A Lesson in Sensuality

I don’t know if I can exactly explain it, but I’ll try. Sensuality, mind you, not sexuality. Aunt Junita was practicing some kids to do a Heritage celebration that happened today. She’s invited me to come watch them practice, and it was only Monday, passing back from a birthday lunch, that I did. (I think it’s so great that she’s doing this, btw. Yup didn’t do their own Heritage celebration this month and she got some skits and songs together with the help of her daughter.) I caught the end of some skit being done in Makushi that seemed amusing but of course, I didn’t get it. Then four girls get up to practice their song. Shirley, Alisha, around 15; Ena, around 13; and Merisa, around 11, get up to this Caribbean song and basically wine the entire time. But they wine WELL. (Wining, for those of you who don’t know is hip revolutions, mostly done at slow or medium speed). At first, I was just shocked at seeing such confidence and such skill, then I was like “Um, aren’t they a little young to be shaking it that hard?” Then I figure “Oh Guyana…”

But then I’m watching Merisa, who easily was the most skilled of the four – and the youngest. Merisa is in 5^th grade and is a star pupil. With Miss Maisie’s skilled instruction last year, she was one of the students who really participated in drama activities, who definitely was at the top of her class (and Maisie is a thorough teacher with high expectations), who is a regular book-borrower at the library (and actually reads and comprehends the books, not to mention takes care of the books she borrows). Her mother, Rena, who’s been back in the village for a couple months now, was teaching the girls, so I guess it’s easy to see where Merisa gets it from.

Merisa was moving herself in utter skill, comfort and confidence, and in a way that was in no way ostentatious or inappropriate. She wasn’t shaking it in a way that said “Look at me, aren’t I sexy?” it was an “I feel the rhythm and like to dance.” She’s not the kind of girl that would show off or act too big for her britches. She simply was comfortable with her body and confident in her expression. She knows her body can be moved in a beautiful way and knows how to move her body in a beautiful way. I found myself staring at her, attracted to her singing body. Does that sound inappropriate? I don’t mean it to. As a whole, the group’s dancing caught my eye as endearing, if not beautiful and I was quite envious of their skill and confidence. And yeah, a little shocked to see such parading.

So, I was taught that perceiving your body as beautiful is not just about immodesty/showing off, but about being natural. And, if I took enough mental notes, perhaps I was taught how to shake it a little better. ;)

Harvest Day

Yesterday was Harvest Day here in the village. I missed it last year, and so I wasn't sure what it was exactly. It's a church fundraiser, though, where they bring donations, not to sell, but for people to bid on. First, though, Father Rogers was here, and we had a complete service. He came by me earlier in the morning, asking me to preach after he reads the Gospel. Preach. Not "make some comments," or "give a speech," but "preach." :/ Umm.... ok. I've definitely had opportunities to exercise myself with public speaking here; I'm always being asked to say prayers or say some things at village events. I've got a standard blessing I'll say for all those celebrating birthdays, and then with addressing school kids, I've developed the habit of asking the kids to repeat back what I just said ("You will put the books back on the shelves, ok? What will you do? Put the books back where? -on the shelves. - Yes!") Then, I've been working on speaking slowly so everyone can understand me as best as possible since English is a second language here, and then I'm trying to be aware of how much I talk with my hands. Definite practice in the art of communication. But.... preaching?

I've stood up and spoke once before at church service, and that was entirely unexpected and spur of the moment; the catechist was saying his words, mostly in Makushi, and so my mind was wandering, but I became aware that he had stopped talking and was looking at me. I probably blushed, but then looked politely confused as Maisie kindly told me that the guy asked me to say something. Maisie had done her impromptu sermon for the day already, telling the congregation how we need to bring more people to church. In a flash of divine inspiration, I opened the Bible to John 15, and read about how Jesus describes himself as the tree, us as the branches, and the grapes, the fruit of our labor. I get most of the youths to come up and make them into a tree - if Karen tells Jason about God and Jason tells Ronson about God and Ronson tells Caroline about God, and then Caroline tells both Jelissa and Melissa about God and Jelissa tells Salman and Merissa and Melissa tells .... we're all connected and we can branch out. I was pleased with how it went, and the visual and manual work of making the tree I think helped the kids (and adults) catch the metaphor better. It was an impromptu success.

Father Rogers' Gospel yesterday was from Matthew 6, about how we shouldn't worry about food or clothes, that the Lord will provide and we should not spend time worrying about the two. I was nervous about it and wished I had more time to think on it... but it was fun to think of sharing my own spin on what the message is. And to bring the words more to life than just monotonously reading the scripture, as is done a lot here. My passion about the Good News... I was pleased to find I could share it with others. It felt like I wasn't just sharing a piece of the Bible, but sharing my feelings for Him, too, hoping that my passion might draw others to share in the passion. There were several things I thought of to share in reference to this one passage - personal examples, other scripture that ties into it, etc. - but I tried to keep it basic and focused. I forgot some things I wanted to say, but overall, I felt good about it, felt fulfilled, felt proud, and ... exited for God. I prayed beforehand that God would speak through me, not let it be about my words. I think/hope that happened, and I think that's why I wasn't so nervous. I don't think I've had such a pure pride for something like this in awhile. I tend to shrug off things like this, and let insecurity and humility overrule, but this was a genuine pride. Perhaps because I know it wasn't for me alone. I dunno, it was neat.

I pointed to the table full of items the people had donated for the auction. I said how it was nice to see such an abundant harvest, but that there is scripture that says "man cannot live by bread alone." "Bread" can mean Auntie Junita's delicious fresh baked bread.... or the flat cakes of cassava bread there on the table... or any other kind of food. There is food hunger, our bellies can be empty, but there is also spiritual hunger, and our souls/hearts can be just as hungry. I meant to point out the other scripture from John, where Jesus says "I am the bread of life, he who comes to me shall not hunger," but I forgot. Jesus will fill us up, and He will also provide if we let him. And sometimes less is more, we appreciate it better. I hope I didn't use too many verses and Godly cliches. I love Matthew 5-7, and the importance on not focusing or worrying too much about worldly things is a point that I still marvel over and am eager to talk about with others. Physical discomfort is so temporary. Physical pleasure, too, for that matter. Realizing there is more, much more, out there that is good and eternal... especially when it can be so easy to look around us and despair...

I remember when I went to Nicaragua for that week, and we were doing dental work on people and giving bags of rice and beans. We began to worry that we couldn't sufficiently provide aid for these people and it seemed hopeless. Talking about it one night, we all really worked ourselves up into a ball of worry - until one voice of faith called out from our group and pointed out that, in truth, we may not be able to provide food for their bellies next week, or dental service for their next cavity, but that's why it's so important to reach them with the Word of God, so that they may find eternal life - a life that will not be plagued by physical pain or hunger. Oh yeah..... This realization was very significant to me at the time and I've carried it with me since. I was happy to share this with my village yesterday, too. I don't know if I'll ever fully understand/fulfill this point, but I am aware.

The Harvest itself was very enjoyable. Halfway through I realized I should have gone for my camera - I still could have gone for it, actually. I was a bit lazy for go, but just thinking about what pictures I'd be taking if I had the camera was rewarding - it let me appreciate the moment. Looking at each person as they smiled, scolded a child, offered a drink to someone, just sat there, picked their nose... I tried imprinting their faces and the setting into my mind. Remembering the breeze, the play of light across the market, the cari sitting in recycled 2 liter pop bottles, the stacks of cassava cakes ready to be auctioned. My adoration for my village is for its utter personality. It's a great village, don't get me wrong; progressive, friendly, open, humorous and all that, but that's not why I adore them. I adore them because they are simply them. The long beautiful plaits of black hair, the fancy Easter dresses that are torn, worn, missing bows but make the little girls look beautiful at church service, how people share so much with each other - most of the things auctioned off were foodstuffs, and most were opened right there and shared around, from cari to bananas to biscuits - the jokes they tell in Makushi that I have NO idea what the punchline is let alone the set up, and then how they'll all laugh about it afterwards. Shaira and nursing Delvan, Bob and his too big flashy shirt tucked into his jeans, Maisie being polite to some drunk guy sitting on the bench next to her, any and all upon eating tangerines, the way they spit the seeds back into their palms. It’s so fun just watching everyone, it felt like getting a camera would ruin it.

Then there was the actual auctioning. Former Toshao Kenneth was the auctioneer, Bob Park was the hander outer and Franzea and Vanisa were the cashiers and secretaries. I chimed in on the second item, bidding for a cake of cassava bread, another staple made from the cassava root. It’s formed into a disc-like shape the size of a manhole and you can eat it with butter or peanut butter, or use it to soak up the gravy/broth in pepper pots and toma pots. I have farine in my house at all times, but rarely get cassava bread. I won the first disc. I also bid on and won some oranges, some smoked pepper and jumped in to bid on bananas, but never followed through on them. In retrospect, I really should have bid on more and given more back to the community – so many people just GIVE me fruits, veggies, fish and other staples for FREE an I hardly have to spend any money in the village. Again, though, it was fun just watching. Though admittedly, there was the thrill of winning an item. The best battle was between Lucy and some Auntie, who were bidding on a cake of cassava bread and it went to $1,100 Guyanese dollars (about USD$5). I asked someone how much a cake normally costs and it was only $200. Fun. The church raised about $27,000, and with more donations to make it even, they got $31,000. It was a fun, clean afternoon with my village.

Tapiooooooooca!

Tapioca may be the weirdest edible thing I've encountered. Sure, fried fish eggs, black pudding, chicken feet and chicken hearts, sure all are different and not your run of-the-mill meal, but at least they're natural. Yes, tapioca is natural, too, but that's my point - naturally weird. It looks like Dippin Dots, but it's pastey and crunchy untouched, then when you boil it, it gets gelationous yet maintains its round appearance. Half of it turns clear and in the middle is a white nucleus of its remaining color. It looks like you're eating a bunch of single-cell organisms - tastes like it, too. Slimy, sort of. Tapioca is harvested locally here; I wonder what it looks like straight from the ground. Is it a process similar to making farine? Back home, I don't believe I ever ate it. I remember seeing instant tapioca pudding boxes in stores, and then I remember seeing it on a dessert table - like pudding gone rancid - who wants to chew their pudding? It did not attract me, and I've not come face to face with it since.

But, Lucy excitedly brought me some and talked about making porridge with it, so sure, I'll give it a go. Let's just say, it was effortless to eat the black pudding, but it was mind over matter to eat the tapioca. I told myself I'd lose Cool Points if I could eat cooked blood without shuddering but not do the same for an international dessert eaten for breakfast.

And, of course, whenever I hear the word "tapioca," I am forever reminded of Who's Line is it Anyway? Let me share it with you...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=18R4Tfhqixs

Integration, Matrimony Style

I was just trying to be helpful. Chase still slept as I decided to make coffee. He graciously gave of his house to me as I came in to attend Beth’s wedding (PCV meets Buck Man, one year later, they marry; what a story), and I wanted to show my appreciation. I located the necessary items and set that thing brewing. Chase woke up as I was finding the milk and looking for the sugar. He expressed his thanks, but then asked, “Did you have enough water?” My initial thought is, “Of course, I didn’t think there were shortage issues in Town.” But then – OOOH; in Town, one buys 5 gallon bottles of water to drink and cook with; the tap stuff could melt a toothbrush, or so I hear. By me, clear, clean well water is pumped through my pipes, which I can enjoy (when the pipes are on, at least.)

I sheepishly admit to my faux paux. He kindly waves it off and goes to buy a new jug, saying we’ll try again, and I could be helpful by making the PB and banana toast. I offer to get the bread sliced just as soon as he tells me where it is. “This is Town, Sarah, our bread is already sliced,” he informs me. Oh. Where I come from, it’s straight from the mud-brick oven. I go in the search for the butter – optional on PB toast, I recognize, but I thought I’d be “helpful” and put it out anyway. Despite my best efforts, I could not find it; I even looked in the cupboards with the cleaning supplies. He comes back and goes to put the pre-sliced bread back into his fridge when I look – and there’s the butter! Oh yeah, butter goes in the fridge; I’d forgotten.

Chase, Demond, Nick, Shaniece, DeAnna, Katrina, Morgan and I arrived in Moraikobai after dark on Friday. We were all dirty from travel by bus, boat and Bedford truck, and some were ready to bathe. Nick asks if it’s fine to bathe in the river at night. Beth assures us that it is. He and I are the only ones, apparently, who are keen to clean ourselves that way. All troop down to the dock to watch, however, as Nick and I jump in and soap down. We whisper between ourselves, “Must be a Region 9 thing.” Beth later makes a similar comment, noting how isolated people seem to be more enthusiastic about those sorts of things. She, too, bathes there along with the rest of the village. We went back to the Rest House for a bachelorette party, Guyana style (complete with the game “Stump the Embassy” and a suprise male dancer clothed in life vests), but all of these incidences compelled me to begin reflecting on some fundamental differences between Town life (whether that be GT, New Amsterdam in Region 6 or Kansas City, Mo.) and Bush life.

Beth’s wedding and village were a beautiful combination of cultures. Her community, surrounded by palm trees, white sand and Coca-Cola water, welcomed us and it’s easy to see why Beth feels so at home there. Thought it’s a two-way street, the village is willing, but so must the volunteer be. Upon learning she was marrying one of their “Buck men,” one couldn’t doubt her willingness, but it’s certainly more than that.

For her Big Day, Beth gave herself over to her community. She allowed them to impress upon her their traditions - they clothed her, jeweled her, and beautified her, all without her seeing herself, for example. “How do I look?” she asked me when I went to check on her (she was attended by all her 6 bridesmaids, village godmother, and stylist - no foreign faces, except Chase’s – the photographer – and my own). I was surprised to see such heavy lines of lip liner on her face as well as eyebrows. This was not the Beth I knew. I bit my tongue, not sure what to say. It’s not how I’d makeup her, but that doesn’t mean it’s not ok. Her attendants proclaimed her ok and beautiful, so who was I to argue? I told myself Beth knows her community, knows what she’s marrying into and has willingly handed over her trust to these ladies. She was sharing her Day with them. “I just have to trust,” the bride said. “Do you think you could do it?” “No!” I answered. (Luckily) her MOH, I think, came in and suggested a more tame lipstick. She looked the blushing bride as Chase took her pictures. Someone pinned a G note ($5USD) on the front of her dress, a tradition we never fully figured out its purpose, and she was veiled. Her father, Craig, who flew out for the event (the only person from her family), escorted her from the “staging area” to the Real Ting.

In the church, one of the scriptures read was from Genesis, noting when Isaac takes a wife, Rebecca – a foreigner. The pastor notes how Rebecca came from a different culture, did not know her groom or his culture, but their marriage endured. A sweet comparison. The couple exchanged vows (Ken kept gazing adoringly at his bride, though she shyly kept looking down), then the rings and, with a few interruptions from Grandma Crazy and a fellow who had one too many calabash bowls of paiwari (though what Amerindian event is complete without one?) the two - American and Amerindian, man and wife - were married.

The village had spent the morning and afternoon cooking a feast of barbecue chicken, beef curry, dhal puri, fried rice, lo mein and other meats and noodles, not to mention paiwari. All were kind enough to allow us to watch, take pictures and “help” – not to mention, sample the paiwari.

After several speeches, American tradition played out with cutting the cake and sharing a drink. We ate the delectable dinner then waited for the music to start up for a proper party. The Macarena came on at one point, and all us Americans enthusiastically got into it, but while the Moraikobaians grooved to it, didn’t they seem to know the moves. That didn’t seem to stop them; they partied on ‘til at least 4 a.m., taking advantage of the extended current. (Beth’s community has power only from 6 to 10 p.m., usually). The next morning our boatman was right on time as we prepared to leave, a water coconut our departing Moraikobai treat. We all left, in good spirits, glad we had come on a fun weekend trip, glad to support our fellow PCV in her even more adventurous journey through PC.

In my PC service, I’ve learned that Integration is a double-edged sword. For some, becoming intimate with their village/community is more hard, either because the community is too closed, or the PCV is. But then for others, they can blend in so much with their community, one is hard-pressed to pick them out in a Guyanese line up. The transformations some PCV/G’s have made has been enchanting to watch. I’ve wondered if those more isolated have a greater tendency to do so, and why that is. Perhaps it’s simply a survival instinct, maybe it’s just a beautiful thing... Or maybe, those isolated PCVs sort of just go Bush Crazy, who knows? There is a word of caution to these kinds of volunteers – kindly don’t forget where you came from or what your PC mission is – but it sure is a beautiful process to watch.

We all wish Beth the best in her marriage. As I said in my toast to them, we in PC have a more adventurous spirit than most, all of us are open to meeting new people and jumping feet first into new experiences, right? All of us will integrate differently into our communities, all of us will enjoy our communities and PC services on varying levels, but we all can equally support one of our peers as she has found her life partner here in Guyana. We know that she is no more leaving her American culture as Ken is leaving his Amerindian one. It is the joining of the two that is most special. Just as I would wish them a balanced, happy life together, so would I wish the rest of the PCVs a balanced, happy PC service, never forgetting where they’ve come from, nor where they’re going.