Cause it's her birthday!!! Happy birthday MOM!!! If it were my birthday, I'd probably write an homage to my mother, thanking her for sharing her sustenance and her uterus with me for 9.5 months. But that will come sometime in January. In other news, it's been awhile since my last update. I've been meaning to write this for the last couple of weeks, but, for the first time since coming here, I've actually been quite busy! So I've got some updates, and some anecdotes of a whimsical nature. So let's start with the stories that are sure to make you smile.
Two rather awkward events since I last wrote. One just plain funny, the other, a slightly embarrassing tale of cultural misunderstanding and linguistic confusion.
FIRST!
This story involves bugs. Specifically, mosquitoes, me, and some plastic. Everyone knows that the insects here are gargantuan. Both in physical size and sheer quantity. Honestly, they're about one union meeting away from taking over. So me, being the juvenile, easily entertained young lad that I am, have adopted a cheap form of home entertainment. I'm usually fascinated by the weird variety of insects that live in the tropics. The odd morphology appeals to my nerdy science side. However, those who know me well know that my top three things I hate more than anything in the world are in order: 1) Flies 2) Parades 3) French dip sandwiches. Now, moving up to the new number three spot...The thing that I loathe more than french dip sandwiches: Mosquitoes. The high frequency whine of wings buzzing around my skull while I try to relax in my hammock is enough to send me into a fury fit. One evening, I discovered that if I lashed out violently enough with Bruce Lee-like expediency, I could swat the mosquitoes out of the air. Thus, my quasi-athletic new hobby was born. The mosquitoes invade every facet of life here. From work to sleep, and cooking to bathing, the omnipresent mosquito is always nearby, waiting for an opportunity to continue its parasitic existence. A few weeks ago, I was in the shower, and yes, I have a shower, and yes, there are mosquitoes there too. There was a particularly large and beastly mosquito buzzing around. So large that its wings produced a hum a half pitch lower than most. I stood in the ice cold waterfall, preparing myself for what was sure to be a glorious victory against the second cousin of Mothra. This time, however, I swung my hand up, instead of down. In this vicious arc of extermination, I managed to dislodge my shower curtain from the wall. It came crashing down onto my head, directly in the line of fire of the water. Water bounced of the plastic, spraying all...over...the...place. I suffered a bump on the head, a fanfare of profanity, and a severely bruised ego. All while incognito mosquito disappeared out the door into the bedroom. I'm sure I could hear him laughing manically at his defeat of this bruised, pasty, naked oaf trying desperately to place the shower curtain in its proper place. Boy, was my face red. And not just from the bashing I received.
SECOND!
The other, as I mentioned, has to do with a minor language barrier. To understand this story, I need to give you guys some background information. In Creolese, pronunciation is slightly different. And there are some colloquial phrases that I'm still learning. Like how "molesting" means bothering...That one had me stop and stare a couple times. But, here, "th" simply become "t" So tree and three can be extracted from context, but that's about it. So I was in my health center the other day, and a woman came in looking more than a little distraught. She came in to have her blood pressure checked. As she was sitting down and I was putting on the stethoscope, I asked her if she was doing alright. She responded "I have a debt." And I smiled and said, in my most calming, reassuring tone "Well that's not so bad! You should see how much I owe for college!" And she just sat quietly and looked at me with a blank stare. After I had measured her pressure, I said "So your pressure is normal, but everything else is ok?" Her reply "Well, my father just died..." Then, I realized the sheer magnitude of my mistake. She didn't initially say "I have a debt" she said " I have a DEATH" With that embarrassing epiphany, I tried to change the tone and be as sympathetic as possible. But after such a grandiose foot-into-mouth, I doubt I could redeem myself. Dammit.
I do have some exciting updates though! I've been in Guyana for just over 4 months now. And after two months at site, I'm starting to get quite busy. Yes Uncle Dave, I'm actually working. Not just eye candy anymore! I teach Anatomy and Physiology at the local Nurse's college. I love the job, right now I have 120 students, and I write all the lectures and tests. It's a win win for all parties involved because I have something to do, and it involved my degree, which is awesome, and the school gets a qualified (at least I think I'm qualified...) teacher that they don't even have to pay! It's a lot of fun, and I really enjoy it. In other news, I have hair again! It's a little toasty, but then again, so is Guyana. I'll write more as soon as I have some stories!
All the best,
Tony (ex- freestyle mosquito swatter)
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
And you thought YOU were patient!
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
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
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
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
"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
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
Thursday, April 15, 2010
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
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
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
My (accidental) new haircut and other whimsical tales
It occurred to me the other day that in a tropical environment such as Guyana, a mere 5 degrees north of the equator, long hair is much less of an aesthetic choice, and more of a biological sweat mop. With this epiphany, I said to myself "Self, let's give ourselves a trim." I was given one of those electric razors with the adjustable guard just before I left. Employing this implements ideal combination of fixed lengths and cutting, I went over these coveted golden locks. I decided that the first run was still a little too long. So, I adjusted the guard, and commenced phase two of operation de-shag. I put the razor to the back of my head and moved it upward, only to hear that grinding sound of fiber-binding-in-metal typically reserved for mulchers and wood chippers. After the aforementioned adjustment, little did I know that the piece which locks the guard in place had broken. I pulled the razor away from my head, and along with it came enough hair to knit a doll sweater of substantial size. As I reached up to assess the damage, my fears were confirmed. I had clearcut a less than subtle area just behind and above my ear. With waning daylight, I made a game time decision to do the full monty and get all my hair the same length. Then...the battery died. I went to bed sporting a lovely patchwork quilt aesthetic similar to what you'd expect had a palsey victim cut my hair with a machete. It's all fixed and short now, but I'll have to put sunscreen on my alarmingly reflective noggin for the next couple weeks.
Other than that, things are good. I did manage to accidentally pee on a bat yesterday. And not the wooden sporty kind. I mean the leathery, squeaky, taking sonar images of your junk flying kind. The health volunteers were taken on a field trip to the jungle for a lesson on medicinal plants and herbs and such. There was not so much learning, but more wandering and sweating. But, after all that, we stopped off in a smal communal area for some fresh juice. Before jumping back into the bus for the bumpy ride, I deemed it necessary to bleed the bladder. In such a rural environment, it's either go on a tree, which my counterparts may not have appreciated, or the pit latrines. I chose the latter. As I stood there doing my thing and looking into the black, excrement filled abyss, I thought how funny it would be if something flew out at me. Then I heard the high pitched squeak that I've associated with nocturnal flying hunters, and my amusing little daydream came to fruition. I saw the bat dart across the opening of the latrine hole, and DEFINTELY pegged it with my sweet stream of relief. Giggling and trying to expedite the process, I stood there yelling "Tony there's a bat in here hurry up!" And it gave me one more dive bomb as at flew out of the opening then right back in again. I kicked the door open and ran back to the van, laughing uncontrollably and realizing when I got back to the van that my fly was still down. Ah well, such is life.
Other than that things have been pretty routine. I've got a just a couple more weeks with my host family, who have been great. I have a room upstairs right next to my host sister and her husband. They're super cool people and have taught me a lot. One of their defining characteristics, however, is their membership to the Seventh Day Adventist church. Which they attend every Saturday...Dare I say religiously!? Now, ever since I've been here, each morning I've been awakened by docile, atonal incantations of hymnals sung while seated on the couch just outside my door. When I first arrived, this didn't usually start until around 5:45 am because my host sister Shelley was on maternity leave. Now that leave has ended and the praising now starts promptly at 5:15. This is usually a rather amusing situation, and once or twice, I've ruined the sanctity of the moment with my morning bathroom visit. But when nature calls, one must be punctual. Expecially when it's curry calling collect from your sigmoid colon. Their church is constantly giving them new, exciting, and often obscure literature. Just last week, I came across a title that made me chortle with glee. The alliteration is my favorite part, and I was so tickled I took a picture. It was called "The Lady, her Lover, and her Lord" I can only imagine what lessons lay dormant in so rich a text. But I guess I'll never know.
I did get my site placement a few days ago. I'll be living in a city in the center of the country called Linden. There will be three other volunteers living with my in a large house, each in our own apartment. Should be a nice mix of Guyana and America. It's very likely that we'll get internet connection at the house, so the updates will be more frequent and even more whimsical. This will likely be my last update as a Peace Corps trainee. Then I'll be a fully fledged Peace Corps volunteer after I get sworn in. Hope you all are well and good!
One love,
Tony
Other than that, things are good. I did manage to accidentally pee on a bat yesterday. And not the wooden sporty kind. I mean the leathery, squeaky, taking sonar images of your junk flying kind. The health volunteers were taken on a field trip to the jungle for a lesson on medicinal plants and herbs and such. There was not so much learning, but more wandering and sweating. But, after all that, we stopped off in a smal communal area for some fresh juice. Before jumping back into the bus for the bumpy ride, I deemed it necessary to bleed the bladder. In such a rural environment, it's either go on a tree, which my counterparts may not have appreciated, or the pit latrines. I chose the latter. As I stood there doing my thing and looking into the black, excrement filled abyss, I thought how funny it would be if something flew out at me. Then I heard the high pitched squeak that I've associated with nocturnal flying hunters, and my amusing little daydream came to fruition. I saw the bat dart across the opening of the latrine hole, and DEFINTELY pegged it with my sweet stream of relief. Giggling and trying to expedite the process, I stood there yelling "Tony there's a bat in here hurry up!" And it gave me one more dive bomb as at flew out of the opening then right back in again. I kicked the door open and ran back to the van, laughing uncontrollably and realizing when I got back to the van that my fly was still down. Ah well, such is life.
Other than that things have been pretty routine. I've got a just a couple more weeks with my host family, who have been great. I have a room upstairs right next to my host sister and her husband. They're super cool people and have taught me a lot. One of their defining characteristics, however, is their membership to the Seventh Day Adventist church. Which they attend every Saturday...Dare I say religiously!? Now, ever since I've been here, each morning I've been awakened by docile, atonal incantations of hymnals sung while seated on the couch just outside my door. When I first arrived, this didn't usually start until around 5:45 am because my host sister Shelley was on maternity leave. Now that leave has ended and the praising now starts promptly at 5:15. This is usually a rather amusing situation, and once or twice, I've ruined the sanctity of the moment with my morning bathroom visit. But when nature calls, one must be punctual. Expecially when it's curry calling collect from your sigmoid colon. Their church is constantly giving them new, exciting, and often obscure literature. Just last week, I came across a title that made me chortle with glee. The alliteration is my favorite part, and I was so tickled I took a picture. It was called "The Lady, her Lover, and her Lord" I can only imagine what lessons lay dormant in so rich a text. But I guess I'll never know.
I did get my site placement a few days ago. I'll be living in a city in the center of the country called Linden. There will be three other volunteers living with my in a large house, each in our own apartment. Should be a nice mix of Guyana and America. It's very likely that we'll get internet connection at the house, so the updates will be more frequent and even more whimsical. This will likely be my last update as a Peace Corps trainee. Then I'll be a fully fledged Peace Corps volunteer after I get sworn in. Hope you all are well and good!
One love,
Tony
Saturday, March 6, 2010
This one time, I swam to Brazil
For serious, I actually swam across a river that separates Guyana and Brazil. Now I can officially say that I've been to Brazil. How did I come to encounter such a river, you may ask? Well, as you may remember from my last posting, I spent a week with a serving volunteer in Region 9 of Guyana, which is the southwestern most section of the country. The land changes from coastal jungle to flatland savanna with gorgeous mountains encircling the villages. The volunteer I stayed with has a house in the city of Lethem, right on the border, however, we spent most of our time out in the bush. No joke, I slept in a mud hut in a hammock. It was better than whatever arbitrary holiday you deem to be your favorite. Speaking of holidays, Guyana has 13 national holidays. I kid you not. Thirteen days a year, nobody goes to work. Mostly they're religious holidays. For example, two weeks ago was Mashramani. It's a word from the native people of Guyana that means "celebration after a great harvest." Now, it hasn't rained here since November, so the harvest really hasn't even happened yet. But the Guyanese didn't seem to think that was reason enough to forgo their inebriated adventures. Then, the following Saturday, it was a Muslim holiday celebrating the birth of the prophet mohammed. I was unaware that Muslim holidays are all based around lunar cycles. Egg on my face. But I digress.
Region 9 is truly something to behold. I much prefer it to the coastal areas of the country. It's the first place I've been here that I actually feel an attachment to. I also prefer the small AmerIndian (native) communities to the cities. The pace of life is much slower, the people are incredibly friendly, and thatched roof mud huts are more than a little endearing. I rode for two hours in a range rover to this village, bouncing and bumping all the way. When I got there, I oversaw the construction of a well. Apparently they assume that white people coming into the village know everything. I reassured them that my knowledge is severely lacking in many places, however, if they could provide the legos, I could totally build a scale model.
My second day there, I watched a farmer named Rudy get some fresh milk, to which he then offered, and I happily accepted. Milk straight from the teat is, shall I say, titillating? Anyway, his wife, Lucy, continued cooking and made me breakfast. So to even out the deal, I rode one of the guy's horses out to his farm at the base of the mountains and helped him out for the day. That night, we were going to kill a chicken for dinner. But Lucy had bought a rooster especially for us to eat. So when the rooster was caught, Lucy proceeded to kill it...With its own feather. I'm completely serious. I have pictures. She pulled one of the wing feathers, tilted its head forward, and poked to base of the feather into the brain. It. Was. Crazy. And he was indeed, quite delicious. Not to mention that fruit trees are EVERYWHERE. And they bear fruit constantly, because the weather allows it. So we picked young coconuts, sliced them open with a machete, and drank fresh coconut water mixed with fresh lime juice. Simply amazing.
Needless to say, I much prefer living in the remote setting. I'll know my final site placement on Friday, so I can give at least a general description of where I'll be and my living situation and so on and so forth.
As of Sunday, I'll have been here for one month. Only 25 more to go!
One love,
Tony
Region 9 is truly something to behold. I much prefer it to the coastal areas of the country. It's the first place I've been here that I actually feel an attachment to. I also prefer the small AmerIndian (native) communities to the cities. The pace of life is much slower, the people are incredibly friendly, and thatched roof mud huts are more than a little endearing. I rode for two hours in a range rover to this village, bouncing and bumping all the way. When I got there, I oversaw the construction of a well. Apparently they assume that white people coming into the village know everything. I reassured them that my knowledge is severely lacking in many places, however, if they could provide the legos, I could totally build a scale model.
My second day there, I watched a farmer named Rudy get some fresh milk, to which he then offered, and I happily accepted. Milk straight from the teat is, shall I say, titillating? Anyway, his wife, Lucy, continued cooking and made me breakfast. So to even out the deal, I rode one of the guy's horses out to his farm at the base of the mountains and helped him out for the day. That night, we were going to kill a chicken for dinner. But Lucy had bought a rooster especially for us to eat. So when the rooster was caught, Lucy proceeded to kill it...With its own feather. I'm completely serious. I have pictures. She pulled one of the wing feathers, tilted its head forward, and poked to base of the feather into the brain. It. Was. Crazy. And he was indeed, quite delicious. Not to mention that fruit trees are EVERYWHERE. And they bear fruit constantly, because the weather allows it. So we picked young coconuts, sliced them open with a machete, and drank fresh coconut water mixed with fresh lime juice. Simply amazing.
Needless to say, I much prefer living in the remote setting. I'll know my final site placement on Friday, so I can give at least a general description of where I'll be and my living situation and so on and so forth.
As of Sunday, I'll have been here for one month. Only 25 more to go!
One love,
Tony
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