It's a little hot for heaven

It’s been awhile since my last update. Turns out that the second half of August, and the first half of September have been rather uneventful. My schedule suddenly became very open as classes were on summer break, and the clinic was even slower than normal. Now I’ve been here almost eight months, and I’m still adjusting to the vast differences of life in Guyana. Just when I thought my body was acclimating to the tropical environment, the weather got even more hot and humid. I remember when I was a kid, I used to think how amazing it would be if summer lasted all year. And after being here this long, I can tell you that the magic is gone. In Oregon we have very distinct seasons. But as October approaches, I find that the weather is exactly the same as it was when I arrived in February. Maybe just a little hotter. I thought I was acclimating, but last week I got back from a morning at the clinic, and my shirt looked like this.

I know many questions are running through your head, dear reader. Are those really sweat stains? Did he go running in a dress shirt? Was it raining in patches? The answer is yes to the first of the above questions. That shirt was adorning my person for only a few short hours. I was working up at the clinic, and the nurses and I were walking around the neighborhood distributing flu vaccines. Despite my relatively active lifestyle, a slow saunter around the immediate vicinity caused me to transform my dress shirt into an extra salty Rorschach test. Even the waistline is soiled in the Everglades like mess of my equator. This is not an altogether uncommon occurrence. But this shirt was a particularly fantastic example due to the contrast of sweaty region to not sweaty. I’m also fortunate enough to have a Laundromat around the corner from our house. So once a week, I take a big bag of clothes over to my buddy James, and he washes, dries, and folds my clothes. Lazy? Perhaps. But truth be told, I hate doing laundry by hand. I hate it with the fiery passion of a thousand white hot suns. Some volunteers hate cooking, so they pay someone for that service. As we all know, that is not a problem for me.

Other changes since my last update…After almost six months, I finally got a haircut. Fear not though! My housemate Chelsea performed the aesthetic alteration this time. So I don’t have to sport that whole “Eastern Block” look that was my cross to bear during my first couple months here. That decision came after a particular incident a few weeks ago. Initially, I had planned to just let my hair grow for about a year, just to see how it looked. I made it halfway. After six months, the humor of it was lost on me. It wasn’t even that funny anymore. I started to share a frightening resemblance to Tom Hanks in CastAway. After he’d been on the island for four years, mind you. I would never compare myself to the argyle-sweater sporting mid-90s Tom Hanks. Anyway, so the hair was not only ridiculously hot, but I looked so deliciously white trash that I couldn’t stand it anymore. But I was still pretty determined, until this happened:

At the clinic one afternoon, it was still extremely slow. I was sitting in a small room with a fan, reading a book. In walks one of the younger nurses, and before I can finish the sentence I’m reading, I feel fingers start fondling my golden locks. I pause, place my book down, and without a word, give one of those looks that says “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” She looked at me, stopped moving her hand, than said “Oh, is this not ok?” My mind raced over a variety of response from the crass to the combative before I settled on “I’d prefer you didn’t, but do what you have to.” Fortunately, she caught on to the underlying message, and quickly stopped. But not before exclaiming “YOUR HAIR IS SO SOFT!!!” I concurred, then she reached up to feel her own hair, a look of longing on her face as she contemplated the difference in hair types. I decided right then that a good shearing was required.

BEHOLD!!

Before...

After...

With my new ‘do came a new schedule. Classes have finally started back up again, so I’m finding that I have more to do finally. Going from the slow start up to busy then back to minimal activity was a difficult transition. This month I’m reviewing materials from the last semester that students still had issues with. Then come October, the next semester officially starts. I will be helping teach a class on pathologies and disease states as well as a class on health assessment. Or, if things go as they did last semester, I’ll be writing the curriculum and tests for the pathology course as well!

Not everything is going as smooth as the teaching job however. Including in the kitchen. My diet down here has become predominately vegetarian since moving to Guyana. Not only am I extremely cautious about eating meat in a third world country, (for a variety of reasons I won’t get into here. But let’s just say the livestock wanders around the streets…and it’s true that you are what you eat) but it can be quite expensive as well. Now, down here, I put hot sauce on EVERYTHING. I’ve always been a big fan of spicy foods. The Guyanese have a sauce they make which they simply call pepper. It is aptly named, and on the upper end of the spicy spectrum. If you get a little too overzealous with it, you’re guaranteed to be singing “Ring of Fire” for your next few bathroom visits. Anyway, the climate here is just as hot as the food, and it’s rare that I’m wearing more than just shorts while at home. As I was making some food the other night, I opened a brand new bottle of pepper. My attention wasn’t entirely on the bottle, and as the cap started to reveal the opening to the bottle, a Vesuvius like eruption cause pepper to spray ALL over everything, including your shirtless narrator. I tried to put the cap back on, but there was a substantial amount of pressure, and the sauce looked as though it were boiling. I finally managed to get the cap secured, and sat in wonder at this bizarre chemical reaction. It took a few minutes to clean up, and I finished cooking. But, about ten minutes later, that all too familiar burning sensation started emanating from my torso. I had cleaned the pepper off myself quickly, but the volume and concentration apparently cared not for my expedient sanitation. Lucky for you all, I had to foresight to document the injury. Those are not stretch marks from a girthy meal, but chemical burns from hot sauce.

I've been keeping busy though. Finished what I can only guess is my 18th or 19th book since arriving here. And, fellow volunteers Jason, Kirsten, and myself have spent the last few months training for a half marathon! It takes place the first weekend in December...In beautiful Barbados! So if you happen to find yourself in that part of the Caribbean in early December, you'll have to let me know!

Hope you all are well!

~Tony

Oh, and since I privatized my blog, only those who have invites can view it. So if you have anyone who used to enjoy it, but was inadvertently shunned by me, then let me know! I'm happy to send them an invite if you send me their email...

Half a year away

It’s been six months since I’ve arrived in Guyana, and I’m not even close to running out of shampoo. Thanks Costco! There have been many ups and downs during the past few months. There has been much adjustment. Some on my part, and some from those I work with adjusting to me. There have been good days and bad days. Some of the good days have been really good, and some of the bad really bad. I feel accomplished to have persevered this long, especially when I know that I’m about a quarter of the way through my time here. That seems crazy to me, but there it is.

I’ll be home to visit in a year, so please plan your lives accordingly if you require your own personal excursion into whimsy. Life in Linden is amusing and a far cry from the life I grew up with. The other night, I had to shepherd a frog out of my apartment. After living here long enough, I’ve gotten accustomed to having uninvited visitors both in my home and on my person. The mosquitoes fight dirty, biting tops of feet and around the ankles. You know how difficult it is to scratch your ankle?! But I digress.

Tim, Sara, Chelsea and I recently got our bicycles. Linden isn’t that big of a place, especially compared to the cities we’re used to. I mean, Guyana’s entire population is about the same as Portland. Excited for my new ease of transportation, I took my brand spanking new mountain bike down to the market to get a few things. I named it Black Mamba due to its grey and black color scheme. Anyway, it would seem that I have an inability to behave properly or follow regulations on anything with two wheels. My first time out on the bike, I got stopped by the police. I’m not kidding. My crime? Going the wrong way down a one-way street. For the record, there is no sign indicating the direction of traffic flow. So, as I was cruising along, giggling to myself at my new found expediency, when a small man in a black beret and a tan trenchcoat got out of a police pickup and said with unimpeded disdain, “Sir! This is a one way. You’ll have to turn around.” I briefly sized him up, guessing that I could probably outrun him, and finish my errands as quickly as I had originally anticipated. I felt especially confident in my escapist abilities due to the fact that this guy was wearing a long coat…in the tropics. Honestly, who wears a coat down here? Windows don’t even close all the way, no matter what time of year! Oh well. Then, I realized that I’m one of like, 4 white guys in the whole city. It wouldn’t exactly be hard to track me down and give me my rightfully deserved citation. Especially since I can see the police station from my house. Plus, he had a serious case of small man syndrome, and would have likely found my attempted escape a worthy reason to thump my skull with whatever blunt instrument his embarrassingly small-fingered hands could procure. I had to turn around, ride back to the street I had just turned from, then continue on to the next block before I could continue in the desired direction. As it turns out, due to the large number of one way streets I can only bike on uni-directionally, the bicycle really makes no difference to my errand running time. Instead of the shortest route, I have to pedal my cracker ass all the way down to the main road to even get where I need to in the market. Egg on my face.

Work has slowed down slightly, as I just gave the final for my class last week. Now the students have a few weeks off before the next semester starts. I’ll still be working with the faculty to modify the existing curriculum both in content and structure. Next semester, the most time-consuming class is pathophysiology which I will be teaching only about one day a week. The nursing school is a three year program, and several of the second and third year students have approached me to ask if I’d be available to teach some refresher courses for their groups. Looks like the nursing school will have their own token white guy for the next couple of years! Maybe by then the questions will cease. But that’s doubtful. Back at the clinic, my boss and I have started a club for the elderly that will meet once a month. We’re planning on doing some cooking demonstrations, exercise regiments, and some open discussion on the two prevalent diseases: hypertension and diabetes. The cooking demonstrations will attempt to show people how to make the foods they love without the huge amount of salt they typically add for flavor. Many people here use MSG, salt, and buillon cubes for flavor. Some will even put all three in the same dish. Most are floored when I tell them that all three are just variations of salt. So if they can use natural flavorings to still get a meal they find appetizing, then I’ll be pleased.

Oh, and tomorrow is my dad’s birthday. Be sure and call him and yell “Happy Birthday you Heifer!”

Because I feel he deserves the attention.

Dear Robin, stop complaining. Love, Tony

Before I begin, you’ll notice that you had to sign in this time. That’s because I wanted to make this blog private, so that only those I invite will be able to read and comment on it. So that’s what’s happening there. If you know of someone I forgot that needs and invite, then let me know! Now, without further ado, I give you the latest excursion into whimsy!

We all must eventually appeal to that only child we all know…

My friend Robin is an only child. Because Robin is SUCH and only child, I’m forced to write this update sooner than later so she well stop admonishing me from another continent. Therefore, to appease the cranky woman I’ve known for all these years, I bring you…

A whimsical tale of development and awkward inquiries:

(Stop complaining, Forner.)

I’m currently in Georgetown for my three-month reconnect. That means after three months of being out on our own as Official Peace Corps Volunteers, our entire group is staying in a hotel for a weeklong session of training/meetings. The first two months at site were relatively uneventful. The third month, however, has kept this spry young buck up on his whimsical toes.

As I mentioned in my previous post, I’ve taken another job teaching anatomy and physiology. Well, this has been not only a substantial amount of work, but also the primary focus of my time here. In case you missed it, I, Anthony Paul Burden, Peace Corps Volunteer and occasional stainer of worldly fabrics, have essentially become the anatomy and physiology department attached to the local hospital. The entire anatomy and physiology class is a four month program. When I walked on this job, there were only 5 weeks remaining. Of the 14 units on the curriculum, the class had only progressed to unit 3. I crammed most of the material into the remaining 4 weeks. I was essentially given free reign of the material. Which is great, because all lectures, course materials, and exams are written and controlled by me. This has been an enjoyable challenge. I have this magical and optimistic idea that nurses should have a basic understanding of human anatomy and physiology. Call me a dreamer, but it’s true. The whole nursing school program is three years. I work with the first year students. However, the second and third years I’ve had conversations with have very, very little knowledge on either subject. When I inquired as to why that was, they informed me that the second and third year groups had the anatomy and physiology class, but no actual teacher. They were instead given the same classroom time, and a few books, then told simply to “learn the material.” So once I’ve finished with the first years and this semester, I’ve requested that I be able to do some extra classes with the older groups. This has been tentatively approved, and hopefully these nurses will graduate with some idea of what muscles and bones go where and how they work! After the final, I’m scheduled to sit down and meet with the other teachers and go over the curriculum, and have been asked to provide opinions and insight into any potential changes to make the material flow more smoothly. I have some big plans for this program, and cannot wait to see what options are available.

I really enjoy the job, it’s not only a good use of my time and knowledge, but rewarding as well. Not to mention I’ve probably heard some of the best and most awkward questions since starting that job. Here are some of my favorites (see also: the ones I can remember.)

On my first day, there were the standard questions that I get from every Guyanese that I meet:

“Are you married?”

“Why not?”

“Do you have kids?”

“You don’t want kids?”

“Well do you have a girlfriend?”

“What about a Guyanese girlfriend?”

After that inquisition was satisfied, they then had to know how old I was. A wave of shock and awe spread across the room when I informed that I was only 24, and therefore one of the youngest people at the school. As I was about to leave, one girl raises her hand and waves me over to her desk. “Yeah, what’s up?” I say. She motions me down closer, and by her face I can tell this is going to be one of THOSE questions. One not intended for the ears of others. Already committed since walking over to her desk, I reluctantly lean down, and she asks “Sir…I was wondering…Do you date students?” And her eyes looked up all full of hope and excitement. Unable to hide my overall amusement, I responded with “No, as your teacher, that would be an ethical dilemma.” I’m not sure if she understood that whole concept, but had to get the hell outta dodge!

Before I continue, I must point out that all my students call me “sir.” It makes me feel a bit old, but that’s how the education system is here. Anyway, here are some more great questions and my smart ass responses. These are all questions I was really, truly asked.

Q: “Sir, can I have your eyes?”

A: “Sure. When I’m done with them.”

Q: “But you’ll be dead!”

A: “Exactly.”

This one took place after lecture.

Q: “Sir? Could I make a small request?”

A: “Sure. What do you need?”

Q: “Could you not move so much when you lecture?”

A: “Um…Ok, but what for?”

Her actual response: “Because I’m having trouble drawing you.”

She then proceeds to show me her notebook, where I saw a portrait of myself, but no facial features. Apparently, faces are hard to draw while the subject is on the move. I was super excited to find out that instead of learning the material, she had been doodling. To the surprise of no one, she hasn’t performed too well on the tests so far.

Just last week, a student called me over to ask a question. As I leaned down to explain the material, a girl sitting immediately to my right leaned away from me, and pulled up a camera. As I turned to ask if she was indeed trying to take my picture, she slid the camera back underneath her desk and feigned ignorance.

Probably my favorite of all time:

Q: “Sir, why isn’t my hair all cute and blonde like yours?”

A: “Well, without getting into the genetics of it…That’s because your parents are black.”

I now spend Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays at the nursing college. It has become my primary focus, as well as a place that has long term potential for the duration of my stay in Guyana. I still work at the clinic, but now they only see me on Mondays and Fridays. My boss at the clinic and I have started up a specialty clinic for the elderly, since that is the largest demographic in the immediate vicinity of the clinic. It will focus on nutrition and dietary choices, as well as food preparation and regular exercise. Both hypertension and diabetes are practically endemic to the area, so we plan on focusing on those two issues.

So I’ve been out of communication for a few weeks now, in part due to lack of internet access, and in part to being extremely busy. These five months have flown by, but only in retrospect. One of the strangest things about being here is that days seem to go by slowly, but months just fall off the calender. Overall, I’m still enjoying my time. I probably spend more time with locals than I do with other volunteers. I’ve been adopted by a family in the neighborhood, and I hang out over there a lot. The mother, Lisa, her daughter, Delicia and I cook all the time. The grandfather, Dick, is a bit of a gearhead and we discuss motorcycles and engines all the time. He even brought out an old photo album, and showed me picture of he and his friends riding their old Hondas into Suriname in the early 60s. Then just a few weeks ago, one of the guys who drives me to work saw me out in the market, and said he wanted to show me something. He came and picked me up the following Saturday, and drove me up to this area of land he had just purchased to begin farming. It was beautiful, with lush jungle and a creek running through it. We then proceeded to plant some mango trees. The people here have been extremely friendly and welcoming since I first got here, but now that I have several local friends, I feel even more at home.

Well I think this update has been long enough. No more complaining, Robin.

All the best,

Tony

If you haven't already, you should call my Mom!

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)

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

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

"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