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.

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.

Another Night with the Caimans

Went out caimaning on the 21st last month, it’s my second night since coming back I’ve been out on the project a fair amount of times now, and I’d like to go out as much as possible from now on, try to see and hear and learn as much as I can. It was a pleasant night out, too, despite the rain. The guests were fun, and the crew was a good group. They had 6 guests, three from Germany plus their driver, then two guys from Italy who’d gone the night before and wanted to go again. The boys got a hold of Karanambu to borrow an extra boat, and so Kenneth and Oswin came down. They were in the Italians’ boat, then Anthony and Mike were in the Germans’ boat with me, and Roland, Felix, Shamir and Ram were in the catch boat.

The other night that I went with Jess, it was the first night that the crew had gone without Fernando or Mike, which was interesting. They did well; I’m proud of the crew for starting to do things their own, though last night was fun, too, to have Mike there because really feels like a thorough night out when he’s there; he’s full of data and info and opinions that the others haven’t picked up on yet. The Italian guys were a cheerful pair, full of jokes, and when we were floating downriver waiting for the catch boat to come, they teased that they were in the cool boat, they were “Lady Gaga.” We were pretty darn cool, too – Sybil, one of the ladies, was a spunky fun person, very pleasant to be around.

It was nice to be a part of the night, and to share what I’ve learned about my river/wilderness here. I called us the sassy boat, and then the smart boat, as the guys asked an easy question about the river. I sat next to the other lady, who seemed very glad to be experiencing the river, and semi knowledgeable about the outdoors – she didn’t want us to trouble any of the animals we saw, though. We saw some birds, including a jabiru stork, which are an amazing looking ginormous bird.

We saw an iguana and two amazon tree boas, all within grabbing range, though my seat-mate told Mike to leave them alone. Mike described to the guys who were inquisitive, about the growth of the boas, and how they’ll catch birds and bats out of the air and then constrict them. “They’ll catch them with their mouths?” one of the Italians asked. I wanted to sarcastically answer “Uh, YEAH.” But instead, I add: “And then, there’s this special Ninja Boa that will jump out of the tree and wrap itself around the bird in midair…” The guy looks at me and solemnly asks “Really?” I couldn’t keep a straight face and was pretty delighted that I fooled them. It was a lot of fun having people around to joke with.

The catch boat came upon a baby caiman, and so we pulled to the river bank and Mike talked about it – two years old, about, it’s still with its mother. Its colours are a lot more vibrant, and it’s black chin stripes/spots are still there. These spots fade as they mature. Felix said it was making a lot of noise when they caught it, calling to its mother, which they saw nearby, along with some other young ones of the same clutch. I’d never seen one that small, and I got to hold it, too, with what the guests thought was veteran experience. Beautiful. There’s a prehistoric grace and beauty to the caiman, and with this smaller one, an added strong innocence.

It started to rain, and we rode down the river in silence as it fell over us. Mike asked if the guests wanted to go on, as we hadn’t caught a proper caiman yet, or head back to dinner. He gave them the choice, but you could tell he was sorta hinting at going back, and my seat-mate and the man just said “Sure, ok….” Though when he asked Sybil, she said she was great and let’s keep going. And then they got a caiman. My seat-mate was a bit disturbed to see their corralling method, but Mike and I tried to explain how it’s necessary, not too disruptive and for a good cause. I mean, you have to tire out the caiman for it to be safe for you to work with them and you’re working with them in the first place to be able to understand and therefore protect the species, which is a keystone species in the area and not endangered but close to it.

After it tired, they take it to the bank across the river to do the measurements. I had fun talking with Anthony, and Oswin kept playing around with me as we watched Felix take the measurements, Shamir write them down, Mike explain the process to them all. It was a recapture, 576, caught last season. Anthony and I guessed at the weight of the caiman (though I had to guess in pounds, since I don’t follow kilos. We then had a sport of trying to convert the weight from kilos to pounds. It was 46 kilos, and Mike told us again that it’s 2.2 ratio, so I did half the math first and they said it was around 100, put after a tease to be accurate, I did the full math with Anthony following along with me – 101.2 pounds, which meant that my guess of 85 was under, and Anthony was pretty good by declaring it at least 100 pounds), I tried to sneak up on Oswin and startle him as he did me, and the Italians admitted I got them with the Ninja Boa story… all this banter as an 8 foot black caiman lay docile before us.

As it’s yet to become mundane to me even though I know the process, it was a great night spent with those who are quite experienced with the river as well as ones for whom it’s a new experience and are enjoying it.

A Ritual

On my coffee cup of vanilla latte I got at Rituals Cafe as I waited for the flight from Trinidad to Panama City, it read:

"The Perfect Cup. There is much to be said about the ritual of preparing a good cup of coffee. What is your ritual?"

This is my ritual.

I heat some water in a smll saucepan to boiling - just enough water for one cup - and turn off the stove and throw in Marata, Brazilian brand coffee, into the pan to steep a few minutes, probably more than 2 tablespoons, but definitely enugh to cover the top with color and leave a significant mound above the water.

While water steeps (covered by some lid) I make some milk - one scoop of powedered milk to make about a 1/4th cup of milk. I make it a little richer than regular milk. At this time, I also prepare my coffee cup and strainer, which is my 2nd biggest plastic strainer with the coarser-holed mesh, the one that fits right over/in the cup, and I put half a napkin into it.

I get some tap water in my coffee cup, remove the lid fro the pan and splash the cooler water over the steeped coffee, to get the grounds to settle at the bottom. After putting the strainer over the cup, I pour the coffee into it, the combo of the napkin and coarse mesh make it go pretty fast.

I add the milk and raw sugar, amounts depending on my prefernce of the day - for a Real Coffee wow, I use a spalsh of milk and one scoop of sugar, for a warm, smooth, coffee-ish beverage, I use ´nuff spashes of milk and two scoops sugar. Mmm.

Its best if had with toast and in a hammock. The quiet, cool, newly sunkissed morning never felt so good.

What´s your ritual?

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!~

Mark Malcom

"Marco, MarcO!"

Enough people call to Mark during the day and afternoon, I hear it all the time. Mark is with Lucy, they're my closest neighbors, geographically and personally. They are from Parishara, though Lucy teaches Nursery School here in Yups, and they stay in the dilapidated teacher's quarters right next to my house.

Lucy is quite an active woman. She's curious and playful and has a sparkle in her eye at all times. And, of course, she's working full time. If one didn't look close enough, you could swear that Lucy 'wears the pants' in the relationship.

There ARE mild jokes about such; Lucy being the one with steady work and therefore uprooting the couple for it, they're both of personalities that suggests she pulls Mark along with her fancies. People tease, calling Mark "Mr. Andrew," which is Lucy's surname.

The two aren't married. They've been together for 23 years, though, and have children. Their youngest, Anthony, is in secondary school in St. Ignatius and is a spitting image of Mark. I would say that the two are in an even more caring relationship than some of the married couples down here. They enjoy each other, and openly demonstrate so. They do things together, not just basic living tasks, but things like dancing the night away and sitting in hammocks, reading or looking at magazines.

Mark is taciturn, unlike Lucy, but he's just as witty and alert and busy. He finds ways to earn money, whether it be through CH or contractors or going out to do logging or mining. When he's not earning money, he keeps busy during the day, whether it be engaged in 'manly' activities of fishing, repairing bikes or carpentry, or more 'domestic' activities of cleaning, cooking, or being attentive to his dogs; it's really obvious he loves his dogs - Kai, too.

Mark and Lucy's house is snug. Although it's about ready to fall down and is only a house they stay in temporarily, it somehow evokes a feeling of happiness and things as they should be. Both keep the place as spotless as possible, all objects on and in the house are kept working well. Mark has made lights out of old flashlight bits and old batteries, he's built stools for the house, has a place to hang saltfish or tasso, has his seine (fishing net) that he keeps immaculate. The shelves above the two burner stove has a jar of pepper sauce, a bottle of casareep and a plastic container of salt, that's about it. They have little here, but what they have is cared for, and found pleasure in.

As I pass Mark through the village during the day, he shyly calls to me "All right, Miss Sarah." When Lucy comes into the house and plays cards with us, he stays at home. He's always fixed my bicycle and done other repairs on my things or the house, mostly with Lucy's instruction, but he does it in such a way that makes it seem like he was waiting for Lucy to tell him to do it, or for me to ask, so he could do it.

When other men here would sit around, liming and/or drinking, during the entire day, and let the dishes be dirty or the let the laundry be, or let things fall and remain in disrepair, Mark does not. He certainly limes with men, just not excessively. Their household would be quite scant if he did not as actively tend to it as needed, because Lucy is a busy professional woman during the day, unlike most of the ladies down here. Mark does not act like he's bothered by teases about his and Lucy's relationship. In fact, the two seem to be blissfully ignorant to it, and good-natured and polite to whoever they encounter. Mark's as gentle as a lamb, though I know he would protect me from whatever I may need protecting from. Lucy is as cheerful as one could be, but has shown me how to ignore and passive aggressively deal with bothersome men. They both look out for and look after me quite well, and seem to respect my privacy when it comes to non-village activities at my house.

The two are virtuous, but not religious. Amerindian, but not strictly Makushi or Wapishana (Lucy grew up speaking Portuguese). Up with modernity, but still traditional. Happy and confident, but not overly demonstrative or attention-seeking. Different, yet the same.

Mark lets Lucy be her different, spunky, assertive, special self, and in doing so, lets loose his own special side. In a world of certain gender roles down here, that's quite a feat.

Mark Malcolm is a humble, good-natured, good man and I am glad to know him. I hope I can somehow express this to him, eventually.

Cake and Cutlasses

ONE way a Yupukari child celebrates their birthday.

It was my goddaughter, DeAnna's first birthday on Sunday (Sept. 19th). This was one of the first things I was made aware of when I became her godmother (one of those bits of information that came right after learning her name, too.) Months ago, Zaruti, DeAnna's mother, had mentioned her first birthday, and how we'd celebrate it.

Here, it's custom that the godparents will help with the celebrating of their godchild's birthday, whether it be hosting it, providing supplies for a meal and drinks or simply assisting. It's the godparent's role to go inviting people to the party, to call the party to a start, by welcoming everyone, saying a prayer and calling for any presents to be given to the child. Now, these roles are loose, it could just be the parents who sponsor everything, or grandparents or neighbors, though the godparents are the second most noted people for the ordeal. They definitely get preference on the kari, if anything.

Now, I don't know if maybe Zaruti thought I'd have godmother powers superior to local godmothers or not, but I found myself struggling with this little task. First of all, I've been out of country, secondly, they've been out of village, so no real planning took place. DeAnna was on my mind, a bit, - I brought her back some things from the States - but other than that, I bordered on falling into Inattentive Godmother status. Back in the States, you'd go to the store, buy a card, buy or make a gift and if you couldn't make it to the party, send a check in the mail. If you were to help with the party, you'd go to the store, buy some balloons, order/bake a cake and maybe find some other thing to make the day special for the person. Something like that.

I was happy to let the Yupukarian godmother, Georgina, take the lead, and since she said she'd come early on Saturday morning to get some chicken and help strain cari, I told her to come to my house and pick me up so I could help, as well. No one had slaughtered lately, otherwise they would have gotten half a cow, but I offered to get some chicken, and help cook, if Georgina could lead it all. But Georgie never came, and then CH had a crisis in the morning that I had to be involved in, then there was a PTFA meeting, whew!

DeAnna's birthday was on Sunday, but they wanted to keep it on Saturday, as to maximize the party hours (parties - for children or adults - can be a day long, night long event) of the weekend, but we discussed pushing it to Sunday. Godfather Cecil didn't agree; there was kari to be consumed, what more could you need? Nothing, according to Cecil. Okay..... so there was no chicken was to be found, and Georgina and I had to break it to Zaruti. No meal. I offered to make a cake, instead....

Much more my forte, anyway. I had also brought back a couple little gifts for DeAnna and the family from the States and shared those with them that morning. Anyway, they waited for me to finish baking the cake, and by 6 p.m., the 'party' was ready to begin. I took the cake to Zaruti and began helping to strain kari with Flora, Zaruti wanted pictures taken so I got that ready, too. I think it was both a help and a hindrance that I didn't know quite what to do or how to help. A help in that it made me attentive to anything Zaruti might need to host this party and that I could add my own different celebratory ways, but a hindrance that I couldn't have made this party well-oiled and typical party down here.

Zaruti suggested I cut the cake, so I asked for a knife, and was given a 1.5 foot long cutlass to do the job with. We took it outside and put it on the main table, and Zaruti said it was time to welcome everyone, so Georgina started, speaking in Makushi, making the customary apologies for no food, mentioning the shortage of chicken in the village, saying we didn't have much, etc. She mentioned the kari, as well. Nope, I'm not fluent in Makushi, I can just pick out main words and read body language. Then it came my turn to talk, and so I did what I do best and remark upon the momentous day and the cute birthday girl, etc. I mention the proccli (Makushi for kari) and get a laugh, then motion to start a customary prayer.

Then, we sing the Birthday Song, a customary 5 or 6 verse funeral-march rhythm tune. We (try to) take a couple pics of the birthday girl with her parents and godparents - of course the batteries were dying and there's no Walgreen's around the corner to pick up real quick. Then we call for any gifts for the birthday girl, and this is when people will file up, putting bills into the girl's hands or handing off other small gifts. It was the godparent's role to then go and assess the booty. Some sweet biscuits, some sweeties, a bath towel, a bar of soap wrapped in newspaper, a little outfit, and $1220 total, which we then report back to the crowd.

And THEN, it was kari and forro time. Georgina and I went out to the crowds with a first 5-gallon bucket of kari with two cups for dipping and serving. Each adult got a cupful; some shared with their kids, some shared a bit back with Georgina and I. Once one round was done, it was time to start another one, apparently. So we went out again. They asked if I was ready to go around sharing on my own, giving to the new arrivals, but I couldn't tell who was new or not, or even if some were adultish or not. So I clung to Georgie, we both dancing as we waited for the person to finish their cup. It was a good excuse to not have to dance with anyone I didn't want to, too. "Oh, sorry, I can't, I'm sharing kari."

DeAnna was put to bed soon after the songs, and both Zaruti and Albert watched the festivities from the doorway of their house. Albert let us know he wasn't drinking at all, so he could keep an eye on things. (I was quite impressed). He was always there to help with any buckets/cups needed or anything else.

I got to talk with a bunch of people, dance, drink a little kari, and have an overall good time, it was a nice first party to go back to in the village. As always, I was mindful to exert control over dancing duration and kari consumption. Oh, the pains of responsibility... The party went on until past 3 a.m. and I left my co-godmother and godfather there at 10 p.m., to continue celebrating without me - which they most definitely did. We saw Georgina and Cecil walking from Zaruti's house the next afternoon in the same clothes as the day before.

And it was with this modest, traditional, yet random way that DeAnna Agatha Elijah celebrated her first birthday.

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.

I did it

One epic car ride, 4 plane rides, 36 hours of airports.
After my two years Peace Corps service, I am Home.

26 months.
6 school terms.
104 malaria pills (give or take).
73 books.

I did it.

:) :D <3

Ok. Onward.

Development: Outreach to Parishara (53 photos)

I'd like to share my Walmart Digital Photo Center photos with you. Once you have checked out my photos you can order prints and upload your own photos to share.


This album accompanies/complements the preceding post called "Development."

Development

Background info: Outreach is something I'm involved in through RLI; we bring books and other supplies, trainings, ideas, designs to other schools in the area, more or less. RLI, remember, stands for Rups Learners Inc., and is a Guyanese NGO (non-government organization) made up of Guyanese board members, all living in my village of Yups. RLI has an American counterpart, RLF, RL Foundation, that Alice is the head for, as well as other Americans, some who are Returned Peace Corps Volunteers. Alice has just come back into the country after almost 3 years away. Never having met her before, it definitely changed things around CH when she arrived in March. It's interesting to realize how I became so used to the lack of American presence in my life, not to mention female/maternal. But that's another story.

Alice had arranged a self-help session for Parishara Nursery, a village about 40 miles away. At first, I sorta sulked that I wasn't included or at least made aware of this, as outreach and interactions with these villages have been work of mine before Alice got here. But I realized that if I want to be involved still, I need to assert myself into the work, be more pro-active. So I lightly conveyed my desire to still be involved in outreach, and I became part of the team that went to Parishara a few Saturdays ago: Alice, Felix, Hamzad, Mark, Combrencent, Lucy and being driven by Bryan and Maisie.

At face-value, the day was very satisfying. Fun assortment of people, clear-cut tasks at hand, beautiful trek into Parishara, visible results in the end, then light detour to Lethem with the group.

"Self help" is a concept widely used down here, a Makushi term for it is "myu." People are gathered to work on either village clean up or village projects, or personal projects and jobs. Those asking for the help will usually provide a meal, or at least some cari/rice wine or shebay (farine and water) to sustain the helpers. You'd be surprised how fast a job can be completed - what with the diligence of the Amerindians and the sweet drive of the cari.

Self help is something that helps the world go 'round down here, everyone helping everyone. Volunteers come to clean the school, cut down grass in the main part of the village, help re-thatch roofs, etc. We've tried to convey to the kids that you all are volunteers (just like Miss Sarah) and that's a beautiful thing. It's used to get work done within CH and within the village, though Alice still asserts that people don't appreciate working for free, so a lot of work is stipended by her... Beneficial for all, but brought about, planned and led by her.

We have mixed views on partnerships and collaboration within the village. I, while admitting to a potential naivety brought about by noviceness, maintain that the process should be shared by all, understood by some at least, and contributed by all (planning and executing). All need to have the opportunity to understand and agree/disagree with the plan, even if the plan is a good one that they'll thank you for later. Things may go slower that way, but I think there'll be more ownership and passion there. Alice feels that going slow while there are still children who can't read is an immoral act, she feels that people can't know they want something if they don't know it exists - so you might as well tell them they need it while giving it to them.

I seem to have a more laissez fare approach, as do others at CH, where, sure, you illuminate, and foster, but step back to let others step up. Much slower, less accomplished, sure. But comprehension? Buy in? I think it's there. Lack of perfection? You bet. Petered out energy, corners cut, ill used equipment? Yep. (S'all part of it.) Much physical progress has been made since March, more so than myself or others at CH or in the village could have done/ would have done/ did, I can say that, at least.

Anyway, I don't know how much of this was actually planned by those in Parishara Nursery, I don't know how much knowledge was passed on for them to continue in the same regards later, but I didn't take on that stress. I appreciated being a follower, and not having to be a leader. Perhaps this relief keep me from critiquing our leader's ways, but, for the day, it was a nice reprieve from both - leading and critiquing.

I got to paint, and the fun kind where you don't have to worry about drips, smears, evenness. Alice planned a savanna scene for the reading area; I painted the green for grass, then got to climb up a ladder/tower to paint some boards blue for sky. Some boys sketched the details for the mural, Combrencent, an artisan in Yups, drew mountains at the skyline, Hamzad and Mark set to work on making the rain-gutter style bookshelves Alice promotes for all libraries she creates, and Lucy led some ladies in cutting and sewing cushions for kids to sit on in the story area. Books, shelves, cushions and painting are all typical stuff Alice has done for our schools in the past, and some things I've carried on to an extent since doing outreach here.

How much did Parishara have to do with the work this day? How much say in it did they have? How much tutoring? Parishara ladies helped with the cushions, men helped with the painting... I guess one could argue that .... well wait - did she pay these workers from Yups? I don't know. I was going to say that it at least we now have Yups people working to help another village and show them how they've done it (per Alice) in their own schools, but then, yes, were those people paid for the day? Hmm. Oh, the facets of development...

I used to think development was more like building a structure. Building blocks. You set the foundation, and work your way up, or you start with the frame and work your way in. You can physically see the missing pieces, the additions, etc. You see when the product is finished. A step by step process. But I found this to not be so with this sort of development. It's more tornadic/tornadesque. Chaotic and uprooting, sure :D, but I mean more cylindrical, going around, back and forth through different components, until you get closer and closer, more concentrated, intense - and then finally reach the Touch Down Point, your goal. Which may or may not be where you anticipated it to land.

Because the road to Parishara was so high, Bryan decided to, instead of going to Lethem them coming back to pick us up and go back on the same road, he'd wait for us then carry us to Lethem with him and go around the longer, dryer road. He and Maisie helped with the painting, too, and Maisie designed a fun table pattern with different colors and numbers on it. Like Alice, the morning was frenzied and productive. We finished by 1 p.m., ate a lunch they cooked for us, then headed onto Lethem, pockets packed with oranges and some golden Parishara farine HM Jean slipped in my hands. :) Hardly anyone brought money, and Bryan mostly only needed fuel, so the trip was very short, with only a few stops here and there, a quick break of beer and buns, then we headed back. Got back by 6:30, tired, but content.

Another positive (and by positive, I mean a simple lack of upfront negativity) experience with development, with Alice and development with Alice.

Sunday, Funday

I get "left behind again" on a trip to Shulinab and I couldn't care less. CH crew has been out and about lately and I've either missed the ride or didn't look for the ride. I don't like being overlooked, but I don't mind being left behind. For one, there's a delicious quiet time when everyone is out. But, also -

Can they understand how rewarding, enjoying and just plain FUN it is to hang around in the village?

Games on the sandbank of the Rups River this afternoon. Fifty people, more or less, all around, bathing, washing and sports - East side vs. West side. Taking in the water, sun, the landscape; watching people enjoying themselves; reveling in the fact that we have this all the time; PARTICIPATING in the activities and laughing, running and playing...

I tried to take it all in - Clifton with his busted knee giving me and Franzea a ride down, Oswin wearing Delene's tights to bathe because he only walked with long pants, Cindy with her mass of long, thick hair wound up in a massive bun, Dillon in his Dolce & Cabana t-shirt that beautifully clung to his ripped upper body; Oren, Myron and other young boys donning sage branches as hats or cammo and dancing and maneuvering the river; Vaughn swimming all decked out in long pants, shirt, jacket, had and shades; Mark sitting in the water with HIS chiq shades; Novellena bathing and playing in her cubbing-like top, and tons of kids running all over in excitement and energy.

A CD player was brought down and music was playing. The water at the river is low, has been lately, low enough to have ample sandbanks and mostly effortless to swim/wade across. Volleyball net was set up and girls played first: Cindy, Delene, Florencia, Franzea and me making up East side and Juliet, Lornita, Kelly, Alice and someone esle for West side. Oh, we had some great volleys! I forgot how fun it is to play in the sand. It was relaxed, yet serious at the same time. Easy to play with these girls. We lost, 1 to 3. My arms got red from the hard ball, got sand all over, but I hardly noticed. Games finished and the girls walked into the river to rinse off and cool down.

Boys played - Dillon, Vaughn, Oswin and Abla for East side, Roland, Mark, Andrew for West side. The guys are GOOD. Oswin, though short, packs a lot of energy, muscle and precision. Then came football, which I initially said I'd just watch, but then joined in anyway. It was surprisingly exciting. Though there was the hazard of sand in your eye/mouth and there was a strict hands-off rule, it was somehow easier for me to jump in there for kicking, chasing and trying to steal the ball. Musta been the sand. It definitely is a contact, coordination and endurance sport. I think these periods only lasted 20 minutes long, and I was grateful for that. I kept up well enough. Franzea said after "I didn't know you could move like that!" We tied, then did a shoot out thing and eventually, West Side won.

Boys started playing, but Frannie and me crossed back over, bathed (it started to rain, just adding to the beauty - and of course, everyone carried on as normal), and we got another ride up from Clifton. It was just... great. I felt happy, light, connected, in the moment, appreciative.

I know I wouldn't have had much of a chance to feel that way had I gone to Shulinab with "the crew." Speaking of crews, Dillon mentioned a trip to Mapari over Easter! That'd be GREAT! The best of both worlds, right? Getting out and about, and doing it with a village 'crew.' I'm quite excited for it, and this time, I'd walk much more prepared than last time.

Another shining PC day:

Thursday is Teacher Meeting Day... wooo........... yeah, not so much. GUY22 has arrived and I hosted a PCT for the week. Kate came on Monday, and I took her through what I do on a normal basis. I told her Thursday was the best Peace Corps example I could give her.

It's been three weeks since our last teacher's meeting. Last week was Mash activities, the week before was prep for Mash activities. The week before that, we had talked about questions. The differences between open-ended and close-ended questions, and using the 5W's (and H) to get your students to express more, verbal and written. We tried organizing the answers the the questions in brainstorm webs. We worked on one as a group, then I asked the teachers to bring one of their own for our next teachers' meeting.

I was all ready to continue with our "Questions" sessions, I had creative activities to do, etc. And, as Peace Corps requests, Kate would help facilitate that meeting. I looked forward to the collaboration.

Except, Thursday at lunch (about 3 hours before the meeting), our HM asked for help with explaining how to do components of the teachers' Notes of Lesson (lesson plans). She equipped Kate with a handbook and suggested we look at the grade one teacher's Notes of Lesson for Science or something. Um, ok.

We both were a little unsure, and didn't really have much time, but we said we'd do what we could. So, after lunch, we sat down, poured through the handbook, the Notes of Lesson and the textbook. The HM wanted help with showing teachers how to better write the Specific Objectives of their lessons. We sort of paraphrased our interpretation of the handbook's instruction on writing Specific Objectives and then threw in there our creative ways for doing a lesson, too. We turned our brainstorming into a handout for the teachers as well as an exercise with the science lesson. We printed it out and finished with a couple minutes to spare. The snacks were ready, we were prepared. I was pleased with ourselves and optimistic.

Then, Toshao comes and asks if he can use the upstairs in the library for a meeting for 30 minutes. Well, we have the teachers' meeting up there at 3.... he says it won't take more than 30 minutes, that'll give us time, plus the HM was in the meeting. News to me. Ok... It turned 2:45, and the HM and some other teachers still hadn't reached yet, so the meeting hadn't started yet, and when it DID start, the HM would be still occupied... Then the other teachers reached, and one brave spokesperson said the teachers wanted to go get vaccinations for their babies at the health post. That could take all afternoon...

Well, there's no arguing with that! Mentally, I throw my hands up in the air in exasperation and resignation. Out loud, with a laugh, I say then we'll have to reschedule it for the next afternoon. I was SO prepared, and SO optimistic for how it would go, thinking maybe this would be a breakthrough on working WITH the teachers, on truly integrating the library and creativity with the school and formalities, but then thing after thing got in the way to change things. Kate good-naturedly said this sort of thing always happened at her old job. (Which tells me she'll do fine here as a PCV.)

So, we held it on Friday. Some teachers still didn't show (like the one in particular our HM wanted to benefit from the session), a lot didn't participate in our interactive parts, and almost no one gave feedback as to how the session went. But, we assisted our HM with something she wanted the teachers to work on, AND - one teacher asked "What about my composition notes of lesson? Could you help with that?" So, next teachers' meeting, we will use Miss' grade 3 composition notes of lesson as an additional exercise. That's cool. A step.

We are here to for specific and non-specific reasons. We are here because we feel we can facilitate improvement to not only our specific projects (such as health and education) but living habits and life skills. We are here to explicitly facilitate development in an environment foreign to our one back home. Projects, setbacks and satisfactions like these happen back home, as well, but it seems more vivid here, for some reason.

So I was thinking about it and I decided that besides a passion to help, and technical skills, there are three qualities I feel are most important to be a (good, successful) Peace Corps Volunteer:

1) Flexibility.
2) Diplomacy.
3) Creativity.

They are, as they say down here, "a must." Otherwise, your passion and skills won't mean anything. (An ability to laugh helps, too.)