on a pedestal and became my next dish to accomplish. I bought my own small pumpkin last time in TBC, and have been waiting for the right time to try it out. Yesterday was the day. I had a general idea of what I needed to do from watching Meena and Gie, and then I got tips from Maisie, Mike and Ashley on how best to cook it. “Oh, pumpkins are easy,” Ashley said. “Good, it’ll boost my confidence with cooking,” I replied.

I cut into my slightly-bigger-than-a-big grapefruit-sized pumpkin and immediately start scooping out the goo with my hands. Why is it the slimyness and stench of a pumpkin is so enjoyable, when descaling a fish gives me the heebie jeebies? Then I realized it was because it was so familiar to me – I’ve de-gooed a pumpkin countless times, though never for the purpose of eating one. Every year at this time, I usually carve a pumpkin. The act is one of several things that happens in the fall, and along with the stench of pumpkin goo came the smemories of all that. Roasting pumpkin seeds in the oven, carving crazy pictures in the sides of pumpkins, the people I’ve carved with – mom and brothers, Susie, and Devon, Lacey and I’s pumpkin goo fight that one year. I remembered trips to the Pumpkin Patch, cutting out pumpkins out of orange construction paper, Halloween, pumpkin pie, Thanksgiving… Oh, I love fall. And, even though I’m away from my favorite season and all the events that encompass it, I realized last night, I still got my pumpkin.

Shannon and I talked about how pumpkin will have to be a staple once we get back into the states – how did we carve pumpkins all those years and then just throw them out without noting the goodness within? It seems so obvious to cook more with pumpkin now! And the way it’s cooked here, yum… First had to peel it and cut it into chunks. Heated oil then added curry seasoning, then onions and garlic. Added pumpkin chunks, then some water and some sugar. Let them stew for about 25 minute. Mash with a fork and stir. My first time cooking with curry and the smell was magical. I made some roti to go with it; my second roti came out better than my fist one. The pumpkin was a little too sweet and not as spicy, but it was pumpkin. And that’s how I got my pumpkin for Halloween.

Days later, still before Halloween, some girls visited my house. One, in particular, has wormed her way into my heart; she usually comes bearing bread from her grandmother, and requesting peppers and other things for her grandmother’s kitchen. She came asking for “plants” this time, so we started picking these tiny peppers that grow abundantly on a bush in my yard. Then, I think she got in the spirit of receiving, because she started asking for all the other various plants I have in my yard. “What is that, Miss?” –“Those are shallot.”- “My mother wants dem, Miss.” And of course, since she was getting all the freebies, even if they WERE just veggies not fit to eat on their own, the other little girl wanted some, too. I got them plastic bags, and we put some sorry-looking boulanger, some shallot, and the peppers into their bags, the girls resembling trick-or-treaters without costumes, I thought, with an inward smile. After the girls collected their loot, they took off for home, looking proud. Yup, trick or treating, veggie style.
Happy Halloween!

Fifteen Kids, a Bull Cart and a PCV (Part 2)

Friday was a little different. At 6:30, no one was out waiting, so I just start walking, Malinda and others catch up and Marva catches me to say she’s getting some things and will come along just now, but we shouldn’t wait. We start walking. I expect to meet Russian with the cart at the same location, but he wasn’t there. We keep walking. Did we get left behind? I wonder, Was the plan to meet him further up the road? What else was there to do but keep walking? Though I walked with my “on a mission” walk, I know I held the kids up; they all somehow manage to make the trek look like a short, fun trip with running, skipping, walking and exploring all part of it.

Even though Q is 7 miles from Y, many people walked or biked there, fairly easily. I could have done so myself, though I was grateful for the alternative transportation. While, admittedly, I’m not in the best shape the village seems to find me even less so and doesn’t think me able of certain tasks. Either way, it was with relief on different level at reaching Russian’s house and seeing he hasn’t left yet. We get going and this day, I remember my camera. Since the cart is returning for other cargo, we walk the last leg of the journey, having arrived early, despite the slow pace.

More people are here this day and there’s even an opening ceremony with marching and everything. A lot of the events are for older students, and they’re more exciting. Also, though, the nursery school kids had running competitions which was a highlight. I got some great pictures I’m happy with. More camaraderie with the kids and me and Russian kept getting more and more excited as Pheasant House took and maintained the lead in points. At the end of the day, the score totals were: Eagles 312, Macaw 316, and Pheasant 331! Russian and Monique had pondered what we could do to celebrate if we won and they decided to do a lap around the track shouting “We’re number 1!” So, we did. Russian asked if I would (could) and I said sure (though I wasn’t quite so sure) but we took off with the banner, all the kids and changing “Who brought first? – Pheasants! Who brought second? – Macaws!” At the last 1/4th of the track, Russian looks at me (maybe I was puffing extra hard or something, I dunno) and calls “Stop!” and we walk a bit, then he looks at me, as if to check and starts jogging again to the finish. I actually think I could have ran/jogged the whole thing, though I was appreciative of Russian’s consideration and his quiet way of doing it. And because he wasn’t driving the cart home, he made sure I had a ride back in a truck.

I learned some new things about my counterpart these two days – he’s very good with kids, he knows how to raise morale and get people energized, he can be thoughtful ---- and he’s one bad ass bull cart wrangler.

Fifteen Kids, a Bull Cart and a PCV (Part 1)

Inter-house school athletics were this Thursday and Friday I had no idea a few weeks ago, just how big this was. But then the practicing during and after school started, and then a week before, practicing before school started. At 4:30, I’d hear the gong of the makeshift bell in the play field, which just happens to be my side and backyard. I, being assigned to the Pheasant House (Eagle and Macaw being the other Houses), attended and slightly aided in some of these practices. I’m no professional nor veteran athlete, but sports is in my blood and background, so I was able to at least pass on information such as the importance of stretching, graduated exertion and protocol/tips for competition.I’ve come to appreciate and enjoy this October disruption to the calendar and I’m glad I was a part of this first week of competitions.

Since the village of Q’s school annex is still considered a part of Y’s school, the two had three houses between them – Eagle and Peasant at Y and Macaws at Q. These Inter-House competitions were held at Q. I’d been away in TBC, then occupied by my first PCV visitor, so I was out of the loop in regards to preparations for set up. I did, however, secure a ride to Q with my inclusive counterpart, Russian. He, a former member of the Peasant House, offered to transport some of the house members in his family’s bull cart. He said there’d be enough room for me, too. Well, alright!

Miss Marva, Russian, I and some kids met at the market shelter at 6:30 Thursday morning and walked down the hill, past the formerly flooded ravine and to Miss Inez’s house, where the cart waited. I said I’d ride in the cart, but then Marva asked if I was walking, “I’ll walk if you walk,” I told her; I figured following her would be best. “We ride,” she says so we both hop on board, legs dangling over the front, two bulls' behinds staring at us. The cart is about 5’x7’, and some kids pile in behind us, Russian walking alongside, guiding them and Marva holding a makeshift whip out of a tree branch, whacking them every once in awhile and grunting “Hum! Humm!” at the pair. I, unfortunately, forget my camera – what a sight it was, though. The cart hardly went faster than those on foot around us, and I nervously heled on as the bulls slipped and backed up into us a couple times I didn’t realize it until later, but Marva was nervous, too. We had some good laughs, though.

The trek called for some chanting or road trip songs or something, but I was too busy with the novelty of the trip to organize it. We were on the road for about an hour.

Russian, as well as Rosita, are with the Pheasant House, and Miss Marva is busy with the scoring table. Between Rosita, Russian and I, we make sure each competitor is ready for the events (running, jumping, cricket ball toss) and I check off completed events, and note if any Pheasant bring first (that’s how they say take first, or place first – I brought first). I pass around my water bottle for the kids and athletes, probably not the most sanitary thing, but we didn’t think to bring other bottles for the kids. Russian is especially enthusiastic and invested in the kids and their events; he really gets the other kids (and me) to cheer the competitors on. Plus, those kids, some at least, try so hard they practically collapse once they reach the finish line; it’s hard not to get caught up in the competitions. “Run up, run up!” they call to the competitors, meaning “Run faster, catch up!” I learn names better because of this, too.

At the end of the day, around 2:30, the total points earned stands at: Eagles 156, Pheasants 149, and Macaws 135. We wait for Russian to collect the bulls and yoke them back to the cart. The kids dub the cart a “minibus” and giggling and jabbering in Makushi is heard all around. I hop on again, but Marva stays behind. Russian hands the lead ropes to Malinda, a quick 10 year old and we’re off – more kids on board then in the morning, and completely devoid of all adults besides me. It takes me a second to realize this, and I didn’t know whether to be nervous or simply place my life in the competent (?) hands of 15 Y kids, whose expertise added together may or may not equal one adult. Malinda and Lucilyn, another 10 year old, are liberal with the “Hum’s!” and whip lashes, though we don’t seem to go very fast at all, and I have kids hanging all over me and messing around in the back. The road splits and the bulls take one path. “Are we going the right way? Should we turn them?” I ask. “They know the path, Miss,” they tell me. Okay….

But then we veer off that path – and keep going. No one really does anything about it, either. “Aren’t we supposed to be up there?” I ask. “Yes, Miss,” they answer. But nothing. Then they try pulling the ropes to get the bull to go right, they try whacking them on their sides, but the bulls don’t care. “Whaow, whow,” they say, trying to get them to stop. “Whaow!” I shout, too.

They stop, get all turned around, one with his messy butt up close to us in front. I wait for something to happen, but it doesn’t. I start to hop down, figuring, sure, I don’t know a thing about leading a bull cart, but maybe I can pull them back to the road somehow. Though the kids, through their unstructured chatter and inaction, shout, “No, Miss, no!” Right after that, the bull closest to us starts to seriously pee, so I quickly jump back up, out of range. I look to Sevannie, the oldest in the cart for guidance, though it’s Lucilyn who eventually gets out, takes the ropes and guides us back to the road. I am in hysterics with laughter and ignorance, already forming this blog in my head. We get back on track, Lucilyn hops back on board and I begin craning my neck around, searching for Russian or Marva – nothing.

We get off the road again and it hits me how even though the kids are very skilled in some things more than kids in the States are, or even I am, and that Russian and Marva made it look easy enough earlier, it’s not exactly as easy as pie and what the hell am I doing in a cart pulled by bulls several hundred pounds in size, “protected” by a gaggle of kids and nothing else?? It was with great relief I hear Russian catch up to us and to get the bulls as responsive as they were this morning, pulling them back on the road and shimmying up to the front and taking over. He chastises Malinda for letting them get off track, as if she should have known, and I fell a tad less foolhardy about getting myself into the situation I was in; the kids could (should) take care of things. All’s well that ends well, I suppose.

Sarah Meets World

The world is not angels and butterflies. I am finally being forced to reconcile with this fact. I’ve had a charmed life. I blame my parents, only half blame, though. They gave the boys and me all the good in the world. They gave us love, stability, sustenance, creativity, fun, attention and freedom. Despite the freedom, we still were kept in a somewhat sheltered and limited world, not experiencing/knowing all that was out there. As I’ve said before, I remember my childhood as being magical, being complete. Magical in the discoveries, the trials, the triumphs. My childhood, nor my family, was perfect, but we had love and happiness. The negatives seem few and far between.

Now, I only half blame my parents for my charmed life – I accept the other part of the blame. I looked (look) at the world in rose-colored glasses. I did not look at or fixate on that which was not rosy. I built my world around the goodness, I did not engage myself in activities that would invite uncharmed results I believe the boys accepted (did not reject) some uncharmed parts of life. They did not willfully ignore it as I did. That makes them stronger people in some regards. Anyway, because they experienced the less-than-rosy world first- and second-hand, I know it was not all mom and dad’s “fault.” (Though it was Dad who would whisper “angels and butterflies” to me before I went to bed – still does, when I’m around). But me, I still like to deny it and avoid it.

Yet another trait my adventure is molding. It is imperative I come to embrace the world for what it is and all it contains. No matter how much I don’t want to. And I am being forced to here, in this time of my life. Life is poverty, intoxication, ignorance… life is screwworms, cockroaches and spiders… life is fear, suspicion and unstructured. Life is not all these things all the time… but it certainly is not all angels and butterflies, either. I mourn the loss, the defilement of my rosy world. But, I welcome the clarity.

The Magical World of Elementary School

Is it just me, or did elementary school seem like a magical world in which everything was created, supervised, accounted for and everything was full of discoveries? Maybe it’s just looking back do I remember it so fondly, but, man, the fun things we learned and did! The power the teachers had! It seemed the teachers knew everything; they commanded an audience, were presidents of their mini countries, and their subjects followed for the most part, in that created and sustained environment. And we followed, out of the aura created, not out of conditioned response. Well, some of it was, but there just seemed to be something special about school that screamed completeness, that in doing whatever you were doing, you fulfilled the scholastic need. The day went on, long and filled with activities that seemed to have a greater significance you couldn’t quite comprehend, yet you still absorbed everything; it made sense.

Things flowed easily, because for most kids, you just followed the rules the teachers laid down… if the chart said you were the Paper Collector, you proudly collected the paper. If it was three strikes and you were out, by two strikes, you started being extra careful. If you made a pen-mark in a book, you got sent to the principal’s office, a threat strong enough to usually prevent you from doing it. In my school, we had suites, not individual rooms, though there were always the invisible boundaries of the classroom, which everyone adhered to – the 2nd grade corner belonged to the second grade, you didn’t go over there unless for a special reason, and you generally kept your eyes and attention to your own class area.

Assignments were done with decorum, if you were told to spend the next 10 minutes on math problems, you did so, with the small interruptions like an occasional trip to the pencil sharpener, or one or two kids who were fooling around instead. Things were numbered and accounted for.

Though, in hindsight, this was from the observation of one student; specifically, one well-behaved student who did her homework and followed instructions most of the time. Maybe the teachers would say differently. Regardless, school was mostly a place of learning, discovery and order.

Which is why I’m still shaken to the core from my time in the primary schools here.

I checked out Little Town on the Prairie from the library, and it’s fitting, because Miss Wilder and her classroom management have kept coming to mind in the past weeks. She was a new teacher, sister of a well-liked man in town, and generally respected just for being an educator. She had everything going for her; if she expected work to be done and demanded it, it would happen. If the students knew she would not tolerate bad behavior, they would not behave badly. She single-handedly ruined her effectiveness as an educator and lost all respect from her students, though, when she came in, being too nice and telling the students she wouldn’t punish them. Her declaring they would be “the best of friends” did not make it so – the students did not know what to do with that. Eventually, when she called for order, the class was out of control, caught up in disregarding her and making disturbances. And the disruption fed upon itself, until it the purpose of going to school was entirely lost. I fear I am in a similar situation.

What is it that makes people (kids) obey? Respond? What is it about a parent that makes a child eat his peas, even though he doesn’t want to? Or then, what makes that child blatantly disobey their parent’s orders to NOT jump on the bed? As adults, I think the rewards or benefits are more understood – we do as our boss says, so we earn money and keep our job, not just because they told us. We go to church because we know it will benefit our souls, we don’t eat ice cream for breakfast because we understand that’s not a nutritional beginning to the day and that our bodies need something else. Children, though, at one point or another, do not understand the “why,” only the “must.” That sort of puts them at the mercy of parents/adults, relying on older people who know “why” to guide them. And, as told from at least one former child (me), we look up to adults as knowing “a lot;” a lot more than we know, at least. In fact, we tend to think adults may know it all, if not most of it. Which gives rise to that whole scholastic atmosphere.

This is not the case (necessarily) here. It’s as if things are being held together by a thread, a fine thread where nothing is consistent, reliable or permanent. The essence of school is here, but the atmosphere is not. The motions are made, but not the emotion. Adults do not seem like they know it all, and do not act to earn respect. Teachers do not seem like they know it all (let alone the content they are teaching), and do not act to earn respect. (These statements are generalities and don’t reflect the country, or my village for that matter, as a whole.)

I used to think that if you acted in a respectful manner to kids, you would earn respect. Not expect too much, not insult others’ intelligence, give praise and make lessons interesting or fun. This is not working for me here. But perhaps the children don’t know how to show respect. Perhaps they just don’t know what to do with me.

While Miss Wilder’s intentions may be been good (ahead of her time, but good), it did not work, and then she did not try to correct it. The fall term was a failure. Giggling, fidgeting, practical jokes, teasing songs, unlearned lessons… You half feel sorry for her, half think she got what she deserved. Can anything be done once a class loses respect for you? How do you maintain control without controlling the kid?

Strict authoritarian manners with the kids don’t work, being their friend and having fun doesn’t work. Wavering inconsistently between the two doesn’t work. The “lead by intimidation and degradation” method that the teachers use here only gets the kids to do the action requested, with no emotional/intellectual participation from the kids. The smiles and outside-the-box techniques I use are hit and miss. I don’t have the answers, and the teachers here don’t have the answers, but at least they (some) get kids to respond to their methods.

I loathe the set up here and loathe that I have resorted to employing some of the common methods here to keep order; before which, I appealed to every level of a person’s psyche, to no avail. I have become unsympathetic to students’ reactions to my efforts. It feels as if I have tried everything I know. It’s not like this in the US, and despite the overall importance to not make comparisons, I told one class that. “Students back home listen when a teacher tells them something. Students do not erase the board unless the teacher tells them to. Students back home are not as bad as you all are being right now.” Being used to lectures, they mostly stomached this tirade of mine. I think they sensed I gave up on them (for the day, at least).

The function of school here is propelling, but only at the minimum level. The incomplete way many things are done here really is exasperating and angering. Despite these negative feelings, I do have an understanding that this is so only because it is how it was done in the past. Teachers teach in the way they do because they were taught in that same manner, and that’s what they know. Children learn only as much as their parents know in regards to life choices and such. And, I do understand that it is for these exact reasons that I was called here to volunteer. I will grin and bear it, and maybe, just maybe, I will succeed in creating some level of Elementary School Magic here. (Good Lord, it’s difficult, though.)

Liming

“You don’t go and lime?” One of the librarians half-asked, half stated today during our meeting. No, I haven’t lately. (Liming, by the way, is another word for walking around, or hanging around with people gaffing. Gaffing, is chatting, talking.) In fact, most of my time in relation to the village has been from behind the walls of my house, peering out the window. Many activities take place (such as football, getting water, going to and from the CH) and my house has a lot of windows. I can actually see people at church from my toilet (don’t ask how I know that).

I admit, I watch the comings and goings of the village around me often. I look up whenever I hear a motorbike, curious to see who it was and what direction they are going. I see kids fooling around, animals “migrating” some doing chores or are on an errand. But my migration is limited to mostly my house, the school and the CH, occasionally the HM’s house or Junita’s to eat or get bread.

Why? Well, one could argue the days are pretty short and if you’re working most of the day… or that time out of working, you are tired… it’s part of that, but also – I am a simple, quiet person who didn’t really lime at home, either (spend time with friends, yes, but chill for the sake of chilling, no); I still don’t know many people by name yet, and sure the village is still intimidating, lastly, I miss home and being by myself lets me recreate the feeling of home to some degree. Oh, and plus, I like being alone and reading in my hammock.

There are, I’m sure, several more treasures to discover in my village – nature-, people-, event-, factual-, food-, and PC-wise – and there certainly are thing I’d like to learn about like making stuff out of cassava, basket weaving, cloth weaving, horse riding, food making, Makushi-speaking…

I know I need to push beyond the comfort zone to truly and fully integrate into my community. I need to know people and things and feel at home here and not miss US home so much. But, I also need to stay true to myself and go at my own rate (as well as keep my sanity). I guess I can’t fully rely on time to make all the right connections, but I will certainly let it help. Maybe I should ask the librarians to lime with me?

This past Saturday was the end of Heritage events, and my village got together for a barbecue type thing, complete with eating competitions, drinking, archery and volleyball. I did 3 out of the 4. I’ll let you guess which ones. It was a good bonding experience with the village, and especially with the volleyball, it felt like a gathering at home. I was happy to participate in stuff with my village. At least I'm doing some things.

CH Hijinks

“You guys are fun,” I announce to Mike, Nando, Ashley and Shamir, as they all paraded into one of the storerooms in good humor to corner Thor and put much needed medicine on his ear. Mike went in first and called for back up, so then the rest of them start to pile into the small room; one or two of them actually got in before Thor tried to make a break for it. “Shut the door, shut the damn door!” someone yells.

They catch Thor’s head in the door, and he’s hollering and there’s commotion everywhere, and out of nowhere, the can of medicine comes flying over the door, and one of the guys NOT in the storeroom with the thrashing back half of Thor grabs the can and starts spraying his ear with copious amounts of purple, foul-smelling stuff.

It’s over and Thor runs out - out of the storeroom, out of the building, out of the compound. “Did you mean to do that?” I ask Mike. “We meant to use one of the head snares we use on the caiman, but that worked, too.” He said. “Masterful,” I declare.

Life of Pi, Yann Martel

I was all sorts of tickled by this book. It started with the Author’s Note. Martel’s candid story of how this book came to be was engaging. First his remark about fiction – “That’s what fiction is abut, isn’t it, the selective transforming of reality? The twisting of it to bring out its essence?” And then he talks about the struggles to write, to create SOMETHING, something complete. He says, “It’s a misery peculiar to would-be writers. Your theme is good, as are your sentences. Your characters are so ruddy with life, they practically need birth certificates. The plot you’ve mapped out for them is grand, simple and gripping. You’ve done your research, gathering the facts – historical, social, climatic, culinary – that will give your story its feel of authenticity. The dialogue zips along, crackling with tension. The descriptions burst with color, contrast and telling detail. Really, your story can only be great.” While I myself am no author (yet) these aspects seem to be the EXACT components of a good book, a wonderful checklist, of sorts, items necessary for a good book, a good read. It’s something I’d use to describe several books I’ve read, or could pinpoint exactly which items not so good book does NOT have.

Mattel goes on, though, and names one other KEY element needed: “But it all adds up to nothing in spite of the obvious, shining promise of it; there comes a moment when you realize that the whisper that has been pestering you all along from the back of your mind is speaking the flat awful truth; it won’t work. An element is missing, that spark that brings to life a real story, regardless of whether the history or the food is right. Your story is emotionally dead, and that’s the crux of it.” A lovely description of what makes a book, a book. So I started out already enjoying the author.

The book is based off a true story, but while he writes in the first person narrative, still, it’s a fiction piece, with some liberties or nuances made by the author.

I first heard about this book from PCT Tim, who was reading it during training. I mentioned I hadn’t heard of it and Tim, in a very Tim-like manner, said “Really? You’re one of the few who hasn’t, most people seem to know it.” So at that point I figured I was missing out on something and wanted to catch up to everyone else. I didn’t need much more prompting, because of what Tim told me, it was an interesting story – a guy named Pi on a lifeboat with wild animals – very cool. HOW did they get on the life boat? WHAT animals are on there with him? Is it a Noah’s ark sort of thing, where the animals live peacefully with each other? How long are they all on the life boat? My curiosity had to be quenched. I found the book (unfortunately, a long line of people were attached to Tim’s books) at Y Public Library, another surprising delight.

The story pulled me right in on the first couple pages with his anecdotes about sloths. We learn that Pi had two majors – Zoology and Religious Studies; the book revolves around these two subjects. He grew up in a zoo – his father’s a zookeeper - and from an early age was interested in religion. His first religious experience was with Hindu. Though, he, too, became enthralled by Christianity and then Islam, practicing all 3. He was 14 when he “met Jesus Christ on holiday.” His perspective on Christianity and how he compares it to Hinduism is very original. Though the idea of Jesus and his death greatly perplexes him, he gets pulled in. “I couldn’t get Him out of my head. Still can’t. I spent three solid days thinking about Him. The more He bothered me, the less I could forget Him. And the more I learned about Him the less I wanted to leave Him.”

After becoming a Christian, he raced to the Hindu temple “-to offer thanks to Lord Krishna for having put Jesus of Nazareth, whose humanity I found so compelling, in my way.” His first encounter and reaction to Islam and their prayers, the thought “Why, Islam is nothing but an easy sort of exercise.” He does go on to say, “I challenge anyone to understand Islam, its spirit and not to love it. It’s a beautiful religion of brotherhood and devotion.” It is an interesting and slightly humorous scene when the Pandit, Priest and Imam, along with Pi’s parents, discover his tribunal religious affiliations. “I just want to love God,” he says. Chapter 25 (there are 100 chapters in all. Some as brief as a paragraph) is an intelligent comment on religion. An interesting sentence from that chapter – “To me, religion is about our dignity, not our depravity.”

The lifeboat doesn’t come until Chapter 37, though the entire book, jumps around in the events of his life. The second main character of the story is Richard Parker, though it takes awhile to figure out who he is – or more like what. Their relationship was very deliberate and unique. The tidbits about zoos and zoology, as well as religion, life at sea, survival and other matters are all told in an open way, very frank (or modest, even) to the point of humorous, almost. Martel makes the physical elements of the story jump off the page to the reader. Very creative, engaging, full of strong ideas, conclusions, not all pleasant or agreeable, but still. The detail in which Martel (Pi) describes killing and eating is quite vivid. Definitely a worthwhile read, it’s something that gives you new things to think about. A couple other good quotes: “It’s not atheists who get stuck in my caw, but agnostics. Doubt is useful for awhile. We all must pass through the garden of Gethsemane. If Christ played with doubt, so must we… But we must move on. To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as means of transportation.”

“The reason death strikes so closely to life isn’t biological necessity – it’s envy. Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it, a jealous, possessive loge that grabs at what it can.”

Picture this:

Picture this: You get a ride into the city, by a friend of a friend hook up that happened nicely. You go to your friend’s house, gaff since you haven’t seen each other in ages, and find yourself going out to a party, with that friend and a few others. After hugs of hello and checking out their new digs, you head to the party. Even though the party wasn’t too exciting, the next day totally makes up for it – you get a new cell phone, go shopping and eat Chinese for lunch with a group. You make plans to meet up for dinner, and what starts as a small gathering of friends, turns into three tables long full of people talking, sharing, laughing, eating and drinking beer! All your conversations are meaningful, and you’ve been so starved for your friends/buddies/comrades, you also just spend time drinking them in. After a few beers, you feel good. You haven’t relaxed like this in some time. Since more friends are added to the mix, you sort out who is sleeping with whom, your generous hostess opened her door to another; even though space and accommodations are hard to come by, you amusingly make it work. “G’night” is heard all around as you go to sleep happy and tired.

The next day is just as good. You sleep late, then you and your friend decide to stay in, make lunch and watch a movie. You get things together and make it happen. Good food and good movie. You are content. Next you go to a football game – your team against your friend’s team. The game is delayed due to rain, but you chillily accept to warm up via moonshine from a fellow spectator. The game is entertaining, you cheer your team on, people-watch and gaff with people as those concession stand items are being eaten all around. For dinner, you and several others must have had the same thought in mind, because you all show up at the same restaurant. (Money is not an issue this weekend.) You eat, you laugh and you plan for later, to go to the big event that’s in town. People galore, drinks, stage performances, kids and other ankle biters running around. You watch and hear some interesting things before you and a different friend decide to call it a night. You walk back together, talking and sharing along the way, very satisfying. You are scared witless by your fellow sleepover buddy, but still get into bed knowing you had a good day. You come home the next afternoon, batteries recharged, happy and content. You’ve got some great friends and you had a great time. A happy story.

Sounds nice, huh? Have you ever experienced something similar? Is it a story you can relate to on some levels? Having a good time with friends, going out and enjoying yourself, confiding in someone and getting feedback and support?

I can. I just had a wonderful weekend in TBC; it was just what I needed. Even though it was a PC Guyana version of what normally would be a civilian Kansas City experience, it carried the exact same undertones, and was perhaps more appreciated/meaningful because it was a mix of both worlds – both worlds you are a part of. It was one of the Amerindian Heritage Month events going on this week/weekend. September as a whole is Amerindian Heritage Month, and nation-wide, the different villages/Amerindian tribes celebrate through ceremonies, dancing, contests such as archery, pepper pot (a Guyanese dish) making, pottery, and music, sports and fashion shows. Amerindians were the first inhabitants of Guyana. Our Ed Tech Trainer, Kampta, said there are different theories as to where the Amerindian people came from. Due to time and the spread out nature of the villages, Amerindians became to make up 9 different tribes: Wai-Wai, Wapishana, Carib, Makushi, Akawaio, Patamona, Arecuna, Arawak and Warrau. (Taken roughly from an unreliable website, don’t quote me on those. There are 9, though.) My village is a Makushi village; they speak Makushi. Other languages o the Amerindians include Arawak, Carib and Wapishana. Rom missionary influence, most Amerindians are Christian.

Anyway, all different tribes of Amerindians from all around the country hold events and celebrations in September, usually one big one per area. Ours was and is held right outside of TBC, within walking distance. This weekend, different football teams from different nearby villages played, though at the big celebrations at the end of the month our region will play against Region 7 for the big match.

I got to lightly party with some from my village and I got to cheer them on at one of their games. We lost, but I was proud of them. Also, our social gatherings had an intermingling of PCVs and locals. It was a good mix of people and experiences. Another fine way for me to transition into being 100% at home here. Overall, my “picture this” was quite satisfying.

Walden Two, B.F. Skinner

I heard about this book from the last Psychology classes I took with my favorite psych professor, Dr. Wann. Skinner, of course, was a well-known behavioral psychologist. The fact that it was a novel and not a textbook interested me, so I put it on my list. I came across it in the PC lounge and figured why not? I think it was in the lounge that I learned there’s also a book called Walden, written by Thoreau. Sounds impressive, though I had no idea what it was about (yep, I’m that sheltered). I come to learn that both books revolve around the idea of a utopian society – Thoreau’s sounds maybe more philosophical? But Skinner’s Walden Two features a utopian-based society driven by behavior engineering.

Now, immediately, that subject is aversive, right? It just seems without sentiment, cold, harsh and robotic. I was pleased to read, though that the concept and story was done in such a way, you weren’t picking an argument with the story the whole way through. As the group of six takes a several day tour of Walden Two, the name of the compound/campus/facility, the reader experiences the entirety of the society as the visitors do. And, all relevant issues/hang ups/etc. are bought forth and discussed. The work force, how the society is not really democratic, though not a dictatorship, either. The main character weighs all he has seen in his days there, and in a surprising or not-so-surprising ending, chooses to accept that way of life as his own and joins Walden Two. Fascinating to ponder.

Sarah goes to the Clan Gathering

For those who don't know, that’s a Clan of the Cave Bear reference. Ayla, the main character, is an Other, adopted by the Clan, which is a different type of people. Her small clan of 26 or so eventually adopted her as one of their own - she was a clan woman, accepted, a part of the group, despite her differences. Though her differences constantly are an issue, especially when they go to the Clan Gathering, a family reunion/Olympics of sorts, that comes every 7 years, where all the clans in the area come together for competitions, brotherhood and a spiritual ceremony. As she walks in with her own clan, all stare at her, and many are reluctant to call her clan, despite her attempts to be a good clan woman and medicine woman. See, she was given a position of leadership, Medicine Woman, as well as responsibility, not just to her clan, but to the entire Clan. So, she's supposed to the same, yet different at the same time. And she's already different, in a different way, anyways.

Anyway, this is sort of how I felt when I went to a literacy workshop held in TBC* last week. It was a training for teachers of grades 1-3 and new teachers. The org that heads up literacy and numeracy programs for Guyana, is relatively new, I believe, and it emphasizes phonemic awareness and things. We PCV's were introduced to to the org during training. There are computer programs as well as materials geared to help with lit and numeracy. The workshop in TBC was three days long, and had different sessions, much like any conference I'd go to in the states. I came with a group of teachers from around my village area. Luckily, through the Upgrading Programme in the village, I had already met them a couple times and got to work with them and work past the initial strangeness of having me around. As PCVs, we are supposed to become a villager, live how they live, to an extent. We aren't supposed to work AT our fellow teachers, but work WITH them. Obviously, we have different strategies to introduce them to, and different ways to help them, but to be able to effectively do that, we're supposed to become one of them. I won't say I've become one yet, that may take quite awhile. So anyway, there's a perceived equality in addition to a responsibility on my part.

So it was an internal conflict of sorts, during the sessions, one of simply wanting to (and needing to) observe and learn and be a good Village Woman - the other, to be a leader, help out where needed, set a good example and be a good PCV Woman. The conflict was moot, though (or is it like a cow's opinion - "moo"? hee hee) because I was too overwhelmed to do more than sit, listen and follow my HM and SM around.

I did take good notes, I did learn more about the Ed system and their efforts, and then my time in TBC was spent meeting and getting to know two other PCVs, Michael and Diane, and getting to know the town. And I got to stock up on supplies. During group activities, I was included by others, which was a good feeling. I didn’t have much to offer, regrettably. I think partial shame of this fact made me keep quiet most of the time. Which is a shame in itself because if anything, I could be getting to know my colleagues.

The sessions were very informative and seemed to cover everything we covered during PST. Again, I temporarily wondered, “What am I doing here? They have everything they need to teach literacy, more than I have to give them!” Though I began to notice that there was a dissonance between the session presenters and the audience. I’ll save the details of that for another post, but for now, I’ll just say that I began to understand my purpose for being here a little clearer. I appreciate the clarity, but the task ahead of me is still daunting. I can’t wait until it all falls into place; I have a strong feeling that it will, that me coming here was meant to deliver the peg to the hole, or something like that. La necesidad es el tiempo, el tiempo.

*The Big City - relatively speaking. Where I go to shop, where things happen. Again, for security's sake, "TBC" will be written instead.

Fortune’s Rocks, Anita Shreve

This book, being one of my favorites, I have read several times already, thought this was my first go at it with the copy that’s in YPL. I love this story, because, sure, it centers on a scandalous love affair, but Shreve does it in such an elegant way and really illuminates the thought process and development of a singular young woman. Sometimes when you read it, you feel it’s a vivid story of forbidden love – and who doesn’t want to hear about forbidden love? Other times, you are convinced she’s a Lolita and the entire affair was simply brought forth out of sexual attraction and nothing more – and the two are selfish to indulge.

This is a good chance to note several interesting quotes of the book. One theme of the story I have an interest and attraction to is portraits and the depths within them. Olympia is learning more about herself, her family and direct acquaintances and the world, and life as likened to a portrait seems so poetic. I will start with the last reference in the book, which seems to both open and conclude the idea. “‘Portraits,’ she thinks ‘…we are all unfinished portraits.’” This comes after learning more about Rufus Philbrick.

Then, when she has gained an insight into her mother’s life “… she suddenly looks different to Olympia, physically different, as though a portrait has been altered. And Olympia thinks that possibly such adjustments might have to be made for everyone she knows. Upon meeting a person, a sketch is formed and for the life of the relationship, however intimate or not, a portrait is painted, with oils or pastels or with black ink or with watercolor, and only at a person’s death can the portrait be considered finished. Perhaps not even at the person’s death.”

The talk of portraits begins with Olympia’s reflections of the collection of essays Haskell wrote. “In ‘On the Banks of the Rivers,’ John Warren Haskell presents to the reader seven stories, or rather, Olympia thinks, portraits – portraits that are extraordinary detailed and drawn with seemingly objectivity – of seven persons associated with the mills at Lowell, Holyoke, and Manchester: four female workers and three male. In the rendering of these portraits, there is a little rhetoric and no observable attempt on the part of the author to praise or to injure any of the men or women.” “‘They are not essays in the strictest sense, to be sure,’ says John Haskell. ‘They are profiles only. But I like to think the details of a life form a mosaic that in turn informs the reader about something larger than the life. I have drawings as well of these workers, which I commissioned…’”

“Olympia says, ‘I, for one, would very much like to see the drawings of the people you have written of…’ ‘But does that not destroy the very purpose of the written portrait?’ Philbrick asks. ‘How can one’s words ever equal the accuracy of a picture?’ ‘Surely there remains a great deal that cannot be caught in a likeness,’ John Haskell says. ‘Historical facts, for example or the joy of a marriage. The anguish resulting from the death of a child. Or simply a broken spirit.’ ‘But I, for one, have always thought that a life can be read on a face,’ says Philbrick. ‘It is how I do my business, by what I see in a face. Loyalty. Honesty. Cunning. Weakness.’ ‘Well, then we are in luck,’ says Catherine Haskell, brightly. ‘For my husband has brought his camera with him. Perhaps we may persuade him to make photographs of each of us tomorrow. After which we can decide for ourselves whether character may be read in the face.’”

And once Olympia’s own photography was taken, “Later, when she sees the photographs for the first time, she will be surprised at how calm her face looks – how steady her gaze, how erect her posture. In the picture, her eyes will be slightly closed, and there will be a shadow on her neck. The shawl will be draped around her shoulders, and her hands will rest in her lap. In this deceptive photograph, she will look a young woman who is not at all disturbed or embarrassed, but instead appears to be rather serious. And she wonders if, in its ability to deceive, photography is not unlike the sea which may offer a benign surface to the observer even as it conceals depths and current below.”Examining the deep layers of a person – any person – is very intriguing and gratifying to consider.

Though there are several more thoughts that occur to Olympia that I highly enjoyed about this novel, I have only one more to note: “And all this causes her to wonder at the disparity between the silk dresses and the natural postures of the body, and to think: How far, how far, we are willing to go to pretend we are not of the body at all.” Olympia’s adult life, filled with happiness and sorrow, is something I always enjoy submerging myself in, finding moments I can sympathize with, other moments I can empathize with. Shreve writes in a colorful style, and tells a thorough story.

The Lovely Bones, by Alice Sebold

This book came highly recommended by Aunt Becky, and when I saw it in the library here, I figured why not. Aunt Becky said it was about a young teen girl who was murdered and kinda sticks around, watching her family and noting the progress made on her case. Intriguing. The sort of blunt, matter of fact manner in which the main character, Susie, tells the story seems to juxtapose the emotion-laden essence of the story. Her death is very shortly described, mundane, almost though in her killer’s case, the act IS mundane to him; he’s done it several times before.

It’s an interesting concept, the description of heaven or whatever they call it is one that modifies with personality and desire – her heaven resembled a place with a senior high school with a good sports field, and a maternal figure. The maternal figure’s heaven was one that she got to help people. Her surviving family didn’t really triumph nor break apart, though leaned towards both ends at times. I hear it’s being made into a movie. It was worth reading; a little creepy, but worth it.

City of Ember/ People of Sparks, by Jeanne DuPrau

I read these books per recommendation of Librarian Lorrie. We were talking books and she said it was her favorite. I started reading it and enjoyed the concept – a people secluded and orderly, where jobs are pulled out of a hat and school ends at adolescence. The city is lit by a huge generator, nothing more, and power goes off from 9 to 6 every night. The generator is dying, food supplies are running out and the city needs a plan. Lina and Doon are the main characters, new to their jobs of Messenger and Pipeworker. They discover their mayor is shady and they eventually discover the instructions to deliver their city to safety, and a new life – above ground. We learn that they had been underground for hundreds of years.

It is definitely young adults’ book, though well-written. A good, stimulating plot, too. It is good for a teen to read and think about things – the future, the nature of people, our environment. Reminds me of The Giver and Anthem. The mystery in the book (deciphering a destroyed paper with instructions out of the city) was intriguing and the kids were good characters.

The second book tells about what happens after the City is led out of the ground. Due to the Three Disasters – war, disease and animosity - the population had greatly dwindled on Earth. They come to learn Ember is the product of a movement to ensure the continuation of the human race, before all the destruction happened. People HAD survived, though, and the people of Sparks tries to accommodate the City of Ember, though with much friction and problems to work out. Again, a good message to send to kids about our relationships with each other, and the struggles to do the right thing. There were more conflicts than happy parts in the story – the characters were always on edge – but the resolution was good.

It is a mature topic, but I think overall, it was expressed well for young adults. There is a third book Prophet of Yonwood, but I haven’t read it yet.

Confessions of a PCV:

Since I know these two years will be probably the most important, character-building, growth inspiring years of my life, I have no desire to bow out of them. BUT – I do wish they would pass quickly. As in, already be over, done my time, grown and am better for it and can move onto bigger and better things. I wish these two years were over.

Sometimes it seems easy to sit still for two years, work at a school and a library, be friendly with my neighbors and let the time pass as I read, listen to music and swing in my hammock. Other times, it seems like an eternity – a sentence to be served where expectations are all over and the threat hanging of not living up to those expectations.

Sometimes I understand every day doesn’t have to be momentous, that the days and weeks WILL easily add up, and that time can be the best way to get to know people and my community. Sometimes, though, I fear there are unspoken (or maybe they are spoken) deadlines that I may be failing to meet. People I am failing to connect with. Research or preparations I am failing to work at. I don’t just want to revel at being a Peace Corps Volunteer, I want to be a good and effective Peace Corps Volunteer. Well, part of me does.

The Elder Gods, David and Leigh Eddings

I picked this up in the PC lounge, figuring that with all the heavy books I was borrowing, I should get an easier, entertaining read. I like mythological stories, and right there in the title was talk of gods, so why not? Well, it’s certainly an EASY read. A fluff book, to be completely honest. It amazes me they filled 500 pages with that lack of a story. It’s what I’d call an airplane book; something you buy at the airport and read while you’re in transit. Something to occupy your brain, bur nothing too stimulating.

The story was just too easy. The characters seemed more like demi-gods, the lines were cheesy, the conflict not believable as well as too weak. Stories, lines and situations repeated themselves and despite the long flowing paragraphs, not much seemed to happen.

It IS a concrete/ complete story, regardless, which I give credit for, it just seems like it was done by an amateur. It’d e an impressive first novel for a high school guy. It’s hard to believe they stretched the story into at trilogy. I wouldn’t be opposed to finding out how the rest goes, though I don’t plan on being impressed or literarily fulfilled.

East of Eden, by John Steinbeck

An intimidating author, an intimidating-sized book and a very slow beginning. I was wary to go on, but I wanted to start reading classics, and Steinbeck certainly is a classic author. I feared the long descriptions of the geographical and natural area of the Salinas Valley would be too flowery and pretentious for me, but as I read on, it became less flowery and more movingly artistic. This, just like The Stone Diaries, is a multi-generational piece, though the focus is on a few characters, namely one though, Adam Trask. His life is followed completely in it, the book ending with his word, the symbolic “timshel.”

As the title suggests, the concept of fall from grace (more of mankind’s natural tendency to make wrong decisions) is strong. The plot of the entire book is practically summed up by one philosophical chat between Adam, Samuel, the other main character, and Lee, a major character as well. The struggle among siblings, especially brothers, is a patterned problem in the book, and in this part the three men were discussing the story of Cain and Abel. How one kills the other out of jealousy, though still has the power to overcome sin. Lee describes years spent studying those Bible chapters – even learning Hebrew to best comprehend it – the mere fact that these characters would spend such a long while on such a task is so charming. It adds to the believability of the story – and what it comes down to it is one word – timshel – thou mayest.

Lee passionately says “But ‘thou mayest!’ Why, that makes a man great, that gives him stature with the gods, for in his weakness and his filth and his murder of his brother he has still the great choice.” Lee goes on to say further, “But think of the glory of the choice! That makes a man a man. A cat has no choice, a bee must make honey. There’s no godliness there.” Now, I don’t know if I like the reference to “gods” or “godliness,” though I think Steinbeck means to simply emphasize the magnificence of man’s potential. Lee, in the story, is a proclaimed atheist, though I’m not sure about Steinbeck.

As there were triumphs over evil in varying degrees, there too was the devilish character in the book, Cathy. While redemption would have been cinematographically satisfying, this did not happen with her. In the end, she simply surrendered. Which brings me to another satisfying quote in the book: “We have only one story. All novels, all poetry, are built on the never-ending contest in our selves of good and evil. And it occurs to me that evil must constantly respawn, while good, while virtue, is immortal. Vice has always a new fresh young face, while virtue is venerable as nothing else in the world is.” The “evil” of Cathy was vanquished and Steinbeck portrays this as the virtue remaining immortal, while triumphing over evil, but also as sobering that this was but one victory, evil will come again in other ways.

None of the characters followed an archetype of good or evil, none established a mold and stuck with it. What came out of the characters mouths couldn’t always be predicted, but as soon as they said it, it was fitting. In writing such a complete story, Steinbeck certainly didn’t lead the story any which way; the story seemed to lead him. I am eager to read more of his and I know I can pick this up again in a few years and be delighted once more.

The Stone Diaries, by Carol Shields

I enjoyed this book; it reminded me of A Woman of Independent Means, by Elizabeth Hailey, in that it mainly revolved around the long life of one woman. Daisy, the leading lady, certainly wasn’t very lovable, but likeable because she was a regular woman. There were no explicit heroes or good guys; each character had its ups and downs. I loved how Daisy’s father, Cuyler, was such a quiet, plain man who lived such a life until he saw something that sparked in him and he went for it. He made his own happiness, he discovered it and held onto it. After his wife (his spark) died, he started building a tower around her grave and it grew to be a magnificent attraction for the area. It unknowingly paved the rest of his life.

Another enjoyable character development was defined during a monologue of one of Daisy’s daughters, Alice. All her life, she’d lived in the same room and stared up at the same crack in the ceiling. Its persistence got to her. So one morning, she got a ladder, some putty, sanded it, painted over it and erased it. She says, “In one day, I had altered my life: my life, therefore, was alterable. This simple action did not cry out for exegesis; no, it entered my bloodstream directly, as powerful as heroin. I could feel it pump and surge, the way it brightened my veins to a kind of glass. I had wakened that morning to narrowness and predestination and now I was falling asleep in the storm of my own free will.” Lovely. What’s great about this book is that it is humble. An easy read, enjoyable, too.

Where there are challenges - there are OPPORTUNITIES

Y.* Public Library has a copy of The Clan of the Cave Bear; I officially am dedicated to a two year service here. This discovery, along with a few others this morning has convinced me I am in the spot for me. Upon arrival yesterday, the developed state of Y intimidated me. (Well, still does, just to a far lesser degree). This village has a gorgeous set up of structures – guest houses, library, kitchen/dining hall and already existing organizations that the community is a part of. These wonderful structures belong to the Cayman Research Center and Rupununi Learners – two organizations established in 2004 with the actions and motivations of an American woman, Alice, and her family. Though she’s no longer in country, the organizations are Y-ran.

What the heck could I do here? I felt pretty inferior and uncomfortable. And scared, I admit. (Still do, though less than before). This morning, though, I got to talk with Alice online (very fun) and was completely calmed with a few sentences from her. She said, “It’s about a PROCESS, not a product. We are asking you to engage a process; don’t worry about products, about “producing.” The products will evolve from the process. All you have to do is “BE and SEE.” Words that went straight to the soul. It’s a statement I’d hear out of Dad’s mouth, or my own even, in different contexts. I am the Queen of Being and Seeing. It seems what she/they are (primarily) requesting is a person with the characteristics I possess; no need to fret over skills right now.

Alice gave me the link to the LR website - www.rupununilearners.org - and it was there that all my qualms were soothed. I better understood what the Cayman Research Center was and what the people were doing there. I read about their efforts in literacy, saw the programs initiated and challenges to progress. I could envision the Peace Corps process fitting in with all of this work, and I could envision myself working alongside these people. It’s going to be a challenge, but I am officially stoked for it. How’s that for positive attitude?

Some of the “opportunities” noted in the website were: The Cayembe Telegraph, a newsletter for Y-ians. I met one of the frequent editors of the newsletter, Shamir, yesterday. There are two RPCV’s on the Rupununi Learners Foundation board, which is the American counterpart to the Rupununi Learners Incorporation. Those two will be great resources to get help from. The Makushi Research Unit is working on a Makushi English Dictionary. Makushi is the native language spoken in the area and is (unfortunately) not much of a written language. This is the first generation working on recording the language. Many students (and parents) are learning English as a second language, not first. A multi-media phonics program was attempted for the students and teacher as well as an effort to make read-aloud tapes to aid in student and teacher story telling. Then there’s resources like in the eco-tourism here (a woman with otters at a glorious ranch) or the Reading Rodeo program they did once a couple years ago. I’m thinking a resurrection of the Rodeo is in the air).And a final opportunity – the library itself. There are so many books there to enjoy! Several I myself want to read and/or re-read. I’ll have a lot of resources to use and there is potential to enhance the library system, as well.

Some of the challenges noted which can give way to opportunities: the fact that English is a second language – Creolese English, at that – and that Makushi isn’t really written down. Plus the fact that I don’t know Makushi. Another challenge is improving the contact between school and home, well as village contact with the library. Communication must be increased. A few general challenges cautioned by many are the consumption of alcohol, and then, having to compromise between the fast-paced schedule of the US and the relaxed schedule of Guyana. I’ll really need to learn how to pace myself, yet not give into the relaxation completely.

The title of this post is a quote that comes from both my PM, Diana, and GUY19 PCV, Topher. Following this statement, Diana also reminded us that attitude is a big indicator of your success as a PCV. I have a feeling I will use the above mantra and attitude advice, and I will use it well.

*For the sake of "security", my village will be referred to as "Y" in all my posts.

Its official

Ok, official transition; no longer a Peace Corps Trainee, but now a prestigious Peace Corps Volunteer. They make it a point to never call us PCV's during training.... we're always aware of our sublevel status. But it made swearing in all the more significant. As a group, we all held up our hands and repeated the oath from the Charge d'Affairs. It was quite solemn. Then our Program Managers gave us a pin on it with the Peace Corps logo and ont op of it, an American flag and a Guyanese flag. Two years of thinking about it and applications, two months of training, and I am finally a Peace Corps Volunteer.

Heres the article in the local newspaper: http://www.kaieteurnews.com/?p=3496

A Journey of a Thousand Miles...

Well, that was brutal. It’s the conclusion of our PACA community analysis assignment, and I’m not sure I accurately portrayed a Peace Corps Volunteer, after all. For clarification purposes, just what exactly is a PCV? What do they do? What do they not do? Well, training has taught me that a PCV is a “grassroots ambassador” and a “community development facilitator.” They are good representatives of their country. They help with communities learning how to help themselves by showing leadership (partially), giving different perspectives and teaching new methods. They show the community how to work with and improve what they’ve got. They don’t head up projects, donate money or come with existing supplies. What can I offer as a PCV? That’s a related, but separate and ambivalent subject. Although, not in the minds of our dear organization.

When 10 adults showed up on Saturday to help us do our community analysis and needs ranking, we were thrilled. What with the wonderful speech the leader gave on Thursday and how well I thought I expressed our intent. Though the afternoon became more of a time to talk abut the one need of the hour – a community center – and what we could do to get it. Mary, Beth and I were overwhelmed, because it wasn’t how we planned it to go, and we weren’t trained nor equipped to actually respond to the needs! All we wanted to do was hear a couple thoughts and suggestions; ideally, 5, because that’s what the practice book used. It did seem like a cruel exercise, for the organization, at least. “Hey, we’re gonna help you think of what the community needs and what you could do about it- then we’re gonna leave and help our own real communities with what we’ve learned from you. Thanks!” When it seemed like we were only opening a can of worms we weren’t capable of closing, we decided to come back this Thursday to offer some sort of conclusion. We felt obligated, plus needed to step out of the situation to gain a little perspective before we could adequately conclude our time with them. Obviously, we’d have to re-re-re-iterate we were only here to get them thinking and as trainee’s, we can offer them the next step, which luckily came to us in the for our of last PACA assignment today. Staff gave us the SWOT analysis, which looks at Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities and Threats of a potential project. If anything, I figured we could give them some realistic things to consider as well as some knowledge that could help build and keep a solid foundation for project implementation. But halfway through our SWOT with them, it apparently finally dawned on the leader that the three of us were not there to head the projects ourselves, and do not come baked with resources – just ourselves, and we’d be leaving for our official assignment soon. As one of the many packets we’ve given says, “The focus of the volunteer’s work is on people, not things.” The leader didn’t quite accept that. I tried to stress this to her, though. But she ended up bluntly asking in away where only a blunt answer would suffice (making the three of us look like stooges) if all we had come to do was get some information for ourselves. Because, basically, yeah. Even if we could see the project through, we wouldn’t have known how to! We don’t know how to write grants, or coordinate a community-wide project! We haven’t learned that yet, I don’t have those skills! Action was expected (legitimately or not) and I could not deliver. “Talk about shooting down a (wo)man’s horse – whaaap!” This was the first cold shower awakening that things of this magnitude are going to be expected of me in the next two years. Well, maybe not expected, but certainly presented at my feet.

My first instinct was to freeze up and shut down from the overstimulation of the situation. Incompetency swarmed over me and the weight of responsibility was heavy. But, there was this secret source of strength within me (very cool, I might add) that knew this was just a learning process and (hopefully) the experience would come and give way to knowledge. I apologized or potentially misleading anyone at the organization we told them that for any project to succeed, you needed to have a strong foundation with all the kinks worked out, and hopefully we gave them the skills for that. Beth told them she’d pass their info on to the PCV’s staying here on the coast and we stressed that hey could give them ideas and perspectives not objects. Then we got out of there!

What a trial to go through! Its interesting cause I know we left there, not satisfying them (the leader, at least) which I do feel bad for, but knowing what had happened was so significant to me. I certainly learned from this failure – if it can be called that. I don’t really think it was. Man, there’s a lot I have to learn. And to do. As for the organization, many of the adults there still smiled and thanked us for coming. So, we got our assignment done, but could have done better with out interactions with our organization. I think we partially jumped the guns when the novelty of community interaction getting the better of us. But I certainly learned a lot.

... Begins with one step

I just got a glimpse of the shoes I’ll be filling as a PCV and it was monumental - in potential that is; nothing that big really happened. Last week, we did work with a “youth group,” aka random kids that live nearby, and while fun, not really productive. This week, we’re asked to work with an adult group on analyzing their needs and the community’s needs – as practice, mind you. But, can you say “scary”? We identified an organization a few weeks ago , the one that Karishma’s host sister is a member of. We attended their meeting/service once and we figured we’d go again, refresh them of our faces… and then request “a moment of their time.” We were warmly welcomed back. They sing a lot during their services and they encouraged us to sing – so I did. Yup, me, Sarah sang a song out loud, by herself (well, with a drum and long metal stick thing as an instrument), a song that no one knew, no one had the words to and one that the only part I remembered was the chorus. So I sang it twice, virtually alone except the ever-faithful Beth who helped out. Never done that before! After awhile, the leader introduced us again and then gave us the podium! I spoke about our training and mission in the Peace Corps and how we ID’ed the organization to practice with because we knew they were already involved in the community. What our training asked of us and what we wanted to do for our training village was to work with them to asses the community’s needs. I told them we didn’t want to just come in and say “We think you need this…” we wanted it to be something they identified. While I was talking, I saw several nods of understanding (and agreement?) and that was wonderful. They asked us questions and when the leader asked for hands of who would be interested and the numbers were small, she started talking about how our work and effort is important, that we left our country to come here and help so they should support that. Anyway, we had maybe 10 hands raised in the end, and they even decided to give us the time they’d usually meet on Saturdays! Wow that was… *insert some colorful adjective here.* To be initiating some community development (actually doing it!) and to have the community respond - granted, it’s just expressing an interest - was almost character-changing. “This is it,” I thought. “This is what I’ll be doing. I can do it.” It was just the teensiest of a step in a long line of steps, but I took it. Peace Corps here I come.

A Parallel Universe?

After a 30 minute call to home, I’m left feeling like I belong to two different places, two different worlds. It seems so easy to make KC a part of my past – something that faded to only to be replaced by the present Guyana. Talking with mom and dad and Tony made home come to the fore font of my mind, more vivid and a part of me than ever. Which is odd to consider, as my surroundings suggest otherwise. The two places seem worlds apart (and I seem to have classified them a such) when in many cases, they are not. I guess my immediate world (fam, friends, places) are different, and to me – to all of us, maybe – that can seem like the only world existing sometimes. But I don’t think I realized how great the differences were (or how much I perceived them to be) until I spoke with and observed a Guyanese woman who has lived in Miami for the past three years. She came to visit her family for a few weeks and my first experience in the mandir was going to a service that included a pooga for her. (Mandir is their church/temple, pooga is a sort of prayer ceremony that one person or a few people will do. I saw one done at the Dig dutty, the wedding and the 13 day) . Then, one evening, a woman and her granddaughter came to my host family’s house to visit. As soon a she started talking, my first reaction was that I liked this woman. It puzzled me for a second; she spoke similar to Guyanese, using the “me nah know’s” and “dat” and “dis” – but there was something different about her.

I finally realized her accent – it wasn’t bona fide Guyanese, it was clearer and spoken with more… personality. It also was her aura/ attitude. She was more assertive, alert, self-aware. After consciously noticing all this, I realized that she was the one living in the U.S. and THAT was why I liked her so much! I saw in her that familiar U.S. demeanor something I didn’t realize we possessed OR that I was starved for, something I hadn’t realize meant so much to me. Seeing a Guyana-born woman with U.S. characteristics was even more meaningful. One, it was just a delight to see a mixture, since it’s been US and THEM, on the two extremes. It’s kind of like a Guyanese/American hybrid or something. Also it made me realize how different Guyanese (women) were from Americans. Guyanese woman are more reserved, less self-aware, less flamboyant. Their words blend into each other with no intonation. Though perhaps it just seems that way to me, a foreigner, maybe there are more subtle nuances to the language a foreigner does not observe. Self-aware seems the best description ;there was just something about her that shouted “American.” It made me see what others must perceive in us. After I realized she was “the one” who was visiting from the U.S., it felt like a link to home! So there I was, in Guyana experiencing the bugs, heat, hammock, roti ,gold jewelry, etc. and hearing abut Miami, garage doors and Hillary Clinton and Barrack Obama. It was the oddest sensation. Yup, almost as if there were a rip in the space/time continuum or a parallel universe or something. I think the clash of my two worlds is a good thing, though. It’ll help me during my two years in turning it from “Us and Them” to “We.”

And I can’t even imagine what it’ll feel like when I have visitors from the US! How strange will that be?