They say the first step is admitting it...Well, I've moved back to Guyana

An odd twist and turn of events, let me assure you.

Life, as the old mantra goes, occurs while you're making other plans. Well, 'Life', I find your particular brand of fatalistic nihilism to be somewhat pedantic. Life, you can consider this an open letter. I know we've had our ups and downs, but I've enjoyed you for the most part.

Sometimes you were a bit needy. Occasionally you were inexplicably needy. Like those years where I was constantly hungry, eating like a ravenous sow. According to a certain woman whose womb I've lived in, this started when I was the tender young age of about 8 minutes. So I present now a sarcastic Thank You, Life, for this dietary dichotomy of thinly veiled gluttony and Calorie burning superpower.

Since my last post, much has happened, Life. But of course, you know this already, do you not? As you sit idly, watching me experience you from your tacit throne.

In an odd and convoluted time, you threw me into a tailspin. In a good way, of course. As we approach the one year anniversary since I've written anything in this blog, we also approach the one year anniversary of when you really dropped a bomb.

Remember when my Grandpa died? That was kind of a dick move, Life. I know it happens, yet I still maintain that you were being a bit of an ass. Reeling from that, you throw down the gauntlet. You let me get all settled into this groove, prepared to fully dive into the final months of my Volunteering gig. 19 months down, 7 to go. I was cocky about it.

And that's when you did it. You released the Kraken, so to speak.

You made me fall in love.

Fast approaching one year since you pulled that little stunt, Life.

I didn't see it coming at all.

Which gives our dear reader a impossibly consolidated version of the past year, and the main reason why I'm now back in Guyana. And wouldn't you know it? I've got stories to tell. So, Life, you can sit in the backseat for awhile. In the meantime, readers, I'd like to reintroduce my particular brand of literary lunacy, and engage once again into what I fondly call:

An Excursion Into Whimsy

In Memoriam

My only grandfather was actually my step-grandfather. But I never knew the difference. Nor did I care. He was, and had always been, the only grandfather I’ve ever known. Despite knowing him for all of my 25 and a half years, I actually know little about his early life. His past was rarely discussed, and I felt no need to pry into something that wasn’t readily offered. I don’t know the type of person he was in his youth. Did he have a temper like some boys do? Was he kind-hearted? I’m sure the ladies loved him. From what grandma says, they still do! (Especially at those old high school reunions!!) I can take solace knowing that people from his distant past remembered him. I’m not a religious or spiritual person by any means. It just never made sense to me. So I think that living memories are of incredible importance. The people that remain when you die will be the ones who carry your torch, and recall the events of your life. Many times, it’s easy to look at the past through rose-colored lenses. And yet, as I write this now, there is no distortion. I have nothing but fond and good memories of my grandfather. Never in my life did I see him treat another person with anything but the utmost respect and decency. That’s how he is in my living memory. I can only assume that others share that view of him.

From my experience, family isn’t so much about bloodlines, but about who is there when you need them. Warren Miller was family. Because of him, I know that there’s a guy who makes ski movies. 3 year old me loved the concept of peeing (while standing) and marking every tree in the vicinity. Hell, 25 year old me still thinks that’s a damn fine way to go! I also love the smell of pipe tobacco. For as long as I can remember, he watched a movie every night. When I was a kid and went to stay at grandma and grandpa’s house, I would stay up and watch a movie with him, and he often smoked a pipe. I associate that smell with being safe and secure. That smell, to me, denotes relaxation. I’m sure that’s why he smoked it too. Eventually, we grandkids learned about Public Service Announcements and harassed him mercilessly to stop smoking until he finally relented. As a child, I felt we’d achieved some great victory, righting the wrongs of the pre-pubescent world. The real answer is that he quit because he didn’t want us to experience any repercussions. That was the type of man he was. Always doing something for others.

The family he married into is a loud one. Most of us like to be the life of the party, even when we’re the only ones AT the party. So while the rest of us chortled and guffawed with glee, grandpa sat quietly entertained on one side of the circle. He’d wait until the perfect moment, then always interject some witty, sarcastic comment that belittled the entire conversation, but sent us all into hysterics anyway. He’d call himself an outlaw, surrounded by all his in-laws, and smirk as he took a sip of whiskey. Despite the odd dynamics within our curious family tree, he always managed to fit in just fine, even though he was a registered Republican.

One summer when I was probably around 7 or 8, I spent a week down with him because we were building a treehouse. I drew up elaborate plans for what I envisioned, and grandpa ever so diplomatically explained to me that my lack of knowledge regarding carpentry and physics would be a bit of a hindrance. So I helped as best I could, but what I remember most about that week is a new phrase: gotta see a man about a horse. We’d been at it for maybe an hour or so, and grandpa stands up, dusts himself off, looks at me and says “Well, I gotta see a man about a horse!” Then walked inside. I had no idea what to make of this, and knowing that he loved westerns, I assumed that he’d decided to go watch a movie. “So THAT’S why constructions projects take so long!” My feeble brain concluded. When he came back a minute later, he explained to me that his colloquial phrase was just a polite euphemism. That expression has stuck with me for almost two decades now.

What I’ve written here are the best examples of my living memories of my grandfather. He was a quiet, kind, gentle, and very generous man. He’s also very likely in the running for sainthood for putting up with the Burden clan for so many years! So to the only grandfather I’ve ever had, and could ever need, thank you for all the lessons and laughs over the years. It’s been said that we’re meant to lose the ones we love so we know how important they are to us. I can say now that I understand the significance of our relationship, and I hope to one day share that same dynamic with my own grandson. I saved a bottle of Oregon beer to have in your honor. In living (and loving) memory, here’s to you!

Beer and ambivalence: an open letter to America

Dear America,

I gained twelve pounds while in your graces last month. People in Guyana have responded to that fact with two comments. The males say “You gettin’ fat!” The females say “You lookin’ good der boi!” Apparently, those twelve pounds of mass have been dually noted and appreciated by the people of Guyana. So thank you, for your ample food supply and obscene portion sizes. I’d forgotten the joys of multiple cheeses. How do you get your beef so tender? It’s probably better I don’t know. Just as long as you recognize how magical that steak can be. Did you know that female cows can have horns too??!! I learned so much while I was away.

I felt your warm embrace as I was practically waved through customs. Nobody ever suspects the tall blonde white boy of anything mischievous or untoward. I also appreciate that you don’t expect your people to talk to or even acknowledge each other’s existence in public. I enjoyed walked around and not having to greet everyone I passed! Your constituency was plugged into smart phones, ipods, laptops, tablets, and pretty much any other electronic device under the sun. Some find that distasteful and even offensive. Personally, I’m very amused by the American people’s obsession with personal space and privacy, even in a public setting. It makes for fantastic people watching.

However, I do have one complaint about you in general. You’re a bit…there’s really no delicate way to put this, but you’re a bit excessive. Do your stores really need to have an entire aisle devoted to chips?!? CHIPS!?!? There were 8 kinds of 3 varieties of 6 brands of barbeque flavor. It’s. Barbeque. It all tastes the same anyways!!?!? So that was a little troubling. After spending so much time away, I finally learned, and not in the purely philosophical sense; but truly understood what the fundamental difference is between a want and a need. It’s nice to have nice things. No one will question that. I reveled in the fact that I slept in a queen sized bed in a climate controlled room where it was quiet. I had nothing but unconditional reverence for the hot water heater. I was tempted to make a shrine in its honor. But those things are simply amenities. They are desirable and useful features to have available. I won’t ever mock them or ridicule them, because hanging out in a flowing stream of hot water first thing in the morning is downright celestial. Have I not yet mentioned your beer!??!! Free flowing like the nectar of the gods, available at any time, any store, any restaurant!! I attended multiple beer festivals and drank deep from the barley-laden cup of life! A year and a half was an incredibly long time. A substantial hoppy dry spell, if you will.

Despite all these things, I still have mixed emotions about my return. Sure, it was good to see everybody. It was incredibly fun to be back on a motorcycle again. I had a blast eating everything I saw. But my gluttony stemmed mainly from the fact that I was on vacation. I must tip my hat to Oregon. You were just as odd as I remember, if not more so. And while I was there, I witnessed all the things I loved about you, and all the reasons why I won’t go back. Like a summer fling, we had our fun, but I’m over you. No hard feelings.

There are many beautiful, tragic, interesting, startling, and thought provoking things in this world. I hope to see and experience them all. Please remind your more sedentary citizens that they too could use a change in perspective. I found it quite refreshing.

With ambivalence and farewells,

Tony

Mental Preparations: Or, the stuff my Grandma wonders if I think about

I recently finished reading Jon Krakauer’s Into The Wild. For those not familiar with the book, it’s a story about a young man who leaves his comfortable suburban home and family after college to pursue his fascination with the unbridled, untamed, and ultimately unforgiving manifestations of the natural world. After two years traveling and living on the most miniscule of means, focal point Chris McCandless travels north to Alaska. This turns out to be his last adventure, as he met his demise in the Alaskan wilderness, only living to see his early 20s.

For most, including myself, the ending was not at all surprising. A young man with minimal supplies tried to go live off the land in the Alaskan bush for months on end? What the hell did he think was going to happen? It’s easy to jump to the obvious conclusion: this young man had committed the sin of arrogance. But really, what young man hasn’t? In fact, what young person can honestly say that they’ve never acted arrogant or presumptuous? That facet of youth is simultaneously empowering and blinding. But as I read Into The Wild and explored more of Chris McCandless, I realized that I wasn’t really one to point fingers and throw rocks in that particular house made of glass. The gift of youth comes with one important caveat: the liability of hubris. So as I mentally prepare to touch American soil again for the first time in almost a year and a half, I can’t help but reflect on my experiences, expectations, and my own little humbling slice of hubris.

I first started on this weird, extended two-year adventure of my own some time ago. My application was submitted to Peace Corps in late November 2008. With graduation fast approaching, I wanted to have something lined up. The job market being what it was, (and from what I hear, it still is) an interminably competitive mess of people screaming “Hire me! Hire me!”; it only made sense to have one plan. I also really wanted to leave the country. Not having the opportunity at any other time, mainly due to financial constraints, a long term job overseas had many perks. I meticulously researched the types of things I could be doing, where I might be going, what my life would be like wherever I was sent. I didn’t receive a nomination (the 2^nd of 3 steps before departure) until late Spring 2009. At this point, I knew I had some momentum going, even if it took awhile.

When I left in February 2010, two years seemed like a very daunting time frame. With minimal knowledge of where I was actually going, and having tacit expectations that not even I could totally acknowledge, I headed off into the wild of a developing country. A year and a half later, I’m just days away from returning to the States for the first time since I left. I think about all the sites, sounds, and smells that used to aggravate, annoy, or disturb me. Yet after so much time, I’m not really phased by much of anything. In Guyana, I’ve seen things good and bad, dark and light, beautiful, tragic, depressing, fascinating, and frustrating. I’ve seen people take steps and improve their health, I’ve seen students put in extra effort, and be able to explain how their bodies function. I’ve seen women beaten in public. I’ve seen dead bodies on highways. I’ve seen scenarios that make me laugh hysterically, and situations that cause me to shrink inside myself to process.

Despite all the things I’ve experienced here, nothing could have prepared me for it. I’ve learned that knowledge I consider commonplace, such as putting ice on a wound to minimize swelling, really isn’t well known at all. I’ve learned that so much of my behavior and thoughts have been influenced by where I grew up. Even the speed at which I operate is distinctly American. So after a year and a half, I can say from firsthand experience that there are no rules to this game of life. There’s no magical right or wrong way to do it. Every place you go, and every person you meet, will do things a little differently. And that’s really the crux of the matter. It’s simply different. With 9 months remaining, I hope that I’ve made some positive differences in my time here. I’ll probably never really know. But I can guarantee that the attempts will be hearty and numerous.

So for now, I’ll mentally prepare for a month in the Land of Plenty. Which isn’t to say that I’ll forget about this place. It would be difficult to simply dismiss such a decisive time in my life. But more a mental break, time for reflection, and of course: motorcycle riding. See you all soon!

The Fantastic Tale of the Front Running Bastard

I think we all can agree that humans are social creatures. We congregate together in all facets of society. People with similar persuasions, whether it be political, religious, or simply shared hobbies, tend to live in proximity to one another. That’s why we have hippies and beer lovers in the northwest. I mean, where else can you go in the States for such a uniform ubiquity of white people proclaiming their tolerance of all types of people??!! Or the bible belt, which proudly dismisses all the heathens who don’t subscribe to their particular brand of dogmatic vindications. Yet, almost all Americans have a strange affinity for competition, especially in sports. Team sports are encouraged in our society from a young age. Some people thrive with that encouragement. The want to be eating, breathing, and sleeping their particular game. There are a select few who do well enough to be able to play a game for a living, and make more money than a small country while doing it. Others will try, but peter our early in their respective careers. Those people then remove their shirts, get drunk and paint their bodies in an overzealous display of machismo and team spirit.

I have never been one to put much energy into a particular sports team. Oh, I tried. Believe me, when I used to play basketball for absurd amount of time during my early to mid teens, I tried to force myself to get all worked up over a game. But in the end, I didn’t really give a shit either way if my team won or lost. It was just that: a game. That sentiment carried me through college, and remains a steadfast opinion that I revert to whenever somebody begins to tell me the merits of a full court press during the second half with a 10 point lead. And yet, in the ultimate irony of the day, I love being active and athletic. I run quite regularly here. That was an interest that began in late high school. I prefer the individual experience that running promotes. That’s why when I’m at home, I like to run late at night. Nobody is around, so I can just get into this Zen-like state of awareness, where my mind wanders, and I just…go.

Yet, there is something to be said about doing things in groups. Even running. So there it is, I like to run. I like to run by myself. But until recently, that’s all I’ve really known. There is an organization, and the history is a little shaky in my feeble brain, so I’ll just graze over it. The Hash House Harriers have chapters operating on all seven continents, all over the world. Portland has at least 4 that I was able to locate online. The “Hashers” as they describe themselves, are a non-competitive running group that get together to blaze a trail throughout whatever terrain they’re in, and drink beer and socialize afterwards. A less flattering description, the hashers are a self-described “drinking group with a running problem.” Here’s how it works. One person goes out before the others and sets a trail. This person is called “the hare”. The trail can go anywhere and everywhere. Total distance is usually around 4 miles, but the route is plagued with multiple junctions and false leads. Hashers could be led through businesses, creeks, storm drains, abandoned factories…literally anywhere the hare decides. The only rule is that you must have a sense of humor. This isn’t a race to get to the finish first, but to simply REACH the finish. Sound enticing?? I thought so too. And wouldn’t you know, there’s a chapter operating right here in Guyana!!!

Last weekend, I got to experience my very first Hash! The hare had laid a trail that started out in the southwestern area of Linden, and continued on out into the small villages lining the river. Small markers are placed at various points along the trail to indicate the way. One marker means you’re on the right track. Two indicates a junction, so you need to send out people in each direction to find the actual route. Three indicates a false lead, so you’d better turn around and head back. There were about thirty of us last weekend, and I found myself up in the front of the group. Apparently, not many people are as avid of runners as your humble narrator. I heard about this event and group through my friend Allen. He’s a response volunteer who has already served two years in Africa, and is doing a short term program in Guyana. He works at one of the special needs schools here teaching sign language. Allen himself is deaf, and has a pretty fantastic sense of humor. Each Hasher, once they’ve accomplished a certain number of runs, gets a nickname. The catch is, you don’t pick your own name. The group throws out words that might describe you, and they collectively decide what you’ll be known as in the hashing community. Allen’s name is Deaf Lesbian. Remember: the only rule is to have a sense of humor. Allen has been Hashing for 11 years, and embraces his nickname with reckless abandon. He had a special necklace made in Africa with beads woven into it that proudly displays his title. Back to the run…about halfway through, I paused at a junction so that others could catch up and we could explore different routes simultaneously. Deaf Lesbian comes trundling up, and looks at me, proclaiming “F.R.B!!!” I thought he said ‘F.O.B.’ which I suppose would have been somewhat appropriate. The age-old acronym for Fresh Off Boat usually referred to anyone who was just getting into something for the first time. I was corrected by another runner, a member of the Foreign Service and veteran hasher who has been hashing for 23 years in as many countries. He informed me that F.R.B. is hasher lingo for “Front Running Bastard!!” Apparently, I was in a league of my own out there!

As we came back to the starting point, I accepted my award, and proceeded to drink an ice cold beer. Needless to say, it was an enjoyable experience, and I look forward to having some type of regular social activity on the weekends again. Because let’s face it, people are social. And sometimes, even if you like doing things a certain way, it’s good to try something new. I may have found a new hobby…

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

Einstein was on to something

That Einstein guy was right. Time (along with lots of other things) is completely relative. I have no idea where the first two months of this year have gone. January flew by, and February has been a blur. This is a stark contrast to the first few months at my site. In the beginning, the remaining months seemed like this unfathomable distance. 20 more months!?

“Who thought this was I good idea??!”

This was how I often admonished myself in the first months while I was still adjusting. Honestly, it was like listening to a Coldplay album. The entire album only lasts 62 minutes, but feels like you’ve just finished watching the entire Lord of The Rings trilogy: the director’s cut. Now THAT is an epic time commitment. Perhaps I’m just getting used to everything here, or it could be the little things I have going on each month that help the time seem to pass so quickly. For example: last week, a brand new group of Americans arrived from all over the States. Yes, GUY 23 is officially in Guyana! I was asked to be part of the group of volunteers to greet the newbies at the airport. The invitation was both flattering and exciting, so of course I accepted. I even obtained a Peace Corps Guyana polo shirt, so I looked somewhat official.

The serious face is actually an homage to the Guyanese people. Every time you take their picture, they make a serious face, usually accompanied with a hand gesture. Jillian and I chose to go to throw hard looks with a black panther fist. Kellen opted for the more appropriate Japanese school girl touristy peace sign. Unfortunately, I don’t have many more pictures due to them being on the cameras of other volunteers. I will try to obtain more for the next posting. We had fun anyway!

There were about 12 volunteers total, only about 4 (myself included) were on the “official welcome committee.” The others lived close enough that they were able to come and meet the new group. So we had a good showing, and the new arrivals had the opportunity to meet a good mix people that have already been here for a while. We had a large banner that said “Peace Corps Guyana” right outside the arrival gate, in case they had any doubts where they were going. The common axiom being spewed forth was “follow the white people!” Which is probably the only time in history that statement could be issued without a trace of foreboding and irony.

As part of the welcome committee, I stayed in the hotel with the new group for their first week. It’s a large group, with 37 members total. 7 guys and 30 girls means it’s a little one-sided, but apparently that’s not uncommon for Peace Corps. My group, GUY 22, was atypical. We were almost exactly equal numbers of men and women. They all seem to be really cool people. I very diverse mix of backgrounds, both in terms of where they’re from, and what their specialties are.

Training is being done differently this year for the new group. Instead of having all the trainees live in the same general urban area, they’ve separated them into two training sites. One more urban, and one remote, depending on which type of site the trainees are more interested in. Next week, I’ll be with the remote group from Monday through Thursday, then I spend Friday with the urban group. It will be fun to work with them again, and see how the adjustment process is coming along.

Watching them arrive was both thrilling and a little surreal. It was odd to think about not being the baby faced freshmen group anymore, and strange because I remember being in their shoes. And it doesn’t seem like that long ago! They seem more excited than I ever remember being, but the staff assured me that I was just like them. The weather has been mercifully cool compared to last year. When my group arrived, they had a thermometer reading on the screens of the plane, and it was 65 degrees at 3,000 feet. When we landed, it must have been close to 80 on the ground…at 7am. In general, the weather has been much more pleasant this year. I’ve even been able to get away with bathing only once a day a few times as opposed to the two or three times I had gotten used to. Locals told me that last year was unusually hot. Right now, the rain is falling harder than theocracies in the Arab world. (Too soon?) But I enjoy it because the temperature is actually quite pleasant. Maybe Guy 23 won’t have such a rough adjustment as my group.

The new trainees swear in as volunteers in mid April. Right after their ceremony, Peace Corps is having a huge 50^th anniversary party. It’s supposed to be an expo showcasing the various projects that volunteers have been working on here in Guyana. Peace Corps has asked me to spearhead the effort of coordinating the activities for the health sector! So the next few months are going to be pretty busy. Just over 4 months until I’m home for a visit, so plan your summer accordingly!

All the best,

Tony