We all know that in Soviet Russia, car drives you. But in developing countries, it is much more likely that the customers will go postal before the employees there. Allow me to paint you a picture with my words. A few weeks back, I received my first care packages from home. (Thanks mom and dad!) It was like Christmas. Happy birthday jesus, have some protein powder. This was quite the epic event. So epic, in fact that I missed a whole day of work. Not because I was so emotionally overwhelmed, but the time frame required to retrieve said parcels warrented a Friday in the post office instead of the clinic. There are a multitude of reasons as to why the post office functions this way. First, to pick up a package here in Linden, you have to go through customs. That means that when you go to pick up a package, somebody sits there and rips the box open, and tallies up the appropriate dollar values that will allow you to take home your envy inducing items. But, the customs officer is only available from 10:30am to 12:00 pm Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Why such limited availability, you may ask? According to lore, there used to be a man who worked for customs at the Linden post office on a daily basis. He discovered one day, that it was exceedingly profitable for him to import extra dollars into his bank account, and export cocaine and stolen goods. Needless to say, he got a big dose of karmic retribution dropped on his greedy ass. So now, a different customs officer comes down from Georgetown every week to serve the good people of my community. In addition to only going to the post office of specific days, there is a special order of operations involved. Once a parcel arrives, the post office delivers a ridiculously large piece of paper that states, quite simply, that you have a package to receive. I imagine it's the same type of thing that goes on when you're served a subpoena. But I wouldn't know because I follow all rules and regulations everyday, all the time. Then you have to take this large scroll into the post office, and wait, and wait...and wait. Until it's your turn. They call you up to the window, and then locate the highly coveted parcel with your name on it. Then with the Oz-like customs officer sitting hoitily on their chair, the postal worker grabs the dullest, most ineffective knife of all time, and prys the parcel open to examine the contents. Honestly, it's like trying to eat a steak with just gums. Then, magically, the customs officer pulls some numbers from the memory banks of their brains, and assigns some dollar values to your goods. Finally, after you pay and sign your name multiple times, you are handed your prize, to bask in its glory for the remainder of the day.
Conversely, I had to mail out a package the other day. According to the rules of etiquette, one can only mail out a package when the customs officer is present. Because not only do they open every incoming box, but before anything can be shipped out, it must be opened and inspected as well. I actually tried to mail this out on two occasions. The first time, in my overzealous exuberance, I had taken a small, awkwardly wrapped parcel in for mailing back home. This took a significant effort on my part, because if you know me well, you'll know that wrapping any type of box or present is my kryptonite. They wanted to unwrap it, and when I told them it was a broken digital camera I was sending home for repair, I was turned away because such items weren't possible to ship out from this location. I decided that instead of trying to navigate the labyrinth of Georgetown's post office, I unwrapped it, and returned the following week when a different customs officer was there. I arrived promptly at 10am on a Friday, again taking the day off at work so as to be first in line when customs became available. I came prepared too. Not just with the unwrapped box, but I had water, several snacks, a book, and some items to work on lesson plans for the following week. The customs officer walked in just before 11am. I had spoken with the postal worker when I first got there, making my presence and intentions known. When I walked up to be the first, I was then told that those receiving packages would be tended to first. Initially frustrated, I remembered where I was, and sat back down, retrieving my book and partaking of a sandwich. Around noon, I finally asked if I could at least get a customs form to fill out. The box was quite small, and the regular customs form was too large. He began looking for a small customs form, which he then handed to me. It literally was a 3"x2" piece of paper that said "Description of item, Dollar value, and weight" That's it. Once I handed the package to the customs lady, she angrily inquired as to "WHY ARE YOU SHIPPING THIS?!?!" I calmly replied "Because it's broken" I almost added "you ignorant slut" but figured that would be detrimental. She decided that my item was worthy of departure. So, I began wrapping it up, in the middle of the post office, providing endless entertainment for the locals who happened to be watching. The customs form had to be attached after the wrapping, and it didn't have any adhesive. I was handed a gluestick. Yes, the same one you used to paste macaroni on a piece of construction paper. The same thing went for the stamps. So, if all things go well, I tape covered, sticky parcel will arrive at my parent's house in the next month or two. I finally left the post office just after 1. Time taken to mail a package in Guyana: approximately 3 hours.
In other news, we have internet at the house now! The company installs a satellite network in your house. But, the satellite looks like a piece of tupperware bolted onto a galvanized steel pole mounted on the roof of the house. It shares an alarming resemblence to the weapons on top of the UFOs on the original War of the Worlds movie. The connection is a bit spotty at times, as to be expected. But it functions! Also, for all those Skype users, I've set up an account, so if you want to chat, then let me know and I'll send you my info! Tomorrow night, Tim and I were invited over to our neighbor's house for some type of social engagement. We have no idea what to expect. But you all can expect a story or two.
Be sure and drink a microbrew for me!
One love,
Tony
Friday, May 21, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Third World shenanigans and new additions
Since my last update, there have been some experiences of varying oddity. Some funy, some awkward, some just difficult to describe. Last week, Linden was celebrating it's 40th anniversary as a township. That means a week long party with an assortment of events occuring every day. It began April 25th, and went through the morning of May 3rd. The first Sunday of town week, the roomies and I had some business to attend to up at Peace Corps headquarters, a mere (well, supposed to be) hour and a half bus ride away. Like everywhere else in Guyana, there is only one road going between cities. You're either going that way, or the other. On this particular Sunday, as we attempted our trip to Georgetown, there happened to be a bicycle race on the highway. About the same time we noticed traffic up ahead was beginning to slow, a monsoon manifested itself, thus soaking everything. There was so much water, the road had lakes and rivers all over it. Now, the Guyanese are to rain what we Oregonians are to snow. Remember when it snowed in Portland last winter and everyone went ape-shit retarded? Just like that. When rain hits, the already loosely defined "road rules" become officialy negated in the minds of all those operating a vehicle. Now, the bike race has a police escort at both front and back, while the racers, desperate to avoid the oh so dangerous puddles of water (nevermind that they're already soaked from the rain coming down on them...) are weving across both lanes like Mr. Magoo on a bender. Thus making the flow of traffic slow to a bike race pace. To watch these bikers dodge and weave like they had those light bikes from Tron was simply hysterical. Only in Guyana. Once we were finally able to get past the racers, the day took a darker turn, as we came across the aftermath of a head on collision that occured just minutes before. Two SUVs had managed to get a quick physics lesson with their occupants receiving the brunt of Sir Isaac's tutelage. One driver's wrist had two perfect 90 degree bends to it, and some children were being pulled from the wreckage. We found out the next day that luckily all those involved had survived, with a few broken bones and head injuries. It was a not so subtle reminder of why people want to go to the States so badly. Functional social services are a wonderful thing. We found out the next day that the people were transported not by amublance, but by a passing army truck. T.I.G.
Mid week, there was a contest. More accurately, a pageant. Of the beauty variety. However, the six contestants involved were required to be over 250lbs. It was the "Big, Bold, and Beautiful" contest. Which of course we felt a moral obligation to attend. The posters advertising such an event claimed that the festivities were to commence at 8. But we, being savvy Peace Corps Volunteers, hip to the ways of Guyana and its people, showed up at a fashionably late 8:30. That feather in our cap turned into a black eye, as minutes turned to hours and we truly understood what it means to be on "Guyana Standard Time." With the 90 minutes mark passing by, the DJ was still blasting tunes that were popular when I was in middle school. Finally, the live band took over. "Things MUST be getting underway!" I thought in my anglo-saxon ignorance. They played for another half hour. And I'm pretty sure it was the same song the whole time. Perhaps I'm not cultured enough to recognize the differences in reggae styles. But I'm comfortable with that. Anyway, so 10:15 rolls around, and the ladies roll up on stage. They performed their choreographed dance, which really boiled down to some pelvic thrusts and arm waves. It looked kinda like the Kool-Aid man after he bursts through a wall. Only without the "OH YEAH!!!" Then the MCs came out. A man and a woman. Who bantered, and bitched, and argued, and tried to talk over one another throughout the entirety of the program. So after the ladies did their dance, they went to change into their casual wear. Let the record show: For women of this size, casual wear should be purchased at Barnum and Bailey's. Specifically, the tent section. Oh, I failed to mention that the wait time between each respective section was about 20 minutes. Because once a lady has come across stage, she should go change into the next outfit, right? Apparently not in Guyana. After each individual had waddled on by, all 6 were again brought out to show off their wrinkles in time. The talent portion consisted mainly of obese women explaining why they were better than slender women. And one girl sang karaoke to that song from Disney's Pocahontas. I would've paid someone to poke her hontas if she would've gotten her candy ass movin and gotten on with the show. Anyway, the beach ware section was particularly stimulating on my retinas. You remember that scene in Free Willy where they're transporting the whale and he's in that giant sling being loaded onto a truck? That's the best way I can describe it. This portion of the pageant was happening about 12:15. Now, it was a Wednesday night, and I had work the next day. I took it upon myself to head home, feeling that I wasn't goint to miss out on much more. Tim and Chelsea stayed until 1:15, right in the middle of the cocktail portion. I'd imagine the event finally finished around 3. But, I figured 4 and half hours was pretty charitable. I had the intention of taking a copious amount of pictures, but sadly, my camera fell off my lap and decided it was going to cease functioning. Tim, Chelsea, and Sara have pictures, however. And I believe they'll be posting some soon.
One of the staples of a Guyanese party is the sound system. Most cars drive around blasting music at around 60 decibels. But, at an outdoor party, towers of speakers are trucked in and set up. Most of them 15-20 feet in height. During town week, these towers can be seen all down the main street, about 50 feet apart from one another. They often are all playing different songs at slightly different volumes, usually at least 80-90 decibels. Walking through town, I could feel my organs vibrating like someone had installed a Shiatsu massage machine between my liver and pancreas. I'm sure it's healthy in the long run. The final night, May 2nd/3rd, was the "LIme." In Guyana, "liming" is a term for messing around or relaxing. Inexplicably, the big lime was on a Sunday night. It was an all night party that I chose to avoid. Drunken crowds assuming I'm rich seem like a Grade-A bad idea. Tim and I left the house to go to the gym at 4:45 Monday morning, and could still hear the bass thumping from a half mile away. As we returned from the gym just after six, a man was walking down our street, beer in hand. I'll give him points for tenacity, as I'm fairly certain he never went to bed.
Teaching has been a hit or miss. I'm at the equivalent of a low-income school, but in Guyana. Students are constantly running around everywhere. Even during supposed class times. The climate being what it is, the powers that be decided that open air classrooms would be the bee's knees. They are however, more of a hindrance. Sounds and smells can enter the room without and type of barrier. Kids sprint by at all times, screaming like banshees about anything and everything. Others just stop at the door with a mouth breather stare to gaze at the white guy. Last Thursday, I walked into one of my last classrooms. Only two students out of about thirty remained, and the place smelled, quite frankly, like wet ass. And with such small odds, accusatory looks runneth aplenty. However, I was informed after trying to track down some of my students, that they had been dismissed, because a septic tank behind the school had gone rogue. The smell was too disruptive for learning. So everybody went home. At least the clninc is getting a little busier.
Finally, we have a new addition to out house. One my sister would be very proud of. The other day, Sara and Chelsea were on their morning walk, when they heard a loud and pitiful cry. They looked down to find a malnourished and quite adorable kitten. They brought it home, and named it Rasta. I don't know the whole backstory behind the name, you may have to read Time and Chelsea's blog for a more thorough description. We thing it's a female. She's already box trained, and probably one of the most affectionate kittens on the planet. She can't weigh more than 2 pounds. The roomies should have pictures up soon if you feel so inclined. Well that's probably enough tomfoolery for me for now...
One love,
Tony
Mid week, there was a contest. More accurately, a pageant. Of the beauty variety. However, the six contestants involved were required to be over 250lbs. It was the "Big, Bold, and Beautiful" contest. Which of course we felt a moral obligation to attend. The posters advertising such an event claimed that the festivities were to commence at 8. But we, being savvy Peace Corps Volunteers, hip to the ways of Guyana and its people, showed up at a fashionably late 8:30. That feather in our cap turned into a black eye, as minutes turned to hours and we truly understood what it means to be on "Guyana Standard Time." With the 90 minutes mark passing by, the DJ was still blasting tunes that were popular when I was in middle school. Finally, the live band took over. "Things MUST be getting underway!" I thought in my anglo-saxon ignorance. They played for another half hour. And I'm pretty sure it was the same song the whole time. Perhaps I'm not cultured enough to recognize the differences in reggae styles. But I'm comfortable with that. Anyway, so 10:15 rolls around, and the ladies roll up on stage. They performed their choreographed dance, which really boiled down to some pelvic thrusts and arm waves. It looked kinda like the Kool-Aid man after he bursts through a wall. Only without the "OH YEAH!!!" Then the MCs came out. A man and a woman. Who bantered, and bitched, and argued, and tried to talk over one another throughout the entirety of the program. So after the ladies did their dance, they went to change into their casual wear. Let the record show: For women of this size, casual wear should be purchased at Barnum and Bailey's. Specifically, the tent section. Oh, I failed to mention that the wait time between each respective section was about 20 minutes. Because once a lady has come across stage, she should go change into the next outfit, right? Apparently not in Guyana. After each individual had waddled on by, all 6 were again brought out to show off their wrinkles in time. The talent portion consisted mainly of obese women explaining why they were better than slender women. And one girl sang karaoke to that song from Disney's Pocahontas. I would've paid someone to poke her hontas if she would've gotten her candy ass movin and gotten on with the show. Anyway, the beach ware section was particularly stimulating on my retinas. You remember that scene in Free Willy where they're transporting the whale and he's in that giant sling being loaded onto a truck? That's the best way I can describe it. This portion of the pageant was happening about 12:15. Now, it was a Wednesday night, and I had work the next day. I took it upon myself to head home, feeling that I wasn't goint to miss out on much more. Tim and Chelsea stayed until 1:15, right in the middle of the cocktail portion. I'd imagine the event finally finished around 3. But, I figured 4 and half hours was pretty charitable. I had the intention of taking a copious amount of pictures, but sadly, my camera fell off my lap and decided it was going to cease functioning. Tim, Chelsea, and Sara have pictures, however. And I believe they'll be posting some soon.
One of the staples of a Guyanese party is the sound system. Most cars drive around blasting music at around 60 decibels. But, at an outdoor party, towers of speakers are trucked in and set up. Most of them 15-20 feet in height. During town week, these towers can be seen all down the main street, about 50 feet apart from one another. They often are all playing different songs at slightly different volumes, usually at least 80-90 decibels. Walking through town, I could feel my organs vibrating like someone had installed a Shiatsu massage machine between my liver and pancreas. I'm sure it's healthy in the long run. The final night, May 2nd/3rd, was the "LIme." In Guyana, "liming" is a term for messing around or relaxing. Inexplicably, the big lime was on a Sunday night. It was an all night party that I chose to avoid. Drunken crowds assuming I'm rich seem like a Grade-A bad idea. Tim and I left the house to go to the gym at 4:45 Monday morning, and could still hear the bass thumping from a half mile away. As we returned from the gym just after six, a man was walking down our street, beer in hand. I'll give him points for tenacity, as I'm fairly certain he never went to bed.
Teaching has been a hit or miss. I'm at the equivalent of a low-income school, but in Guyana. Students are constantly running around everywhere. Even during supposed class times. The climate being what it is, the powers that be decided that open air classrooms would be the bee's knees. They are however, more of a hindrance. Sounds and smells can enter the room without and type of barrier. Kids sprint by at all times, screaming like banshees about anything and everything. Others just stop at the door with a mouth breather stare to gaze at the white guy. Last Thursday, I walked into one of my last classrooms. Only two students out of about thirty remained, and the place smelled, quite frankly, like wet ass. And with such small odds, accusatory looks runneth aplenty. However, I was informed after trying to track down some of my students, that they had been dismissed, because a septic tank behind the school had gone rogue. The smell was too disruptive for learning. So everybody went home. At least the clninc is getting a little busier.
Finally, we have a new addition to out house. One my sister would be very proud of. The other day, Sara and Chelsea were on their morning walk, when they heard a loud and pitiful cry. They looked down to find a malnourished and quite adorable kitten. They brought it home, and named it Rasta. I don't know the whole backstory behind the name, you may have to read Time and Chelsea's blog for a more thorough description. We thing it's a female. She's already box trained, and probably one of the most affectionate kittens on the planet. She can't weigh more than 2 pounds. The roomies should have pictures up soon if you feel so inclined. Well that's probably enough tomfoolery for me for now...
One love,
Tony
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