Adventuring with Big J

My weekend adventures here are a far cry from the ones back home. Where there used to be socializing, nights on the town, motorcycling, hiking, and just all around tomfoolery, in Guyana I spend lots of time in a hammock. LOTS. Of time. Some weekends, lecture writing interspersed with cat naps just fails to stimulate. When that happens, I take a few days to visit my good friend and fellow volunteer Jason. Or, as I like to call him, Big J. Such a weekend came to pass recently, and this white boy needed a break from the norm. I went to the clinic Friday morning, and it was slower than a round of marco polo with Helen Keller. I left just before lunch, as I do everyday, frothing at the bit to do something, ANYTHING different than the past few weekends. Loading my bag with everything I would possibly need on a Guyanese travel day: food, water, sunscreen, extra clothes, knife, and dental records; I triumphantly exited my home with an alarming resemblance to an overzealous boy scout. Minus the underlying homophobia, of course.

As I rounded the corner and entered the bus park with vehicles headed to Georgetown, four large Guyanese men fell into a full-on sprint, shouting to try and reach me first so that I might choose their respective buses. It could best be described as a full sensory assault. The din and hubbub of Creole pounded my skull, the sound waves coming in tongues, the sun glinting off the myriad gold teeth. I continued in a zen like state of semi-consciousness as the first man reaches me and frantically pointed to his bus. They used to be more physical, but after a minor assault incident (let’s just say a man grabbed my bag and started to take off with it, then I grabbed him and started to show him what I learned in jiu jitsu…not my finest moment) a few months back, now they simply stick to loud invitations. I chose the bus containing the most passengers, as it would be the next to leave. Taking my seat, I settled in for the turbulent ride to town.

The remainder of the journey went without incident. Jason and I hung out at his place, packing up the rest of his belongings, as he was moving in with fiancé Kirsten the next day! When the sun came up, it baked the house without the slightest consideration of our comfort levels, so we were forced to get up and get going. We loaded ourselves like pack mules with Jason’s life, and made our way to Kirsten’s. Jason and I had two objectives that weekend: 1) find him an object to serve as a pull up bar, and 2) find dirt to fill the new planter box he had just made.

Big J had an idea of where to find a pull up bar: the local dump. This epiphany had surfaced a few days before my arrival when the powers that be brought in a bulldozer and turned the dump. Thus, the old mantra “If you turn it, they will come” was realized once again. The Guyanese are avid salvagers. Maybe that could be said about any population in a developing country. But this area of Guyana in particular is all about it. True Story: around Christmas last year, an old hospital building was deemed no longer useful. The government didn’t want to put any more money into it, so people brought trucks, donkey carts, buckets, and wheelbarrows. Within three weeks, a large three story building was reduced to rubble. So when the dump got turned, all the treasures at the bottom, previously inaccessible were well within reach. Big J and I didn’t get there until a few days after ‘the turn’ and we weren’t sure if there would be much of anything left. There were still people rummaging around, stopping only to stare and wonder what possible reason two large white men would have for being there. To the surprise of no one, there was nothing that would have served as a pull up bar. In fact, the only materials remaining would best be handle with special equipment. Like those gloves that one might wear when handling razor wire. Not discouraged by minor setbacks, we headed to the next logical place. A place where pull-up bars grow like trees…I mean, of course, the jungle. It didn’t take long to find a branch of appropriate size and shape. We proudly walked back to the house with our trophy. This sort of situation is certainly odd from a Guyanese perspective, but they’re usually amused by our malarkey nonetheless. After stringing it up and testing both its functionality and structural integrity, we turned our attention to the next task of the day: dirt hunting.

Now, in a place like this, one would intuitively think that dirt would be an easy acquisition. I literally cannot count the times I’ve strolled by an arbitrary dirt pile by the side of the road, tacitly wondering to myself if the dirt had just been removed from nearby, or was filling in some nearby location. A pothole, perhaps!? Maybe it’s for that oversized section of trench! Really, the tantalizing possibilities are nigh endless. However, without copious flag placement, determining ownership is somewhat vexing. And wouldn’t you know it, on that particular day, those dirt piles were as elusive as unicorns. We eventually did stumble upon one, and inquired with a man nearby if we could procure some. When he gave it the green light, Big J and I returned to the house to get our dirt-carrying receptacle, chests puffed out just slightly, walking a little bit taller at our loamy prowess. Not having the preferred transporting medium of dump truck or wheelbarrow, we opted for a large shopping bag. Peace Corps certainly breeds inventiveness! Once back at the pile, we set about our work of filling the bag. In an awkward understanding, we both realized one inalienable truth: dirt is really quite heavy. With the day’s previous victory, we were undeterred. Big J and I put our heads together. No I’m serious we literally and accidentally bashed our heads together as we attempted to hoist this bag from either side, not anticipating the sheer girth of it. But being highly educated individuals, Big J of course being an educator, and your humble narrator being a science nerd with some proficiency in physics, we devised a solution. We placed the shovel handle through the looped handles of the shopping bag, hoisting the entire setup onto our shoulders. We ended up bridging the gap between us with the shovel, and the shopping bag swung in between us like a big, dirt-filled, triumphant scrotum. We then trekked the half-mile back to the house, all the while being stared at from the Guyanese, who were incredibly perplexed by the increasingly odd behavior of these two white men. Much to our chagrin, when we got back to the house, we realized that one load was not sufficient to fill the planter box. We cursed the fates, and returned to the dirt pile for another load. This one went a little better than the previous one, since we’d learned from past mistakes. And the Guyanese just stared in bewildered amazement that we were up to these shenanigans again. A stare that could only convey one thing: look at these jackasses.

The following week allowed for some more quality adventures with Big J. We were called in to assist in some training sessions for the new group. The real icing on the cake was the fact that we were going to teach the remote group of trainees. Jason teaching the education sessions and I was teaching the health sessions. From the main highway, this village was a 25 minutes LandRover ride into the jungles of Guyana. Big J and I were the only volunteers there all week for training, so it ended up just being a weeklong hangout session for the two of us after we’d finished teaching. The village we stayed at is the largest AmerIndian community in Guyana. Total population is around 1500, but you’d never know it, since many of the houses are still an hour long walk from the central area. It’s a lovely, quiet community with rivers and creeks just minutes away. There are no hotels in the village, but we had arrangements to stay at a woman’s house. Her upstairs was unoccupied, so she allowed volunteers to stay there whenever it was necessary. This house was under construction, and apparently had been for the past year or two. We stayed upstairs, where there were three bedrooms with walls that didn’t reach the ceiling. This is a standard practice in many parts of Guyana. The real kicker was that there were also no doors. Anywhere. The bedrooms had a curtain in each doorway, and downstairs didn’t even have walls. Don’t believe me?

Look Ma no doors:

Most of the downstairs had yet to be fully enclosed. Tarps hung down from the top floor to minimize water getting inside when it rained. The shower was outside, as was the pit latrine. It was a humble but comfortable home. It was still strange to sleep someplace unfamiliar without doors or any form of security whatsoever. We got up early each morning to go running. This was a sandy area, so that meant we could run barefoot. It was fantastic. The overall experience was a lot of fun, and I’m always appreciative of visiting communities like that. It’s more in line with what I thought I’d be doing when I joined the Peace Corps. But those visits also reinforce my opinion that the novelty of living there would grow old rather quickly. I’ll stick with my cold beer and internet connection.

All the best,

Tony