I stand there, at the K/bu airstrip, wondering how I am feeling, having to leave today. Leaving the place I’ve been in for three years – more than three years. Part of me knows if I let myself cry, I’ll be a mess, unable to function. Part of me wants to take it all in, emotions included, because it’s the last chance I’ll get for some time.

The airstrip is a strip of pebbly road, free from plants – and also free from asphalt. It’s about 10 minutes or so away from K/bu Lodge. There is no ‘check in’ time; it’s a simple matter of driving to the airstrip and waiting for the plane, a small 12-seater. A crew of people came to see me off, and I stood, watching them, feeling the images, memories and symbols they’ve come to represent to me.

I look sadly, at Ashley and Cindy and their two children, Sasha and Shasta. They came out together, on motorbike, to see me off and to go fishing, and what seemed like a nice family outing, was filled with sadness at a couple falling apart. I remember that Ashley helped sponsor the trip to Mapari but did not come on the trip. I am reminded of the difficulties of relationships down here. I feel for both, who are equally my friends, but don’t know how things will be resolved.

In Cindy, I see a confident, assertive young woman, who is three years younger than I am, but with her outgoing personality and three children, she at times seemed older. I look at her and see how hard raising children can be, and how finding your way in life truly becomes more difficult (not impossible, but more difficult) with having children. I see someone who has done well for herself in the village, with her house, and involvement in the village and Caiman House. I see a good friend who included me, and who I spent many nights of loud fun with her and her brood.

When I look at Ashley, I see confusion. I see a man with still waters, a stoic man who has embraced the land much more fully than many of the born and bred Guyanese have. I see someone I could without a doubt depend on, someone who is struggling against the negative influences of his environment. He’s done a noble job of it, but I see the weight of the years pressing down upon him and wonder if I, too, would feel that way if I stayed so long, too.

Oswin, standing with some of the girls, the kid (ok, man, technically) who has been like a little brother to me, who is GOOD, and easy-going and helps out so much. Oswin, who was working at K/bu and was going back that day; he brought his bag and bike to be able to pedal there. He calls me ‘Sarah Bara’ or sometimes just ‘Bara’ and we had a habit of scrunching up our noses at each other when we saw each other, a great feeling of familiarity. He has a good opportunity to learn and earn money at K/bu and I’m glad he’s sticking it out. He seems to demonstrate the potential of interested individuals in the village, I so strongly wish him to continue with his interests.

Michelle came with Alicia, and I look at her as a common Rupununi young woman – a teenage mother who has the burden of a child while she’s still living at home and has no support. I think she is happy, but there is no variety to her life. Does she want variety? I don’t know. I regret not learning that answer.

I look at Miranda and see a kind, hospitable young woman, who really made it easy to enjoy exercising together for the past month, easy to talk to her, easy to include her in my life. I look at her and see what a stable family, encouragement and an education in Town can do to help a person down here.

Maisie came, too, and I see a woman who tries so hard to teach her students and her village, who thinks of things others don’t and who always made me feel special. The mere fact that she came to the airstrip with all the rest of us meant a lot. I look at her and know she cannot do it all, be it all, to everyone, and I know she has good intentions, but I also think of people’s negative feelings towards those who have done well for themselves in the village. There are disgruntled feelings of inferiority attached to the separation that comes with education and money.

I look at Fernando and see a typical Rupununi Man; you can depend on him to be undependable, but at the end of the day, he pulls through and can make things happen. I look at him and see goodness and incorribility, I see mistakes made, and a potential path towards redemption. I see someone who, for better and worse, was a big source of support to me, and someone who is not only smart, but capable in many instances. I yearn for him to seek out his passion and reach that potential; I hope he seeks and then finds his place.

Rosita and Alicia, who only just came back with us from our river trip to Mapari stood in the background of things, in quiet support. I was glad and proud of them for coming on the trip, I think they had fun, and I was glad they wanted to come to see me off. I look at Alicia and see a quiet young woman, with typical schooling in the village, who had the interest and courage and dedication to pursue that interest enough to come and work in the library. I see her timidity and insecurities, I see the tendency for disconnected village ways to creep in sometimes, but she’s on a good path, one that no one forced or pushed her into, one she found herself. I look at her and remember how she’s been sick –with what, no one knows – and I worry for not getting health problems sorted out down here. I look at her and remember how volunteer Jeff took her to Lethem to get checked out and how he sees a whole other side of her when they are together. He sees more in her, and his attention makes her more beautiful. I hope there are no troubles for them in the village. It could happen, though I know Jeff is pleasantly unbothered by irrelevant commentaries.

It was with Rosie, the first person I had to hug goodbye, who made me start crying. I was wondering why it was her, because I know it was something about HER that made me cry. I decided it was because she seems to be an exact example of the good and the potential of my job. She, my work, is what I am leaving behind. There’s so much I have done with her, and so much I want to do with her more. She was a part of my passion for books and kids. We did some wonderful work together in the past year, and she has so much potential to be a leader in Caiman House (a revolutionary occurrence there, an average female village leader). I look at her and see a quiet, but secretly funny and cheerful young woman who went out and attended school in GT, who worked for Bina Hill, and who is a proper young woman, who still has fun in the village. I only see goodness in her, and it’s the goodness that keeps pulling me back, to that village, to that work.

I look at Shamir, and see…. too much. I see someone taking his own path in life, but not in a conscious, brave effort/choice, but in a manner that suggests he simply is compelled to go that route. He’s taking himself into uncharted territories, non-ordinary village things, and it’s hard for him. He’s still figuring out how to settle himself. I look at him and see a quiet, humble strength, a sensitivity that’s made things hard at times, but is what I love about him too, because it’s lead to some wonderful conversations and realizations about life and the world. I look at him and see lessons learned. I see disappointment and exciting redemption, I see comfort, and fear, and two and a half years of bikes, laughter, tears, hugs and words. I see first love. Only with my impending departure have we begun to bridge the gap of so many issues and feelings, and I don’t know what the future will bring, but he has made my time in Yupukari filled with lived life.

This is what I saw and took in, during my last moment in the Rupununi. A lot of splendour, anxiety, love and anguish. The same emotions, more or less, upon my arrival to the village, though after three years, these feelings have expanded beyond my own self and have grown to include these people and more. It sometimes feels as if I have taken them all in, the good and the bad, and sometimes I can’t hold in or hold up the weight of that choice. (Even understanding that taking everyone in allowed me to be most effective and feel most alive.) With leaving comes a feeling of betrayal – and relief.

Fifteen out of 22 Grade 6 students passed the Common Entrance exam and are admitted into St. Ignatius Secondary School, only one of three accredited secondary schools in the region.

15/22. That means more than two thirds of the kids passed. The last two years, it was a stretch to get to half. We sent 8 kids last year, 7 the year before.

The jubilation, the pride, the satisfaction almost brought me to tears yesterday, when Mistress Li called me to the school, into her office, where her and the Grade 6 teacher, Miss Eleanor, were looking at the results.

These kids, who've had Maisie's attentive teaching and guidance for three years, who've had all the teachers tutoring them last term, who had Maisie and myself call them to come study at night during the week before the test. These kids, who've I've dedicated the year to, with reading level assessments, English language activities, comprehension passages, composition exercises, vocabulary worksheets sent home, after school tutoring sessions, in school lessons.... I expressed high expectations for them, and constantly reminded them about this test they were preparing for, and why they are being pushed so hard.

I studied these kids, I learned these kids, and I love these kids. Each grade 6 I've helped with, I've loved teaching them and came to feel attached to them, but these kids I've come to know as people outside of school, I know a lot of their families.

"It will give them a chance," Maisie said. Exactly. And, when "You have brains in your head, you have feet in your shoes, you can steer yourself in any direction you choose." - Dr. Seuss

It's now up to them to choose their direction, and who knows what direction that will be, but they have that opportunity, which is more than most in their village.

Here's the link to the album of the class of grade 6 this year:
Class of 2011 Grade 6 pictures

Saturday Morning Fun

“Miss! We come to play!” I’d been sleeping, soundly, unconsciously revelling at Saturday morning’s allowing me to sleep late and still had another hour or so left of good sleep in me when they woke me up. I considered shooing them away, but I stumbled out of bed, shuffled to the door, looking like a swamp thing as Brendon, Savio, Jason, Ronson, Karolinie, Shannon and Tnecha marched into the house, full of energy and ideas. Karolinie remarked at my sink of dirty dishes and says “We will wash!” Ok, sure!

The boys putter around the front room as I finally decide I should brush my teeth and wash my face and feed the dog. They discover the little kaleidoscope I have laying around that Tricia and Amanda sent and look into it. “Is just like looking at birds!” one exclaims, referring to binocs – they’d just come from bird-watching with Matt that morning. He and they had gotten up at 6 a.m. to check out the local birds, no way in hell I was gonna wake up to go with them. They look at me through the kaleidoscope and I ask what kind of bird I’d be. “A pigeon,” was the first answer one of them said. Shannon quickly corrects and says “blue backed mannikan,” a bird they’d seen that morning, which I appreciated a little more.

Since Karolinie did dishes, she got to pick the first game and she chose Down by the Banks, the hand slapping game I taught them. Then Tnecha chose to sing “Down by the Bay” and I had them make up their own rhyme for the end. The best one was Brendon’s who said “Have you ever seen a Matt, sitting on a mattress?” (Matt had come back to the house and joined in on some games, then tried to retire to a hammock for a nap, to no avail). Then we play Purple Chicken, a rhythm calling game, first with numbers, then with animal sounds. You have a number or sound and you call to someone else “Number 3, number 7,” then they call themselves then someone new, in rhythm. With the animal sounds, it went “AaaawwWW, Owuuuuu! Owuuuuuu, Onnnnnng!” (macaw to wolf to baby caiman).

Then, they wanted to play cards, though not all of them; two played dominoes of some sort, some played Phase 10 with me and some wanted to draw. Those guys drew copies of Calvin (from Calvin and Hobbes) – Ronson gave Calvin big muscles, though – and Savio asked me how to spell “KARaty” and I couldn’t figure out what he meant until Ronson explained “Like Kung Fu, Miss.” “OH! KarATE, KarATE. K-A-R-A-T-E.” He wrote that on his drawing of some posing, muscly man. Shannon and Brendon really enjoyed Phase 10, we did two phases successfully before we stopped.

They ask me about different groceries of mine and where ‘I does get dem,’ particularly about one unlabelled jar of something Julie had left behind from Surama. Karolinie had discovered an empty jar of peanut butter I was throwing away and decided to rescue and finger out the remains. She licked at it as I explained the jar was a sugar pepper sauce and let them try it which they started to gobble up and asked to eat with farine. I said they could eat it with some popcorn – I’d make some if they would start to read a story together.

The kids go back into the front room while Shannon starts reading, with great pronunciation and inflecion, The Land before Time to the rest (Conrad had joined in by now, Jason and Ronson had left) as I made myself coffee and popcorn for them. Brendon and Savio had one bowl of popcorn in one hammock, Tnecha and Karolinie had another bowl in the other hammock and Shannon and Conrad had a third in a chair at the desk. They dipped the kernels in pepper sauce from a spoon. “You will eat some?” Shannon, who saw I put aside none for myself, asked. “I will share from you all,” and I took a handful from all bowls, while asking them about the story so far; they had read almost 2 chapters. That was The Movie from the boys’ and my youth and I was so excited when Uncle Steve, Jeff and Lisa sent the book to me here. I could still hear the characters’ voices as Shannon read in his Rupununi accent.

They wanted to play more, but I said they could keep reading or it was ‘go play outside’ time. Shannon, Conrad and Brendon left, with thanks all around, but Karolinie, Tnecha and Savio wanted to keep reading, so they cuddled in one hammock (a Savio Sandwich; a 6 year old squeezed between a 5th grader and an 8th grader – only in the Rupununi) as I read the rest of Chapter 2 and all of Chapter 3, about how Sharptooth was trying to ketch Littlefoot and Cera, but Littlefoot’s mother was fighting the Sharptooth; I tried to read as thrillingly as I could. After that, ‘they gan’ and I’m left, looking around in silence, at the cards strewn about, some drawings left, a drain full of clean dishes and spoons of pepper sauce left on my desk. I grin like a fool in love. Who will wake me up to chaotic fun like this when I go back to the States??

The Brown One

QOTD: Everything you see exists together in a delicate balance. As king, you need to understand that balance and respect all the creatures, from the crawling ant to the leaping antelope. -But, Dad, don't we eat the antelope?- Yes, Simba, but let me explain. When we die, our bodies become the grass, and the antelope eat the grass. And so we are all connected in the great Circle of Life.

(NOTE: This blog is pretty graphic, about a cow slaughter, just so you're not surprised.)

Darren, Chris and Rickford's son walked toward the corral, long ropes in hand, me following. We weren't there just to collect meat, like I initially thought. They talk in Makushi, and I hear 'brown one' in there somewhere. Plops of poop, gushes of pee, wooshes of breath sound from the corral as RJ jumps over the 7-foot high fence, whips the rope around and gets the cow he wants, first try.

The rope is being anchored by one fence post and held by Chris and Darren, and as the cow tries to pull away, other cows run around and get in the way. Some cows, in the excitement, start headbutting each other, others try mounting each other. It looks like a few cows nudge the roped one, others nervously jump over the rope. As the cow bucks around, the boys pull the rope, getting it closer and closer to the edge of the corral. The rope is around its neck and it's breathing hard.

All the other cows calm down and stand away from the struggling cow, watching it and us, as if questioning with their eyes "What's going on, what are you doing to our friend?" The rope gets pulled enough so that the cow's head is sticking through the posts. RJ takes one of the kitchen knives they've been sharpening with a file, and I look away, to wait until the cease of the cow's breathing comes, until the cow is more or less motionless on the ground, right inside the corral. They loosen one of the horizontal posts, and pull the cow out by it's tail, as the other cows come and sniff at the cow and the blood on the ground.

RJ and Darwin first make a light cut all the way down from the throat to the anus, and you can see the hide splitting. One guy starts and one end and one guy starts at the other, with the cow on its side, and they slight scrape the hide away from the body, until it gets to the spine. They make a traced line around the front and hind leg and peel the hide from it, too, as well as cut and break off the calves. They start by cutting the meat that rests against the spine, a long rectangular line of meat that gets put, bloody, into a rice bag. The cow is rolled over, hide scraped away on the other side, the strip of meat from the spine again. A triangle around the anus is cut away, this will be used to help pull out the guts later. Darren and RJ seem to work casually yet efficiently, each knowing what needed to be done, each complementing whatever the other was doing. An incision was made into the calf muscle, for example, and then Chris was called to come and pull; he grabbed the new hole between bones, and pulled the leg away from the body. It was looking more and more like the meat I am used to seeing hanging under a benab, to have a chunk cut off and buy 5 pounds of.

A big cutlass is used to separate the spine till the tail, chunks of meat get cut from the neck, from the haunches. Then they cut from neck to anus comes and guts slowly seep out. So big! RJ feels around what must be the several massive stomachs and it has a look and sound of a waterbed. Branches with leaves were put on either side of the cow, as they moved it from side to side; the hide was also layed out under the carcass. With the neck as one grip and the anus area as the other, Chris and Darren pull out the guts to one side. They spread the hind legs and cut them away, toss them into the back of the Land Rover. The cut the ribs from the spine on either side and take those, too, to the Land Rover. The front legs, the head cut off, to the Rover.

The cow more or less dismantled, I jumped down from my perch on the fence, noting they'll take out the liver from the viscera, and wondering what will happen with all the rest before we go. Dogs were already about. Ryol starts cutting out the liver, but then the other guys start cutting the fat off of the other guts and body parts to collect. And then Darwin cuts into the stomach - WHY??? I'd noted appreciatively that no guts were punctured as they got moved around, but then they cut open one of the many stomachs and it was chock full of half-digested grass that had almost the consistency of the grass that gets stuck in the chute of the lawn mower. Just one other goop to dig their hands into, to wipe off the knives before they resharpen, to stain their clothes.

Which reminds me, as the cow was still standing and thrashing, it spewed snot all over RJ's face, which made him gag and spit and throw off his shirt which made ME gag. I seemed to spend the entire ordeal almost wanting to get sick, but not quite.

They dumped, shook and scooped the grass out of the stomach and all its numerous folds and piled it off to the side. They took the large intestine and squeezed it like a tube of toothpaste, letting the poop plop out. The took the small intestines... and did the same thing... liquid poop, siphoned out, length by length then piled to the side. The liver and pancreas went into a bucket, the other entrails went into a plastic bucket, it all got loaded up, except for the hide, which RJ drug back to the house.

THIS was the Mackeydon I have heard mentioned many times, and have stopped at a few times, but never put two and two together. This is the actual ranch part of K/bu. Ryol says they (K/bu Ranch) come to get a cow when they have a steady set of guests coming in. I'd never seen a slaughter before; it took being a substitute assistant manager at K/bu to see it happen.

I spent 6 days, 5 night at the Lodge, CH's sister eco-lodge downriver, helping Auntie D. McTurk with the ranch there. I helped coordinate other volunteers, answered email reservations for the lodge, helped arrange grocery lists, talk with travel companies in GT, etc. It was quite an experience, which can be summed up in:

The Goods:
kittens!
cream!
coffee!
silence!
mangoes!

The Bads:
caborrahs
flies
implicit decorum
silence

The Uglies:
isolation

A good time to think about a lot of things, like the Circle of Life, the duties of a manager of an eco-tourist lodge in the Rupununi, and the future.

Symphonies with Words

I started a Reading Club for grades 6-8, once a week, at my house, for this term, where we get together and read a chapter book. I’ve wanted to do this here since I came, and I guess it’s with the end in sight that I actually made it happen. Mom has always said when things get too difficult here, go back to the kids, and interact with the kids. It feels like things are at the point now where I have done all I can in the long run (more or less) and so now – to the kids!

With this reading club, I envisioned a small group of kids, sitting in a circle, reading, understanding, enjoying and discussing an entire chapter book, collectively revelling in the joys of novels. Though these may be too lofty of expectations, we do have a good amount of kids borrowing chapter books, though I am unable to assess their completion or comprehension levels on them. I wanted the kids to get a sense of pride in accomplishment at soaking up an entire novel, so I picked James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl and Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt for them to choose from. I chose those for two reasons: because they ARE a great example of how fun and easy reading/writing can be. That and - there were three copies of each of these books in the village and it just made sense.

Roald Dahl is a literary hero of mine, and I’ve had the kids read a lot of his books, including The Fantastic Mr. Fox, George’s Marvelous Medicine and Esio Trot. Tuck Everlasting… I read this novel when I was in gr. 6, in the Accelerated Readers Club that met after school. We read novels together in the afternoons, while drinking a can of pop and eating a little bag of chips with our English teachers; it felt very intellectual. I re-read the book as an adult and fell in love with it, as Babbitt writes so descriptively beautiful and the events that transpire around Winnie (main character) that force her to begin to see the world in new ways are so perceptively written. It is such a wonderful example of how words can be turned into written symphonies… If I can get the kids to only see how the same words they learn to spell by rote memorization can be used in context...

On the first day, three girls showed up, and they selected Tuck Everlasting to read, and so we began, each with her own book, taking turns to read a page or two. Merisa read with such intonation, Helen stumbled a bit but remembered all the details with great clarity. The second meeting, 6 came, and we got into a routine, sharing the reading, speaking up when they didn’t understand and helping each other pronounce words. We’ve had three meetings now, and none of the kids have openly declared a new love affair for novels, but neither have they shown a disinterest in the plot or in taking turns reading. We’ve discussed the book a bit: the positives and negatives of immortality, the grey area of kidnapping for a good reason, and what some of those eloquently described sceneries are trying to tell us.

I think the kids enjoy hanging out at my house; they’ll go through my collection of books and pictures, and will linger after the afternoon finishes. I reflect on the fact that it’s not as structured as my reading club when I was a kid (and the fact that they may not get as much out of the book as I’d fantasize them to), but I realized that I may not ever have a chance to have such an exceptional time with the kids if we were back home, either, as in having kids over to my house, having the floor open to any kind of candid discussion.

With this reading club and in other instances, these kids, with their direct openness in topics, have brought up many different subjects of delicate natures or personal natures with me, and it is difficult to shy away from then. I prefer to be quite frank with kids, of any age, in general. (I wonder how that would fit in with education systems back in the States? Teachers must restrict the topics they discuss with their students, must be politically correct... certain things should be left for the parents.) But here, it can be assumed that topics of a mature nature are not necessarily being discussed between parents and children, and so the need for open disclosure from any role model form overrides the sense of scholastic propriety.

I’ve loved having kids come over to my house; there’s a set who’ve become quite comfortable spending time with me – a quartet of boys: Jason, Ronson, Brendon and Savio. Jason and Ronson, especially, will come by themselves, and spend a couple hours with me. We will talk about any variety of things, they will ask me questions about the States, we will read a book together or they will read on their own as I clean or do whatever task I was doing when they stopped by. It is a relaxed quiet time where I believe they feel comfortable and safe, and I feel happy and content to be one to provide that for them. And it is an added bonus, that I am friends with their parents.

Here in the village, you basically live with who you work with, you live with who you teach. Professional life, school life and home life are all intimately intertwined. There are positives and negatives to this, but one of the positives is that I feel I’ve been able to be a considerable mentor, to put it technically, to so many of the kids. And on the flip side – I’ve had a considerable set of buddies around to have fun learning together and gain life lessons from. I just love the kids, them and their individual personalities, their potential.

Books have become one medium of connection between us, one way for any student to come into the library or my house and get individual attention. As I look around as the pre-teens in my house every Wednesday afternoon, for example, I see a substantial moment; not one with pressure to fill up the time with substance, but one with the grounds for a spark to ignite a richer future – for all of us.

And....... ACTION!

I was boating up the river from Katoka, thinking “what wealth to me the show had brought.” This, and any river trip I take, I can look at the water and water edge and see fish jumping, caiman floating, turtles posing, maybe a capybara drinking. I can look at the trees and see iguanas basking, birds perching, monkeys frolicking, snakes wrapped around a branch. I look at the tree tops and see birds of all kinds perched, I look in the sky and see birds in flight; swooping and landing, soaring and gliding…

As I take in this magnificent display (that is different every trip I take) with a bit of reverence, this time, a more errant, sarcastic thought passed through my mind: do you think animals are maybe strategically displaying themselves for passer-by’s? Maybe they all have a one-animal show going on, or maybe there’s one big director. They all have roles they choose to play – or maybe it’s a Scenes From a Hat kinda gig, or a rotation. Whatever the selection process, they all have roles, like The Majestic Display, The Startled Retreat, The Docile Indifference, The Playful Interactive, The Statue…

The crane hears the boat coming and thinks to himself, “They’re coming! Here they come! Ok, Majestic Display, on three – swoop down, almost touch the water, make sure your neck is extended…. and land. Pose for effect… ok, that’s a wrap. I think they loved it. I am SO graceful…. Hey everybody! Come and see how graceful I look!”



Then there’s the caiman, with its head poking up out of the water, supposed to play the Startled Retreat role: “Ok, they’re coming, they see me, they don’t know I see them, ok, they see me seeing them, let me give it a second to think about it…… ok, and duck down – smooth like butter, it’s like I’m disappearing into thin air, that was great, just like a magician! Ok, they’re gone; I’m comin’ back up for air.”



The great big neon green iguanas who somehow all seem to ‘coincidentally’ get the Docile Indifference role- though all the other animals are sceptical they didn’t somehow roll the odds in their favour so they could all just lay lazily on the branch of the tree and soak up the warm sunshine and call that work.



I don’t think the monkeys would mind that though, because most of them probably prefer the Playful Interactive role, as they really are good at working WITH the audience and they love to have a good time anyway, even if it means they are a little too attention-seeking.





Certainly too rambunctious for the old granddaddy caimans who generally get The Statue, simply out of their intimidating presence. “I am a goddam prehistoric legacy and I don’t have to acknowledge your presence in the least, you homo sapiens. You just sit there, with your dulled eyesight, wondering if I am a log or not and I will stay here, unmoving.”

Then what about those animals who play The Tease? They must love the power they hold in their hands – strike that: paws, claws or wings - making the humans crane their necks, waiting for long moments, whip out their camera only to put it away because they missed it – only to bring it back out again because of another re-sighting. The jabiru stork thinks “Ooh, here’s a boat coming, I see cameras. Ok, I’m gonna turn my back to them for a few seconds, let them see my profile….. ok, they’re reaching for their cameras, get ready for it… they are focusing….. ok, fly off NOW! Muah ha ha ha.”



Quite a venue for an afternoon matinee. “And now, presenting, Mother Nature’s directorial debut in Rupununi River Drifting, a story of nature and all its eclectic inhabitants accommodating sightseers.”
(all these pics, except for the one of the iguana, were taken by RLI Volunteer - and my roommate - Matt Hallett.)

Urological. -No, I'm quite logical, thank you, I just have kidney issues.

How often have you woke up and glorified in these facts:

Yay, I get to wear underwear today!
Yay, I get to wash myself today!
Yay, I get to pee today! I get to pee in a toilet today!
Yay, I get to walk around, unencumbered!
Yay, I get to use my body how it's supposed to be used!

These proclamations, and millions more, I fear, do not get glorified enough.

I'm healthy and I'm young. A person can get used to that. Get used to the freedoms that health gives you. Come to expect stability from your body, no matter what happens. This can lead to underappreciating your body, or pushing your body too far, or being lax on upkeep of it.

At the very least, it can lead to impatience when something does go awry. And alarm and fear at this new development. A sensation of betrayal of yourself by your body.

This is how I've felt with these kidney stones, at least. It started as abdomen pain I couldn't really pinpoint. It went away, only with time, on it's own schedule. When it left, I forgot it, until it happened again. A few sleepless nights over a month or so, while I tried to change my diet a bit, maybe it was intestinal. It happened during the day once, and I had to go home from work I was so sick. I cried at this confusing, painful thing happening to my body.

It made me feel like I didn't want to move, like I wanted to arch my back to relieve the pressure within my abdomen, an ache that went from my lower back down to the soles of my feet. It hurt to breathe deep, it felt like muscles were tensing and never relaxing, like someone was jabbing me slowly and thoroughly with a butter knife in my sides. It didn't matter what kind of food I ate, how/where it was cooked, or if I drank alcohol. I couldn't figure it out.

The ER in KC found a slight kidney infection and gave me antibiotics. Was I being a wimp with the pain? Because it didn't feel like a slight anything, and certainly not for a problem so ongoing. I couldn't properly describe what my body was doing to me, and the problem did not get solved. After returning to my site, the pain came back, less intense, but more frequent. I ignored it until I had to take strong pain killers to feel ok. I knew I couldn't ignore this any longer. I'd have to interrupt my life, put all my attention on my body, to figure this out.

After a day of travelling to GT to get to the PC doctors and the worst pain I'd experienced yet, I finally got an ultrasound that finally found something tangible and foreign in me that was causing the pain.

And that's how I found myself in a hospital bed in Panama City, hooked up to two different catheters, an IV, a sore throat from intibation and those circulation stocking things.

Undiagnosed physical pain is one sort of corporal trumping and impatience; being a hospital patient is a whole other story...

Seasons

I complained about the wintery weather of Kansas City when I visited over the Holidays. I always loved winter, and the fresh coldness of it, the beautiful snow, the enjoyable warm beverages and the hoodies, scarves and slippers, but perhaps it was the sudden contrast, coming from a tropical climate to instant winter, that put me off of it, mentally and physically. All the sudden I was dealing with chapped lips when I never had to wear chapstick or lipgloss down there if I didn’t want to. My face suddenly was flaky and needed lotion more than twice a day, as well as my body, when I had no use for such things down there. I hadn’t needed lotion down there, and because any time I’d come out of the shower, I’d just sweat as I tried to apply it, I soon stopped the routine all together.

My home in KC, set at 69 degrees Fahrenheit, seemed to be chilly enough to have a cool nose and toes, and don’t even think about going to the garage or downstairs for fun. For the start of my visit home, especially, it was so cold outside, you rushed from car to house as quick as you could and thoughts of spending time outside recreationally were nipped in the bud. Definite sensations of cabin fever arose.

I found myself wishing for that sweaty, buggy, dirty terrain of Guyana, pretty quickly. Sure, you always had sweat stains, daily bathing was a necessity, most likely twice daily, as well, and it was almost always an issue of how much more one could remove of clothing to be most comfortable but not inappropriate. Any makeup you put on would be sweat off and smeared, or would make you break out or attract bugs so you wore the minimal. But it was breezy, refreshing. You weren’t encumbered by layers of clothes, or body care products (besides soap and deodorant). Free as the wind blows.

As a young adult who would be pretty content with air conditioning in the summer, this was a surprise to me as well as Mom, that I found myself in a tropical location for two years, and then chose to stay longer. That’s not to say I didn’t love nature or the outdoors or summer, I just enjoyed being cold.

Coming back into Guyana, I was met with the same breezes, the same lush plants, the same rains and the same natural smells. It was a ‘breath of fresh air,’ for certain, although it did occur to me, on some level, that everything was the SAME. Or, things emitted the air of sameness. That stability, knowing what to expect, can be appreciated at times – especially in a line of work that involves so much instability and surprise.

As I sat on the veranda to the hotel I stay at in Town, seeing the palm trees and feeling the breeze, I thought of – again – how I will need to say goodbye to it all, how my time in Yups will come to an end, how change has already started there, and will continue without me there. It sort of feels wrong to think of life continuing as normal without me there – my own life and life in the village. But, I remind myself that I’ve had to say goodbye to other seasons of my life before this one.

I remember feeling so involved with my job at Worlds of Fun, I stayed for 4 seasons there. I remember when I was in the pit orchestra for the play, My Fair Lady, that was a wonderful couple of months, full of rehearsals and planning and practicing. I remember when my routine every Sunday meant driving 45 minutes from college to KC to teach preschool and kindergarten Sunday school. Each season becomes a part of you, it’s in you, you feel it.

But most things don’t last forever. They can’t. Things ebb and flow.

Which is why I love the Midwestern seasons so much. None of the perpetual sameness, NOR the drastic leap from one extreme to the other. Granted, my favorite seasons are the transition seasons, Autumn and then Spring, but even the extremes of Winter and Summer have moments of joy, and moments that shed glory on their opposite.

It’s slow, it’s gradual, each season prepares you for the next. One can remorse that Summer is over, but then one can rejoice that Fall has begun, for Fall brings its own beauties, Fall brings us Winter, and of course, Summer is only a Spring’s breath away.

Even the more or less constant tropical character of down here has its slight seasons. There is a rainy season and a dry season. Growth seasons and re-growth seasons – just not all at the same time.

Earth’s beautiful balances. The end of one thing marks the beginning of another. And all good things must come to a close, sooner or later.

Where There’re Some Spokes, There’s a Way… Just Don’t Feel No Way

A Rupununi Medieval Parody

The Sir Steadfast and the Lady Serene embark upon a tireless trek from the Kingdom of Yups to the Land of Wowetta in hopes of winning glory for all. The two were out in pursuit of delivering the power of books to those in need, and in the preliminary inspection for a healthy literacy environment, the results were positive. Plans were made to further the endeavours – all parties involved were fresh with vigor and would donate what they were able. The two left, ready to return home from the brief trip, feeling pleased at the personable relations established.

Little did they know the Tiresome Fates dastardly devised countless trials and tribulations to foil their plans of a triumphant journey home.

The trek’s troubles began with the slipping of the chain on their noble steed, La Noche. Clicks and thunks arose, the steed slowed and stopped and was attended to with patient tugs, adjustments and steady hands. Onward. Kick, start, mount and “beat out one time” – ‘nuff times. Our heroes persisted. Onward. But alas, one click and thunk too many, and the journey had to be continued at a cautious rate. “We won’t return triumphant by sundown,” Sir Steadfast admits. Compromising speed does not appease, and the Fates decide to significantly hinder travel by dealing a fatal blow to the back wheel. “Onward we traverse!” cried Steadfast. “Though ‘tis but a pace as swift as molasses, the quest to reach home is still here, and we will conquer that which we are able.” So with dreams of home and its comforts put on hold, the two trudge forth. They make it to a nearby fortress, Toka, relieved to meet other villagers who can provide assistance. Domiciles approached, inquisitions called forth. They are told of someone who could be of service, a magician of sorts. Darkness falls. Patiently, in silence, the two wait for the talked about mechanical magician.

Mosquitoes. Dirt roads. Silence. Can the Sir Steadfast find a replacement part for La Noche? The wiring wizard comes, plans change. In place of a new part, the broken one will be partially repaired. Kind villagers offer tokens of food and assistance. Lady and Sir had not dined all day, nor had they slept well the night before. Silence, waiting. Our heroes depart Toka by 21:21, an estimated 3 hours yet to be traversed, at the molasses-like pace that is imperatively maintained. Fighting fatigue, the two plod on, precariously perched on La Noche, fearful to not make the slightest motion that might upend her. After some time, a pause on the road for a stretch and brief repose. Helmet armour juggled, roguish mosquitoes attacked, stars and moon appreciated. Making ready the steed once more, Sir tugs, turns, shakes, and waiting patiently, Lady mounts when departure is nigh. The two were bludgered! Instead of being made ready, La Noche seems to have reached her demise.

What will happen to Sir and Lady? Will they be cowed by the Fates, mortared into submission? Will Steadfast forgo his noble quest? Will Serene turn into a feckless wench? Read on, as our champions begin their true test of nobility.

Waiting on the road, silence, listening for the melodious sound of cavalry, Steadfast and Serene keep high spirits, speaking in jest and weighing the alternatives. Shall they wait for an unsure corps of cavalry pon the karna? Shall they trudge on, afoot, pushing the crippled Noche up so, ‘til the next nearest fortress, four miles away? “Well, something must be done,” Serene reasons. Desperate times had NOT addled her senses, she accepted her Fate, though be it begrudgingly.

They start off, walking. Cavalry! A bright light, a whirring sound… it passes without word. Bollocks. Downcast, the two continue. More calvalry! They stop! Steadfast assumes the authoritative position and requests his cavalry carries him to the closest fortress, Mertizero, while the Serene stays back with the rescuer’s partner. Wary, weary and resigned, she converses with the partner who boasts of his feats, talks of elopements to a far away land and notes desired qualities of a Future Domestic Dame. Lady remains politely, though distantly uninterested (the partner smelled heavily of mead). Meanwhile, Steadfast goes with the obliging comrade, using field knowledge and the act of persuasion to find and borrow a replacement for the fallen steed. He returns, triumphant to the karna of marooning. But the remedy is not so easy, fuel must be transferred from the fallen to the replacement, not such an easy endeavour. Many moments of night are spent at this transaction.

And then – how to take La Noche to the grounds of Mertizero for safe storage? It is decided the Lady will soldier on ahead, alone, on the fresh steed, as the Sir will manage, somehow, to bring the fallen one to the same fortress. New to the art of riding, Serene fiercely accepts the challenge and sets forth, the path bumpy and strange, the steed different, slightly weathered and its secrets of dominating not fully unlocked. For several miles, the Lady rides, alert and in control. It is a test of competency she is keen to master. She is victorious! As she waits for her comrade she can’t help but slumber slight, unawares of the tribulations Steadfast is facing: he must push, not ride, La Noche all those steps the Lady exhilaratingly passed. The task is great, but the warrior, true.

They rendezvous and make ready to begin the last leg of their journey however, when Steadfast wisely checks the status of the loaner, he discovers it, too, is afflicted with the same malady that had fell La Noche! Oh, woe unto them! How can such persevering champions be dealt with such strife?! “We will yet reach, worry not,” Steadfast humbly proclaims. Continue they do, with the same molasses-like gait and care as before all hopes of smooth sailing from this point on a dashed dream. The hour approaches 3 in the morn, and languor is such a heavy burden. The lady attempts, futilely, to keep herself and therefore her rider alert –she talks of riddles and foibles, to little avail. He nobly persists, though they soon pause for a short repose once more.

The malady will not be appeased, no matter how tender the attention, and the steed begins to buck and weave, making it too terrible for Sir to control and too taxing for Lady to endure – faulty riding accessories already has this duo strained and sore. It is Lady Serene who admits defeat to this test of the Fates; they raptly abandon ship and ensconce the steed for a later recovery.

Not a soul around, only the moonlight to guide them, Steadfast and Lady Serene begin journey afoot, towards the next domain of villagers, the land of Markanata, several miles forward. There are no more tools, no other mode of assistance, no other solution, except to “Keep moving forward.” Once the Markanata perimeter is reached, perhaps there will be another steed to borrow for the last score of miles. They trudge on, both being plagued with dream-like trances while afoot, fighting mirages and dire needs of mental rest. The Bridge of Diamond W is reached, and our champions are joined by a one Smelly Cat, who makes himself part of the walking wagon, swiftly trotting behind the Lady, making no quarrel. The Lady, determined to not belie weakness, does not request a rest, but gratefully accepts the offer when made. With Smelly Cat at her head, the Lady drifts into a dreamful slumber. It is almost 5, and all hopes of reaching the Kingdom of Yups before dawn is not feasible. Sir awakens Lady, and a purring Smelly Cat, and they set forth, towards the pinkening sky.

“Let us not tarry,” Steadfast says. “Let there be speed in our step.” The Lady, a competent wayfarer, accepts the suggestion and begins the act of trudging with an added fervor. As the two walk into the sunrise, the scenery around them comes to life – shadows become shrubbery, dew is glistening on the grass. A natural tunnel of trees keeps the journeys cool despite their warmth acquired by physical exertion. Smelly Cat proves unworthy to continue the journey and in a pitiful meowling protest, begs off. Fare thee well, O Smelly One.

The quest now becomes to reach Markanata before the sun becomes too scorching. Serene proves to be too proficient at wayfaring, and Steadfast begs her arrest. Only the sound of Sir’s sturdy boots and Lady’s flimsy slippers can be heard against the rocky ground. The carry their armour in hand; a light, but significant burden to bear. Admittedly, carrying more tools or a hammock would have both been a blessing and a curse. The pilgrims rejoice- a domicile! As Steadfast inquires into the whereabouts of a particular vassal, Lady weakly fights lethargy. The sun is up, and it is past 6 in the morn. The persevering pilgrims wait at the domicile when, eventually, The Rider comes avast, pon steed, his father not far behind. The two easily accept the request for transport and the Steadfast and the Serene make swiftly across the savanna, both eager for their odyssey to be concluded.

As Lady moves easily and deftly with her rider on the steed, she is too fatigued and too cynical to feel at ease until the Yups soil is upon her soles. Oh, hark! The sweet scene of CH! Try as they may, the Fates did not win the war – Steadfast and Serene conquered each adversity and never stopped moving Onward – true soljahs.

The story ends, or so it seems – how will Steadfast go about steed reconnaissance? Read about how our warrior soljahs on in his new quest, in the next installment of the Don’t Feel No Way Series.

My Life, as portrayed in LOST ;)

In a fitting moment, Mom and I watched the series finale on the eve of my journey back to Guyana. Most questions answered, most loose ends tied up, purposes fulfilled… a contented ending.

LOST, if you didn’t follow it, is a 6-season TV show that revolves around the survivors of a plane crash on an island in the Pacific. We watch as each character is developed and as the qualities of the island are revealed. There’s a group of around a dozen survivors the show centers around, and then more, outside (“other”) characters come into the story, as well. As the flight survivors try to get home (contacting the outside world, getting a sub, a sailboat, etc.) we see just how special the island is – its electromagnetic forces have caught others’ attention and there are power plays on different local and global levels. It’s a combination of science fiction and man vs. science (and/or faith vs. doubt). The strange traits of the island are bizarre and entertaining, but it’s the actual people on the island that caught my attention the most.

The survivors’ lives before, during and after the Island were always lacking. When they came to the Island, they all were worn down, escaping something, searching for something. Their live's paths all led them to that point of reaching the island, the redeeming trait of each of them, despite past events or stunted expression. Whether they knew it or not, they were looking for something more. Once on the Island - even though they tried fervently for so long to get OFF it – they were changed, it made them blossom; they were given a second chance, they were made more complete for it. The Island and each other did this, though they didn’t realize it at the time, and most did not want to be there; they longed for the familiarity of their past life. While waiting for a way home, they made do with what they had, they learned how to function, survive, enjoy, they let go of past perspectives, made friendships and partnerships in ways they never imagined and witness some true world wonders.

The plot twists, as some actually got back home, trying to pick up where they left off. Though, they were still touched by the island and in need of the bonds created on the Island. It still was with them, and eventually, those that got home, went back. No longer the same person they were on that first flight, and certainly not the same as they were before leaving the Island; each had individually grown.

Though they had all lived their own lives during their time at home, there was no denying the influence of the Island. The plot twisted again, and due to time travel, they made it so it was as if they never even landed on the island (what (would have) happened when the plane reached its intended destination). In this alternate reality, they still found themselves pulled to each other, experiencing memories of a former, forgotten life on the island, until it all came together, it all added up. Things were how they were supposed to be – they had their old life/memories while carrying with them their experiences/memories/relationships from the Island, it added up to complete their story, to balance them out.

I decided the parallels between this whole PC service thing and LOST are too great to ignore.

Oh, I was so satisfied by the ending and the show as a whole – no matter how ‘out there’ it was. Masterful story-telling, masterful characters and masterful presented themes. Destiny, fear, challenge, love, sacrifice, completion. And yes, I feel a parallel to this story, at this particular point in my life. I’m sure the show has many general life predicaments applicable to many, but here’s how it relates to me: Two worlds, one person; when/where/how will those two worlds collide to complete the person? I have referred to these two different locations, the environments and my roles as ‘worlds’ before, and I stand by that.

Most of my memories, instead of vivid episodes, seem to be hazier, dreamlike states of mind wrapped around emotion. When in Guyana, a foreign place, I’d remember, to varying strengths, feelings of Home- love, security, boundaries, people, places, things. I carried them with me, knowing I had them, and that they were probably still there, but it became something only distantly related to me – I was somewhere new, with no one from my former life. I was a blank slate, I became someone (partially) new, all on my own. I’ve done well, and for that, I’m proud. I was changed, and the change became normal.

Coming home, then, after two years…
This trip home was a combining experience, encouraging my two worlds to collide. I was experiencing it from new eyes, with the influences and memories of Guyana, the carefree-ness, the confidence and happiness gained. I was in the car, going down a street, and could picture a savanna dirt road down there, the red dirt, the knee-length grassy middle part, the grr of the motorbike and breeze. I’d hear crickets and other bugs at home, but hear cicadas, howler monkeys and the Rupununi bugs at the same time.

I refreshed all old memories of streets, stores, sounds and ambiance of Home; its feeling was familiar, ingrained in me, timeless, just how I remember, how I remembered when I was Away. Despite any impatience I have with what I feel is its static and restrictive nature, I know I gain strength from Home, as well, and I have a purpose to fulfill there, too. Going home, I also gain back a little bit of who I was before. Before I left Home for my service, I sat in Mom’s living room chair, rubbing my hands over the arms, trying to memorize the feel. I whispered to Maggie “Don’t forget me.” The chair’s still there, still feeling the same way, Maggie still remembers me. Those things haven’t changed.

But I have. And no matter what end I’m at now, there’s longing for the other, in some ways, though also, the other seems as if the dream, the foreign place.

“One day a man dreamt he was a butterfly, a butterfly flitting and fluttering around, happy with himself and doing as he pleased. He didn’t know he was a man. Suddenly, he woke up and there he was, solid and unmistakably a man. But he didn’t know if he was a man who had dreamt he was a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming he was a man.” – Chuang Tzu

~Happy Thanksgiving, America!~

The Third Year

Is there some particular reason this third year is seeming to be the most difficult year of all? The busiest?

I look after CH, feeding animals, directing the cleaning girls, locating borrowed materials. I lead the library in its week's activities, organizing story times, planning for After School Program, fitting in our volunteer's contributions and dealing with personnel issues. I head up a comprehension tutoring session held thrice a week for Grade 6, planning lessons, grading exercises, noting progress, collaborating with the HM and class teacher. I read chapter books to different kids and groups of kids, I ask them comprehension questions, we discuss vocabulary, we write sentences about the stories, we share in the reading responsibilities. I assert my desires with my friends, I invite them over for an evening meal and liming with things prepared, I joke with them, I call them out on their lapses, I disengage more quickly than before, leaving them be. I don't take as much crap - not from friends, not from co-workers, not from students, not from bothersome men.

What was it about my visit home that's made me so much more authoritative, directive.... directed? "You've changed," was something said of me by two different people.

I heard that same thing from my American friends and family during my visit home, but it was interesting to hear it from my Guyanese friends, too. Two years of one new experience seems enough to influence a person, but is 40 days at home enough, as well?

I came back to Guyana with new clothes, no glasses on my face, make up instead. I came back with different gifts, new stories to share, a more finite direction in my life, one after this experience. I came back with a full dose of love from the US, a whole dose of encouragement, a whole dose of contentment of being myself - which I am now asserting - more than I ever did before here. This must be what the "You've changed" is about.

Part of me thinks "Well, thank heavens someone has changed, Lord knows change is necessary within developing countries!" My impatience for the same old hook ups has increased, my tolerance for lack of gumption is wavering. My ability/tendency to keep trying the same thing in the same ways and getting the same results is waning.

Alice was removed from the country. Unofficially deported back to the States. That Saturday, a few weeks ago, was disturbing; the implications of developing a country very bold and important. And the effects of her absence were immediately noted; I found myself averse to these changes. She was the kick in the pants that this place needed, albeit a strong, pestering and relentless one.

I wasn't here for the last time she was removed from the country, but I arrived to see it's lasting effects, and it seems like the potential for backsliding again this time is strong. No one can say that Yups is lacking for support and inspiration and materials. But you can only lead a horse to water... I am no longer trying to force them to drink.

There was something about my visit home, and Alice's removal, that made the gap between complaints/"should do's" and "Well, do it's" smaller. I find myself being even more vocal/direct with my plans and requests. There is a list of imperatives, and while I cannot hold the same list as Alice did, I can try to keep the same spirit alive. The librarians and frequent library limers are being kept quite busy within the library; our temporary volunteers are being monitored and guided on their volunteering experience. My friends are getting a blast of impatience for the extreme "Hakunah Matata" vibe they put off.

Limitations are being recognized and certain ideas or events scrapped, before an attempt and fail can mar everyone's spirits - or perhaps just my own. I'm finding myself to be a more vibrant personality, succeeding at being what people need down here, and for that, I am proud. Proud to have realized that progress is never finished, and even though there is no concrete end, that's no reason to step back and let progress progress on it's own. Proud to realize that being a complimentative entity for my first two years and now a dynamic entity for my last year is how I can best leave Yupukari, best to prepare them for the years and progress to come.

I am proud to fill that needed role here, and willing to do so for this next year. My only qualm is: Am I being what/who I need me to be, too?

Vices

Per dictionary.com, some of the defs for 'vice' are: 1. an immoral or evil habit or practice, 5. a fault, defect or shortcoming, 7. a bad habit, as in a horse.

Wikipedia.org cites Christianity's beliefs on vices:

Christians believe there are two kinds of vice:
Vices that come from the physical organism as perverse instincts (such as lust)
Vices that come from false idolatry in the spiritual realm

The first kind of vice, though sinful, is believed less serious than the second. Vices recognized as spiritual by Christians include blasphemy (holiness betrayed), apostasy (faith betrayed), despair (hope betrayed), hatred (love betrayed), and indifference (scripturally, a "hardened heart"). Christian theologians have reasoned that the most destructive vice equates to a certain type of pride or the complete idolatry of the self. It is argued that through this vice, which is essentially competitive, all the worst evils come into being. In Judeo-Christian creeds it originally led to the Fall of Man, and as a purely diabolical spiritual vice, it outweighs anything else often condemned by the Church.


PC seemed to bring up quite often, both in the prep materials and during training, different ways to deal with stress.

I listed journalling, walking, listening to music, reading as my stress-relievers.

These things are more or less available to use here, but then again, maybe not.

What happens when you are looking for a quiet walk by yourself and happen to gain a troop of little followers? Or meet enough people along the path since it's a path to the river and everyone frequents the river? Or, if all the pens/pencils you own to journal with are poor quality and aren't functioning or have been thieved? Or if you don't have batteries in your mp3 player, or you lent your only pair of earplugs out and haven't got them back yet or your mp3 player has been months missing? See where this is going?

I hadn't understood PC's stress on stress-relievers - the stress on drinking responsibly, as well. Ok, of course, we've all heard that spiel, we're all mature adults, we're all aware adults.

I hadn't factored in the need to relieve certain discomforts, whether those be the inability to satisfy your stress-relief in your old ways, or dealing with an amount of stress higher than you've ever been used to, or just an overall need for a break from the weight of the all-encompassing experience.

Which brings me (back) to vices.

Why is it that we develop vices? Comfort? Stress relief? Genetically predisposed? Deficiencies? Just something to do, as in part of our personality, or time/mind-fillers?

At what point do vices become unhealthy habits? Meaning, a person becomes dependent on said vice to feel normal or achieve satisfaction or relaxation, or overuses and/or abuses.

What sort of vices do people have? Abuse?

They say oral-fixated people always have to be chewing something - biting nails, chewing gum, random objects, smoking. Some people have ticks, physical, facial, verbal. Some people turn eating into a more frequent habit than necessary, either because of boredom, gluttony or stress. Some people use alcohol to calm their nerves, etc.

Then there's the point where vices (can) become a habit - or vice versa - destructive or invasive or not. The relationship between vices and habits is interesting, I'm still mulling it over.

For me, I used to eat a lot. I don't think it was because I was stressed, just bored (at a loss) and it was pleasing to the taste buds. I also preferred isolation, alone time. I need my alone time. In addition to, or as an alternate to my stress relievers of former habit, I've developed new ones.

One being smoking. It hasn't turned into a habit, fortunately, but it is a vice. It's a bought moment of focus, of intraversion, awareness. It's a sense of rebellion on an other-wards life of integration.

Another one has become sleep. When an answer simply cannot be found, the best solution seems to be unconsciousness. "Tomorrow's another day," Caribbean singer, Buddy Collz croons. Sometimes a plethora of thoughts and perspectives and emotions catches me an I am unable to figure out what to do with it all, unable to talk it out with a loved one. It helps with my alone time, it allows me to meditate with music and relaxation and it passes the time.

Alcohol hasn't become a vice for me, though I was surprised to find that I've used it as a form of escape.

New experiences, new methods. Learning so much more about my world and myself. Vices. They say alot about humanity and individuality.

Contrasts

Did you ever used to lay upside down on a couch, or the floor or whatever and imagine if the room’s roof were the floor and the floor, the roof? I did.

As kids we know every crack in the sidewalk, every branch of a tree; we are intimate with the outdoors – indoors, too for that matter, every nook and cranny. We look at things with different perspectives.

At what point of growing up to we stop looking at the world around us in this special way? Stop seeing each item for its innate potential?

During my first visit home in two years, I went for a walk in my KC neighborhood and started to compare and contrast some aspects of my life – childhood and adulthood, for one, but also US life and Guyana life (or more specifically, Kansas City life and the Rupununi Life)… Contrasts…..

I remembered some of the first impressions of the States as the airplane from Guyana to New York landed; I immediately began noticing differences between the two countries/cultures:
-Baseball fields!
-Wow, McGarry was right; Americans are TALL.
-The order, procedure and attention given to customers. We Americans queue like nobody’s business and if we don’t know where to go or don’t choose to go that way, we have personnel to put us back in place.
-Consumerism rules! There are places to spend money at every corner. We PCV’s spend two years developing a country’s capacity, and apparently the US spends two years developing an iPod vending machine.
-Squeaky wheel sounds – I initially thought it was men sipping – I immediately ‘heard’ it then started to ignore it, until I realized no one sips here.
-Dimmed lights made me think ‘blackout!’ for a moment; Edith, too!
-Hesitation before using water – is it ok to drink straight? Oh yeah, wait, of course it is.
-Lingering tendencies to swat mosquitoes, itch, etc., but nothing there.
-Realization that I am not “Miss” here.
-It’s 8 p.m. and still light outside???

My neighborhood here in the suburbs of Kansas City, Missouri: We moved to this neighborhood my senior year of high school and I appreciated the neighborhood-like aspect to the area; our old house was on a street with no other turns on it. There are sidewalks on many of the streets, the yards are well-maintained, you encounter different dogs and cats, some different neighbors, the routes for walking are fairly substantial, a lot of turns and weaving in and out. "Well-maintained" in KC means most yards have lush, thick grass in front and back that's kept mowed and even.

My neighborhood in Yups, the Rupununi, Region 9 of Guyana: there are different paths, likewise (though smaller and more transparent), as well as well-maintained yards - most are void of green, as all grass and weeds are painstakingly hoed and the yard is left clean with brownish red pebbles that will get raked clean of any leaves that happen to fall. Many different dogs, cats, cows, sheep, chickens; different neighbors out and about.

Many similarities; many fundamental differences, too, though. I hadn’t realized how enclosed my KC neighborhood seems – houses every couple of yards, fences, driveways, cars. There is a lot of shade, which is good, but also a lack of a breeze. I love the freedom of my Rupununi neighborhood, the open areas, the secluded paths, the paths leading OUT of civilization.

Yups has a greater variety of animal life out and about; these animals run free, more or less. And I have to remind myself, as I walk through KC, that these dogs and cats are usually fenced off and defensive of their territories; more likely there, the dogs cower at you and you have to coax them to come for a pat on the head and you can call your canine buddies to you – they’ll come running.

When walking the paths of Yups, or most anywhere in Guyana, most of the people you cross paths with will look at you and call “Good morning,” “Good afternoon,” or some other variation of greeting. It’s something I’ve come to really enjoy. Sometimes people will say “All right, all right,” as in me and you are ok with each other and the world.

The streets in my suburb aren’t so heavily populated, and acknowledgements are more low-key. You wouldn’t find someone who lives in your vicinity but you don’t know their name inviting you to share in their activity. On the flip side, as I passed two men working on a car in a driveway this morning, I initially braced myself for catcalls and sipping, as is customary in Guyana from most strange males. I had to remind myself that most men here wouldn’t act in such a way.

Contrasts.

As a volunteer, we become intimate with another, foreign environment, we are forced to look at things known and unknown with new perspectives, every day. We draw from our past experiences to relate to our current experiences. Some moments, it seems as if the two worlds couldn’t be further apart; others, it’s as if they were super-imposed on each other, too similar to be too foreign. There’s nothing like a step back, or a step back into, to gain a new outlook, or to regain a lost one.

**I’m sure more differences will come to me in the remaining weeks here in KC, a thought that has inspired me to make an accompanying post to my “KC Chronicles.” I want to make one of Guyana, and more specifically, the Rupununi and my village, Yupukari. I’ll be calling on my Guyanese friends to help fill in on little blurbs, just like my KC friends did. Coming soon… <3

Peace Corps: The Final Exam, Part II

Seriously, that’s what my trip home felt like. A culmination of things learned while in PC – a mixture of dealing with delays, exercising flexibility, creativeness, releasing your vulnerabilities to strangers, making international friends, sleeping in weird places and having the patience and strength to see the journey through to the end.

So, I got to GT in one piece. And then after a farewell party themed 80’s Prom Night at a gay bar in Georgetown the night before, complete with people dressed in 80’s fashion and dancing to tunes from the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s (my personal favorites of the night – “Love Shack” and “Locomotion”), Peace Corps vans picked the 10 PCVs travelling home up at 5:30 a.m. We all got on the flight to New York with little issue – I bought some duty free bottles of the world’s best rum, El Dorado, and Tim had to check his canoe paddle instead of take it as a carry on. Some had to catch a connecting flight right away, and Shannon Gill had her parents waiting outside the terminal to drive her home to New Jersey, along with her Guyanese cat, Scout, but 5 of us, Kien, Tim, DeAnna, Edith and myself, went to Burger King to taste a little bit of the US.

We had to say goodbye to Tim and DeAnna right after that, then Edith, Kien and I walked around a bit and settled down in a gate. After about 10 minutes, though, Kien said he was gonna head to his own gate. I knew it was coming, that boy isn’t up for emotional moments and was short on sleep, but I didn’t want to have to say goodbye. Kien has been like a brother to me these two years. He was in Lethem and was a solid guy to rely on for a place to stay or just friendship, both of which were appreciated and needed while amongst our Guyanese friends. I hugged him hard and as he walked off, I actually cried. Saying goodbye to him made the end of these two years seem final, more than any other act or goodbye thus far had been.

To distract me, Edith had me paint my toes with nail polish she got from some friends in her village, later we went to Chili’s to get a drink and appetizer – hello margarita (though it was strange getting carded)! We walked to her gate and waited until she had to board, and I sadly saw her off, then going to my own gate. That was the last of GUY20 who COS’ed at the 2-year mark. I was sad as I walked, but then smiled at the strength accumulated from the knowledge of completing my goal and making such wonderful friendships. I would go home, fully competent, content and strong.

That’s when it all went downhill. My flight was delayed for a few hours. Dismayed, I quickly regrouped and called home to inform and settled down to going over my pictures on my laptop while I waited. But then it was delayed again, to an hour later. Then delayed again. Then the flight changed gates. Then delayed two more times, until it was cancelled.

It was around 11:30 p.m. Everyone got in a line to talk with the airline employees, and I just followed not sure what to do. We hear that the airline won’t compensate us for the cancelled flight because it was due to nature and not the airline. A young woman in front of me seemed pleasant and struck up a conversation with the woman in front of her about being from South Africa but attending school at KU… I asked a question about flight stuff here and there, trying to keep the tears from rolling down.

I had no debit card, I had no cell phone, I had no NY contacts, and very little US money. The lady the KU student had talked to had left for another plan her husband came up with and I began talking with the young woman. Vuyiswa, her name was. I told her a bit of my story, and she said we’d stick together. We waited in line for two hours. She went first, and I made a mental speech of appeal to the clerks, pulling the Peace Corps Card of Mercy, hoping they’d sympathize. They told Vuyiswa that they could put her on a standby flight the next evening. I went up there, gave my speel, and the lady went “Whoa. But I can’t do anything about it, you could go talk to my supervisor, maybe he could help you with vouchers.” So I abandoned that desk and went to the next terminal.

Apparently, there was a small line already there, according to some assertive passenger. I started crying, and noisily. Vuyiswa came up and asked what was wrong, and I couldn’t even articulate the problem, she just hugged me and told me to let it out. I knew people were watching and imagined that assertive passenger viewed my tears as a female manipulation for attention. I tried to collect myself, and decided to try one more time. I interjected as the supervisor was with someone, assuring the defensive passenger man that I knew it was not my turn, and just wanted to make sure I’d get attended to. The supervisor, not unkindly, told me he would help me, I just needed to wait. I sniffled and waited. The sup brought up an option to Wichita, Kansas, stating that he could get me there, but after that, I was on my own to get to KC. I took it, figuring I could catch a bus to KC or something. The sup gave me a shuttle voucher – the flight to Wichita was at La Guardia, the other airport in NY – and a $6 breakfast voucher. Vuyiswa went to get the same deal.

We eventually got to La Guardia around 5:45, along with another man from Bangaladesh we met. We immediately went to check in. The people at this desk were a fresh breeze of pleasant, it soothed me a little to even see them smile amongst themselves. The lady asked why I was going to Wichita when I originally was supposed to go to KC, I explained, then elaborated a bit on being ready to go home. I was beyond using PC as a playing piece, but I did mention it. “Do you want me to look for a flight to KC?” she asks. Yes! She found one, from Detroit. You bet. And you know what? She bumped me up to first class! “For what you do for our country.” I cried again.

Vuyiswa, Uncle and I pooled our vouchers and petty cash together to get coffee and a breakfast at Sbarros. Uncle bid us adieu, and Vuyiswa and I sat there while she told a little of her country. She had a slightly different flight arrangement than I did, and so we went to my gate since my flight was first. We both fell asleep in the chairs for a bit. My flight was delayed a half hour, for some reason, but I finally said goodbye to my new friend, and boarded first class on a flight to Detroit, Michigan. I didn’t know what to do with the hot, damp towel they gave me, but I considered that quite a lowly issue to worry about, so I just did what the guy across the isle did.

I landed in Detroit and settled myself down for an expected 4 hour layover. Which turned into a 7 hour layover. The plane was there, but no crew, the crew was coming BACK from KC but their plane had some issues….. I thought I’d never get home. KC became this obscure, meaningless place, a figment of my imagination.

So many times that day, I had to fight to get the beaten look off my face. I had to put things in perspective, I had to tell myself I’d look back at this humorously, that I WOULD eventually get home. That there were worse things. That there were single parents with kids to have to deal with during these delays and cancellations and I was a single, competent adult – a Peace Corps Volunteer, for goodness sakes!

I did it, but it was hard! I mocked my carefree cocky self from 18 hours ago who thought she was strong and competent. I wasn’t sure I’d have any emotion left once I finally landed in KCI. But I did, and we got on the plane around 7, and did land around 8:30 in KC, my Home, and saw the faces of Mom, Dad and Tony to greet me. Seriously, I got there. Almost 24 hours later than I was supposed to, but I got there in one piece.

I’ll count that as a pass.

Peace Corps:The Final Exam, Part I

I live two hours outside the main town in Region 9. I live an average of 15 hours bus ride outside Georgetown, the capitol of the country and port to the rest of the northern world. So, going into this travelling escapade, I knew it would be vigorous. I knew I'd have to prepare for it, stretch for it, lower expectations for the travel.

It all started with Kien's farewell party in Lethem. Kien, my PC buddy, who fell in love with the Rupununi just as I have, who was having a hard time saying goodbye, just like I would be if I were going home right now. He and all our mutual friends, PC and HCN alike, were gathering in Lethem Saturday night for a party in his honor. How could I not go to that? Especially with easy vehicle transp from Chris Li, and my roommate, Jess, attending, too. I knew I should probably pack, and I knew this party could turn into something greater than anticipated, but I didn't have the heart to not go.

So, we took off, Saturday afternoon, with the understanding that we'd be back Sunday, if I could pull it off, Monday if I couldn't. My flight from Karanambu to Georgetown was Tuesday morning. K/bu is closer to Yups and so that's where PC booked me (because of rainy season and the road being washed out, I got to fly instead of ride a bus). Kien's party was good, I had fun dancing, then spent the entire Sunday watching movies at Lily's place, not really expecting to hear from Chris, but ready to go if I did. So it wasn't a surprise when I heard that they went to a different village and would be back Monday.

Monday, around noon, I went up to the main liming location, and ran into Mike, who was just returning from Town. We waited together, until 6 p.m., not hearing a thing until around them. As boys played cards, one lets it be known that Chris hurt his foot on a motorbike and they were waiting for Leroy to go pick them up and bring them back into Lethem. More cards are played and Mike brings up that Chris won't be in any position to drive, and that he couldn't drive, either, he was sick and sleep deprived. How would I get back? More cards were played as my gears are grinding and I'm trying to either 1) fling into problem-solving action, or 2) unclench and let this normal Rupununi flow of life just work itself out. I wavered between the two, initially amused at what seemed to be the norm for down here, knowing how to work the situation and not get too worked up. But it got later and later, and the guys made no move to stop playing cards and figure stuff out...

Finally a motorbike was brought up. But it needed a part to function. We could get the part, but it needed a driver. Most of the guys were with Chris. "Wait until Chris gets back, and then we'll see." Umm.... ok... in the meantime, there was one guy we knew, who we called, and said he could take me and he'd come check out the bike; he never showed. I didn't want to ride on a bike during rainy season with a casual acquaintance, anyway.

How would I get back? I needed to pack, I wanted a couple days to say goodbye and relax... I was throwing out these 'extravagant' needs and wants, right and left, trying to be patient, but failing. "This sucks!" I vent to Mike. "I know," he says. Doesn't change anything, though, does it? Some friends called a guy who works with the airline, seeing if they could delay my flight til the next day - see, my flight out to the US wasn't til the end of the week, so it wasn't like I'd miss THAT flight. They also tried to see if I could board at Lethem, since I was already there.... but I didn't have my bags or passport....

Chris came in at 10 p.m., foot busted, but the first words out of his mouth when he saw me were: "You ready to go? I said I was taking you home, so let's do it!" I was too selfish to tell him to stay off his hurt foot and find an alternative way. He said, "Let's just lime for a bit first." Again, no going against the flow, plus, at what he was about to do, I figured he deserved it. But there's no such thing as "for a bit" down there. An hour or two later, we pulled out of Jai's, to go get gas. One station was closed, another was out of gas.

"I wasn't counting on that," Chris says. But, he has another plan: he knows who works at one gas station, and we went to where the guy hangs out to ask if he'd sell us some gas off hours. The guy initially said no; he was playing pool and hanging out with friends. Chris points to me and says something like "See that girl? She's a Peace Corps Volunteer, and I promised her she'd make it back to Yupukari to get on a flight back to the States." The guy said yes, and Chris told him no rush; that's how things work down there. Chris reports to me that we'll give him an hour, let him finish his game, then go. That turns into 3 hours.

We get gas, finally, and get on the road, taking it slow because of the bad road and Chris's bad leg. Took almost 4 hours, and we reached my house at 5:45 a.m. I had to be checked in for the plane by 7:30. Chris, Jess and Mike collapsed on beds and couches as I packed my bags, they said we'd leave by 6:45 to get there in time. No one had a watch, we left at 7:05, according to the car clock. Got there by 7:45! And ended up sitting there in the sun for almost 3 hours until the plane came at 11:30.

Chris said he'd get me there, and he did. As I thanked him for this, for pulling strings and trying hard, he does point out that he wouldn't have to have done all that if we left when we were supposed to. True. But I have learned this: Stuff happens - a lot - down here, some within our power, some not. But as much as we get disappointed and have to amend our plans/ideas because things don't go by the books, good things happen, too -- because things don't go by the books; we do get taken care of when it counts.

I got on the plane to see a familiar face already on board - PCV Nick - and once we picked up Kien in Lethem, celebrated with some Surinamese beer on the plane, and then I was faced with a challenge of a whole other sort - holding it when you have never had to pee so badly in your life and of course there's no bathroom on a 12 seater plane. Happy to say I passed that exam, too -- barely.