"Just Now"...A Qualitative Analysis

Living in another part of the world is an eye opening experience that teaches many things. For example, a motorcycle is actually capable of transporting a family of four, with groceries. A cow can be a legitimate traffic obstacle. And the term "road" is very loosely defined. One phrase, however, is ubiquitus throughout most social interactions. "Just Now" is a far cry from right now. Just now is a loaded phrase. Kind of like being a little bit pregnant. To us Americans, 'now' really means "before I blink three times, this better happen." But "Just Now" is more of a concept which requires further analysis.

First, we must examine time as a concept. The idea of time is different than the tangible, quantifiable tickings of the clock. One must recognize time as a unidirectional, irreversible process.Imagine that feeling we've all had when a stranger approaches you to engage in conversation, opnly to tell you a mundane story about something even more tedious like the tiles in his bathroom. This is a universal experience, one that leaves each of us wondering how we can get the last 9 minutes of our life back.

Second, we must delve into the American (and possibly Japanese) idea of being "on time." So when I've scheduled a meeting, and, priding myself on my punctuality, arrive at the rendezvous point with exemplary timing. However, my counterpart with which the meeting is supposed to take place is inexplicably absent. In America at least, that's often cause for concern. But this is Guyana. Being blessed with the wonders of technology, I turn to the omnipresent and omniscient cell phone to call said comrade. We'll call her Wendella. (On a side note, I had a mother come into the clinic the other day named Wendy. Guess what she named her infant daughter?) By the way this is purely a hypothetical meeting that best works to illustrate "Just Now." Don't think I hang out with chicks named Wendella. That'd be weird. Anyway, I've called Wendella to see if there actually will be a meeting, or if her mangled, untimely corpse is lying in a ditch being nibbled on by trench fish and acid molecules. Thankfully (or not) my contact is indeed alive, but laid down to "catch a five" that more accurately translates to "sleep for an hour and drool like a sheepdog." So with exasperation and indigestion bubbling up, I would then inquire as to when, exactly, my comrade could be expected. "Oh, I'm leaving just now." So you grab a rum and coke and wait.

As I've mentioned before, Guyana is a strange place indeed. The Caribbean philosophy involves more hammock time that I would've ever considered. Time itself becomes an amorphous idea more akin to The Twilight Zone than a means of establishing goals or progress. For example, my housemate Tim and I recently discovered a gym to go lift at. It's situated in a guy's garage in our neighborhood. The man who owns it is named Sam, and he's been running the gym for years. The weights look like they were forged in the foundries of Pakistan, then coated in lead after being shipped to China until then finally came to rest here in Guyana on a Chinese junk at the height of the slave trade. Thank science for tetanus shots. Anyway, we were told the gym was open from 5am-9pm Monday through Friday. Being the go-getter that I am, I opted for the 5am before work exercise routine. I rolled out of bed around 430 and ate a quick breakfast. TIm and I departed the house and arrived at the gym a little after 5. To the surprise of no one, everything was closed and locked. To make matters worse, I'd woken up that morning to discover my lips were all swollen. I looked like Oscar Meyer himself had superglued lil' smokies to my face. Seriously, Angelina Jolie couldn't have lips more voluptuous. Not sure what caused it, but I really hoped that the goldfish aesthetic was socially acceptable in Guyana. On days we don't lift, Tim and I run. Even after studying human physiology extensivelt, I had to move to the tropics to find out just how much sweat the body can produce. This place is full of little slices of sliced golden knowledge.

To assuage my Uncle Dave's fears, or expectations for all I know; that I'm not working at all. I'm happy to report that as of next week, I'll begin teaching physical education at a secondary school two days a week. I hope to introduce dodgeball to the Guyanese masses. But balls are scarce, except on the dogs which have disturbingly large scrotums. Rocks, however, are of a a more unlimited supply. So this could become more Darwin than dodgeball. Only time will tell. I'm continuing to work at the clinic in the mornings, mainly providing consutations for nutrition and overall fitness. And finally, I'm starting up work with a youth mentoring program that caters specifically to kids from depressed neighborhoods. This should add some variety to my schedule and minimize the downtime.

Today's blog motifs are: time, now, and hypothetical situations
Brought to you by the letter: F

One love,
Tony

4 Americans and a S*** ton of rope

For however obnoxious moving can be in the states, it becomes exceedingly tumultuous in a developing country. After our swearing in ceremony, all those in my group of Peace Corps colunteers moved out to our respective sites all over Guyana. My move consisted of my three housemates and I being dropped off on a street corner in the capitol city of Georgetown with a ludicrous amount of luggage. We proceeded to load the aforementioned cargo into the back of a 30 seat bus. Our bags, (which included clothes, books, bank statements, kitchen items, water filtration systems, and a little bit of peanut butter, to name a few things) did a hostile takeover of the back two rows with the efficiency and expediency of Germany's extended vacation into Poland. Dripping with sweat and anticipation (the former being a commmon motif in Guyana) we loaded ourselves onto the bus. Then, we shared a collective epiphany. In Guyana, life is completely different. From cooking practices to time management, it's a whole new world. No further Aladdin allusions will plague this entry. Anyway, we have an acronym within the circle of volunteers. We say "T.I.G." which stands for "This Is Guyana." I just watched Blood Diamond tfor the first time the other night, so I now realize how unoriginal this is. But it still works so bear with me. T.I.G. is a way to describe a moment in which the oddity one witnesses or experiences cannot be dealt with immediately. So when something arises that can neither be acknowledged or ignored...T.I.G. Now, back tot he bus. We had loaded up and were frothing at the bit to move into the new digs. But there are no tickets for this bus ride. One pays on arrival. Not like paying the boatman to ferry you across the river Sticks, although it is hot as hell and often times smells like death. This of course means that we had to sit, and wait...for the bus to fill. Fortunately, once we got going, the ride was only about and hour and a half. The house itself is really pretty great. Tim and Chelsea have the second floor to themselves, and Sara and myself have our own apartments downstairs. We've only been here a short while, but already have made many connextions around the community. Most of them food related, but I'm pretty sure we eat better than anybody else in Peace Corps Guyana.

Our first full day in Linden, my counterpart wanted to take us around town and show us the layout of things. We started at the office of regional affairs, where we were to meet the regional health officer. None of us had expected to meet many people in positions of power, and were slightly self conscious of the sweat stained grimy clothes we were sporting. Just then, the doctor we had met moments before rushed over and told us that the regional officers were having a meeting at that moment, and would like to be introduced to the four of us. We were awkwardly led into a large air-conditioned room with large tables filled with regional officials. Then the regional director made a motion to stop the meeting and take time to introduce and welcomeus. This is equivalent to walking into a state senate meeting. Super excited that my t-shirt looked like a rorscach test put together by Jackson Pollock, I tried to keep the movement to a minimum. T.I.G. As soon as that was finished, we walked across the street to open our new bank accounts. Now, to meet the regional officers and stop their meeting took roughly...10 minutes. How long then, would you expect it to open 4 new savings accounts? Survey says...Three and a half hours. I could've watched Sam and Frodo get a third of the way to Mt. Doom in less time. This Is Guyana, after all. Exhausted and hungry, we realized on the walk back home that we needed to take care of some practical things. Like a clothesline. We stopped by the hardware store. To purchase rope here, one cannot simply walk in with an idea of what length you might need. Oh no, that would be far to practical. Here, you buy rope BY WEIGHT. I'm not kidding. So, we just bought a whole spool of rope. Or, in Guyanese terms, three and a half pounds of rope. With such a ridiculous amount of rope, I'm sure you all know where this is going. In our attempts to string up three lines, the rope didn't come out of the coil like you'd expect. In fact, it was basically bunched together and tied with twine. So trying to unracel it was about as straightforward as taking a Sunday drive in Bagdhad. Needless to say, our neighbor had to come in for the assist.

We're still working on getting internet at the house. Considering the swiftness of the bank, I expect great things for the installation of DSL in our house. Except that we have to apply for a phone line that has to be approved by the communication company's headquarters in Georgetown then the line has to be installed then we can aplpy for broadband which must alsao then be approved and finally installed then we have to find Jimmy Hoffa's corpse, slay the dragon from Neverending Story and find Kevin Costner's dignity...then we'll have internet. Once that quest is completed, then these updates will be more frequent so Robin will stop whining at me and I'll be in better contact with everyone.

Since I now have a permanent address, if you'd like to part of the exclusive "I know Tony's international address" club, I'm holding a limited time offer on smal lvials of my musk for if you really miss me and want an authentic experience like I'm in the room with you. Or you could just email me and I'd be happy to give you the address.

TonxTheDestroyer@gmail.com

And check out the roommie's blogs!

tibbstravels.blogspot.com
sarakslife.blogspot.com

Miss you all!

One Love,
Tony