Tassa is a form of kettle drum, presumably of Persian derivation. Tassa drums are widespread in North India. Typically, one or more tassa drums are played together with a heavy bass drum called dhol, perhaps along with brass cymbals or a metal shaker. Tassa-dhol ensembles of three to five players are especially common in street processions, whether associated with weddings, political rallies, or Muslim Muharram commemorations. In Maharashtra, ensembles of several dozen drummers compete in festivities honoring the deity Ganesh. Drummers in these ensembles are often amateurs, or specialists in other drum traditions. Brought by indentured workers to the Caribbean in the 19th century, tassa ensembles have flourished with great dynamism in Trinidad, and also in Florida, New York, Canada and various other places where the Indo-Caribbean communities are found.

So without further ado....

ROLL DE TASSA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'M OFFICIALLY STAYING FOR A THIRD YEAR IN GUYANA! WHOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!

As I sit here on this cool and somewhat cloudy Saturday morning in February, I'm reflective and grateful. These past 6 months have been a blur. School days, sports, holidays, projects, friends, a closing conference, and decisions surrounded me and still do. I can genuinely say that my time here has gone by in the blink of an eye. There have been many ups and downs, obstacles and accomplishments, tears and laughter but most of all there have been memories.The purpose of a Peace Corps Volunteer is not, however, to solely improve his/her community but to also improve the lives of others, and in turn improve their own life. I can say with confidence that I have improved the life of at least one person while here in Guyana and can only hope that I've touched the lives of others the way they have touched mine. This being said, I have had the unique opportunity to be involved with a branch of Lion's Club and their impacting project of a free community-based eye clinic. Yes, I said free. Of course we all know if we paid attention in high school economics that there is "no free lunch" meaning simply that even if YOU get a free lunch, someone somewhere else has paid for the bag you're eating it from, or the farmer has paid to grow the items inside the sandwich you're munching on; in essence, even if you get it for free, it's not free for someone else who has provided it to you. But, that's not the point...I digress.Every year (for at least the past 2 years that I know of, maybe more before I came) a group of Lion's Club members and some of their friends and/or colleagues come en masse from Canada (in collaboration with the Lion's Club members of Guyana) to a part of Guyana (for security and safety reasons, this location information is confidential) and proceed to set up and provide free eye exams, free reading and/or prescription spectacles, free diabetes and blood pressure (and more) check-ups, and overall a free chance to see without any strings attached. The first time I had the honor of engaging in this week-long activity was in November of 2009. I'll admit I was a little hesitant to spend a week with a bunch of Canadian doctors that I did not know, but the second I was introduced to one I knew in an instant that these extraordinary people were more than just doctors.The more I got to know and work with these group of angels, the more I realized that they were doing what I was trying to accomplish in two years in just one week. I admired and was in awe of these incredible people. The second time they came, February of 2010, I did not get the chance to work alongside them but rather reached up with them following their clinic. We had still kept in contact and seeing them again made me confirm that our friendship was unique and heartfelt. This year, they came again, with more people in their team than ever before. Although I couldn't have worked with them the entire week they came, working with them for even a couple of days was satisfying for me. But the best part of working with them, besides the selfish reasons of spending time with good friends, is seeing the impact they make on so many lives in that one week.This time around, their clinic was able to improve 1300+ lives and their ability to see. This is no small task my friends, as all members worked from early morning hours till late afternoon not to mention the short lunch breaks they took. Alongside them, the Lion's members from Guyana helped making communications, logistics, companionship, and more, possible for this group of hard working individuals. In the end, even after they go, people will be talking about the "white doctors" that came and helped them see again; the friendly faces and moments of genuine TLC they received will imprint on all the persons involved with these projects.For me to have even gotten the opportunity to assist and spend time amongst these people is a privilege for me. The friends I get to keep, the memories, and the experience all add up to one greater purpose...making a difference.

Stealing this phrase from a picture Mica found in her area, I have to tell all my friends and family just how random a day in the life of a PCV can be. Take yesterday... it would take forever to explain stories, so please just bear with me.

Morning time randomness: up at 5:30, cooking and gaffing with a Guyanese cousin; killing a cockroach; sweeping; news; visiting a Guyanese person and collecting clothes for another Guyanese person; traveling in two different cars to get to one place and then a bus to get to a second place; carrying bags like a homeless person across town; checking email; making phone calls for free; arriving at a friend's house. ALL before 11 am.

Afternoon time: making lunch for three; cleaning a kitchen; going through a PCVs clothes to see what I can take; packing up same PCV to go home; listening to music; dance party; walking to the gas station to buy a coke and chips; seeing a postman friend and his family; pretending to be real live froggers dodging the traffic; being bitten by a dog; washing feet at a pipe; looking for a dead mouse.

Evening time: (I'd say starting around 6:00) cooking dinner for three; improvising; watching America's Got Talent; hearing about a tramp in overalls that needs a haircut (Otis Redding anyone?); more packing and sorting; finding a blues DVD and attempting to watch while laughing through tears; gagging; slapping mosquitoes; watching Indian Soaps; bed.

Random days, random thoughts, random life. Love this PC experience!

Hospitality: –noun

1. the friendly reception and treatment of guests or strangers.

2. the quality or disposition of receiving and treating guests and strangers in a warm, friendly, generous way.

In the Bible, offering hospitality is a moral imperative. God's people remember that they were once strangers and refugees who were taken in by God (Deuteronomy 10:19). The Greek word xenos means "stranger", but also "guest" and "host". From xenos comes the New Testament word for hospitality: philoxenia means a love of the guest/stranger or enjoyment of hosting guests. Recall a time when you experienced the enjoyment of being a host... when you were the guest of a gracious host. "Contribute to the needs of the saints; extend hospitality to strangers."

— Romans 12:13

Offering hospitality is fundamental to Hindu culture and providing food and shelter to a needy stranger was a traditional duty of the householder. The unexpected guest is called the atithi, literally meaning "without a set time." Scripture enjoins that the atithi be treated as God. It was especially important to extend hospitality towards brahmanas, sannyasis and other holy people. There are many stories regarding the benefits of offering a suitable reception and the sins that accrue from neglecting one's guests. Tradition teaches that, no matter how poor one is, one should always offer three items: sweet words, a sitting place, and refreshments (at least a glass of water). The flower garland is offered to special guests and dignitaries, as a symbol of loving exchange. "Even an enemy must be offered appropriate hospitality if he comes to your home. A tree does not deny its shade even to the one who comes to cut it down."

- Mahabharata 12.374

In Islamic tradition (muslim culture) it is the same as well: The Messenger of Allah [s] further guides us by saying: "Whoever believes in Allah and the Last Day should be hospitable with his or her guests." Our great Prophet [s] teaches us to be generous and how to entertain guests. He wants a Muslim to show gratitude and be kind and happy when receiving guests. One should respect and welcome his guests, in particular when they are strangers, or have no family or friends in that country. Shaikh Abbas Qummi, Safinat al-Bihar, Bab Dhaif, Sunan ibn Maja, vol. 2, Haq al Jiwar (The rights of neighbours), Ikram al-Dhaif (Respecting the Guest).

The three main faiths of Guyana, Chrisitianity, Hinduism and Islam mirror each other. They may differ in certain beliefs, traditions, rituals and words, but overall, these three faiths are synonomous with each other. It is because of this and because Guyana is a faith-based society, deep into their religions, that hospitality is valued here.

From the moment I have stepped off the plane, until now, I have been treated with utmost respect and been shown the most generous of hospitality from most everyone I have known. Of course, some people would disagree with me, but for me, this experience has been one of awe to the people that live in this beautiful and extraordinary country.

Although Guyana is a third-world country, the people of this country exude better hospitality manners than most that I've seen in the states. Oh, now don't grumble! I'm saying that of the experiences that I've had with dropping in on a person, meeting strangers, showing up unannounced, and the like in the states, I would be deemed an ill-mannered person. "I mean, she doesn't even have the manners to call before hand? Sheesh!" But here, that's not even an issue.

My fellow PCVs and RPCVs will, I'm sure, giggle at the following reference, but for those of you who have never experienced it, let me paint a picture for you...

It's Saturday. It's a day off for you (from your work site, not from being a PCV). You've decided to get up early and do your laundry before the sun rises and you start sweating more than you are now. You also thought you might lay in your hammock and read a little or watch a movie (if you happen to have electricity), and maybe a little later you might call a fellow PCV and get something to eat or cook together for a fun meal. It's 6:15 and you've just rolled out of bed, eyeing the laundry and telling it, "jus' now". Suddenly, you hear someone yelling "INSIDE!... INSIDE!... INSIDE!..." You don't THINK it's for you, but when you peep out the window, you see someone standing at the gate of your house. Oh! It IS for you! It's your boyfriend's late father's sister's daughter and her kids (that's Guyanese for your boyfriend's cousin). She doesn't notice that you've peeped through the window and continues to yell INSIDE! until you open the door and go to the gate. Suddenly, your plans for your lazy Saturday are out the window and you're cooking for 5 instead of 1, entertaining with silly stories, gossiping until you're sure your ears are going to fall off, and before you know it, it's 5:00 and they're leaving to go home.

As you watch them catch a car and wave goodbye you think, "well....guess I'll have to do my laundry in the dark and hope mosquitoes don't eat me alive". You are not upset at all that people dropped in on you so early in the morning (here, that's not early, that's running late) or that you used your lazy Saturday doing things other than what it was intended for, but you know if you were back in the states, those people would have been rude. For me, I look forward to the unintential visits and the guests that drop in on me at any and all hours. It's the unexpected moments that take my breath away and make me stop, thank God, Krishna, Allah for the gift of hospitality. My time here in Guyana has made me realize that hospitality is not a talent or a good deed but a privilege. Old or young, Indo or Afro, poor or rich, it doesn't matter to the Guyanese. Feel like you're imposing? Not at all! It's an honor to host. Worried they won't have time for you?Don't take worries my friend, they're happy to have you and would give up all they're plans to have you as their guest. No wonder Guyanese are known as the most hospitable people in the Caribbean.

Want to come? :-)

3 Cups of Tea

The Last Lecture

Quirkology

The Bean Trees

The Secret Letters

Living Poor: A Peace Corps Chronicle

A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers

The Kite Runner

Water For Elephants

A Thousand White Women

Down & Out In The Magic Kingdom

The Captain’s Wife

The Memory Keeper’s Daughter

The Time Traveler’s Wife

Life of Pi

The Rule of Four

A Wrinkle in Time

A Wind in the Door

A Swiftly Tilting Planet

The Princess Bride

A Thousand Splendid Suns

The White Tiger

Peace Like A River

The Bell Jar

Srimad Bhagavatam (Bhagavad-Gita)

The Commoner

A Field of Darkness

The Mushroom Man

City of Secrets: The True Stories of the Vatican Murders

The Tipping Point

Night Train

The Dollhouse Murders

The Woebegone Boy

Lime Tree Can’t Bear Orange

The Namesake

Unaccustomed Earth

PUSH

Mountains Beyond Mountains

The Secret Life of Bees

Snow Flower & The Secret Fan

Miles From Nowhere

Daughter of Fortune

The Deep End of the Ocean

Lipshitz 6 –or- Two Angry Blondes

When You Are Engulfed in Flames

The God of Small Things

The Hero’s Walk

Chapter One

No boundaries. Your life has no boundaries. Did you know that? If you want to be a bum, you can; if you want to be a millionaire you can! Anything you set your mind to it, you can achieve it. This is the mantra I’ve grown up listening to. And you know what? I think it’s true but it’s damn hard to think that way. Very few people in the world grow up believing that they can achieve things. Let’s face it: most people are born into a family that already has some sort of situation going on-they owe the government too much money; they have enemies; they are all doctors or nurses; they are the strongest Christians in the town. Your future is somewhat predestined according to where, when, why and to whom you are born. It is up to you, however, to change your path and make your life what you will, even if you are the third and youngest son of a prominent farmer on the Essequibo Coast, Guyana and are next in line for the house, the business, and the lifestyle everyone expects you to live.

Taking advice from Mr. Gandhi himself, “Be the change you wish to see in the world,” I changed my path in life. I entered the Peace Corps at age 25. At the time, I had a decent job at a construction company with bosses and co-workers that I really truly loved. I enjoyed my time spent there and the things I learned and still think I’m crazy for giving up that job. The fact is, however, that although my job was enjoyable, I didn’t attend college to be a secretary and knew that different things were in store for me. At this time in my life, I was starting to see jobs drop like flies and people lose their houses and livelihoods all around me. Not that I thought I was next, but I got a little notion in me to move myself into a different field and fast. Maybe it was divine intervention, maybe it was a sixth sense, but whatever it was, it told me to go swiftly.

Some interviews, several doctors appointments, piles of paper and one big goodbye party, all in a little less than a year later, I was packed and on my way to the airport, heading for my first encounter of other good-hearted, self-less, adventurous and otherwise insane people in Pennsylvania, at which point we’d all meet, spend a night getting to know each other and then take off to a place none of us had really ever heard before-Guyana. A couple months before, my heart had been shattered when I received a call saying that my intended mission to the South Pacific had been cancelled and that I’d be re-routed to an equally exotic and exciting place. I had my doubts. Before leaving, I spent two months adjusting to my obvious shock and researching my new home for the next two years, but still wasn’t convinced that I’d be happy or even be able to survive in a country I wasn’t prepared to go to. I guess now, looking back, nothing you do really prepares you for anything in life but it’s the things that are thrown at you that make you stronger.

Sad goodbyes and many tears later, I sat in my seat on the plane fully intending on crying and feeling sad for the entire flight, or at least most of it. God apparently had other plans for me. A soft tap on the shoulder and a quiet “excuse me” made me turn around. A girl in a bright red sweatshirt and hair pulled into a short reddish-brown ponytail smiled and asked me why I was going to Pennsylvania. I confess I immediately thought this girl to be rude; how dare she bother me when I was obviously upset? Still crying, I answered her, “I’ve joined the Peace Corps and am flying there to meet the other volunteers.” Her face instantly brightened and she replied, “Me, too.” How quickly tears dry when you find such happiness in a sad moment! A couple switches later and I was sitting in the same aisle and had made my first Peace Corps friend, Krystal. In between she and I sat an old man who at first refused to move. He babbled proudly about how he had quit his job and was going to find work elsewhere, all the while sipping on his snuck bottle of airline-sized liquor. After visibly getting sick of us talking around him, he switched places with me and thus Krystal and I set off on our adventure together.

The first night of my Peace Corps experience was a blur of faces, late night sight-seeing, and clothing. The clothing stands out in memory to me because some of us had previously linked up online and discussed how to stay warm in February in Pennsylvania while having packed simultaneously for a year-round tropical climate. The conclusion was this: cheap, second-hand, and of course ugly, Christmas sweaters. Our plan was to show up in these sweaters to better identify each other and to share a little generosity by donating these said sweaters before embarking on our two year service. It turned out beautifully. Just before leaving for our flight out of New York, we donated the sweaters in large garbage bags to the hotel to disperse for us to the nearest Good Will store or the like.

The next day we gathered with nervous excitement and smiles all around to see what was in store for our last day in country. It turned out to be a day that sped past as quickly as saying goodbye to our loved ones. A review of policies, rules and regulations, last minute signatures, and snap shots filled our morning and early afternoon. Around 4pm, we were ushered onto a bus having re-packed things and impromptu purchases into our designated 80lb limit bags. That bus ride may have been one of the most nerve racking experiences had it not been for the voices and stories we comforted each other with. The excitement crackled in the air; you could feel the energy-charged bus whizzing through the highways on the way to New York. It was like everyone could see us coming saying, “Watch out world! Here we come!”

Some hours later, all of us situated in our scattered seats, we sat back and waited for the plane to take off, knowing that for most of us, this would be the last we’d see of the states for quite a while. I sat sandwiched between an older gentleman of smallish stature who spoke not a word through the entire flight but instead looked like he was praying that the Lord not let us plummet to our deaths on this very crowded flight to Guyana and a man I would later come to realize as a typical Guyanese. Let me explain: this man was very outgoing, colorful in character, forward, and talkative. He also had on two pairs of jeans, several shirts, a jean jacket, and four hats. This should have been a sign to me that my time spent in Guyana would be constantly filled with crazy, hilarious, and dramatic events but alas, I’m blind when it comes to signs unless they are spelled out for me. He proceeded to spend the first part of the flight explaining his family history, his purpose coming from New York back to Guyana (for a funeral), his marital status, and all his worldly assets. Somewhere over the ocean, he dozed off in the middle of one of his stories and ended up drooling on my shoulder; such is the lot of a middle seat passenger. He must have known where Trinidad or Barbados was by instinct because he woke up only to continue exactly where he left off as if he had not just spent the last three hours bobbing his head and snoring. In this first Guyanese encounter, I received not only one, two, nor three, but four offers to become his wife, his friend, his mistress, and his one-night stand. I told him that the offers were tempting but I kindly refused, each time squeezing my brain for another humane and creative way of turning him down. This would later become one of my specialties during my time in country.

Mercifully, the plane landed a short hour later. The view of Guyana from the window did not do justice to the plush green country. As we neared this hidden gem of South America, the passengers’ chatter hushed and all seemed to take in this stunning landscape. I leaned over Mr. Four Hats very carefully and stared at my new home. I was speechless, scared, and sleep-deprived but eager. We disembarked the plane wide-eyed and wobbly from the eight-hour flight into this other world. Some of the volunteers grumbled about the wave of heat that smacked us in the face, some started acting like tourists snapping pictures of everything (me included), and some simply walked around not able to figure out what to do next. We eventually made it over to customs and waited in line for what seemed forever. We Americans can be very impatient people, generally being accustomed to readily available and speedy drive-up restaurants, efficient and impersonal customer service, and orderliness, so going to another country let alone a third world country takes adjusting. We were about to find out how much adjusting we’d need just to survive the first day. Take a minute and imagine for me, if you will, a pig sty. Picture the pigs lazily lying in the sun, basking in their mud baths and filth. Flies buzz around them. The stench is sometimes too much to bear. Oh how content they are! Now the farmer brings them their food, their slop. Do they jump up and run to the trough to gobble up the food? Maybe one or two do, but most of them mosey on over taking their sweet time. They sniff around, grunt and snort, might get distracted by another’s mud hole, and eventually will make it over to the food, if they feel like it. This is how the line going through customs was.

Finally making it through, we gathered our bags and went through the doors. Outside was some Peace Corps staff of whom we’d later get to know with a giant sign that bore “Welcome to Guyana GUY 21!” It was surreal. Have you ever achieved something and once you achieved it, you didn’t know what to do with it? That’s how I felt at that exact moment. I kept thinking to myself, “I cannot believe I’m actually in Guyana! I’m a Peace Corps Volunteer! Oh crap…what do I do now?” I looked around. People seemed to be thinking the same as me and had the same dazed look on their face. I joined them and was promptly given a beaded necklace, some tags with my name on them, and a fresh coconut with a straw sticking out. Tying the tags onto our bags and sipping the coconut water with our welcome gifts around our necks, we listened to the staff talking around us. We were to be ushered to a hotel and from there we would receive further instructions. Sleep was on the horizon! I was so happy to hear this that I made a beeline for the nearest seat in a car and impatiently waited for everyone else to do the same.

It took some time to get going. Little did I know this same mentality would be the one I’d have to adapt to in my two years in country. How impatient I was to get going and get started on my Peace Corps experience! As we drove through our new home, I stared at the surroundings. Wow! I thought. This place is really a third world country? Aside from some run-down houses and some interesting people on the side of the road, it didn’t look too much like what I pictured as a third-world country. The river was on our left and the green foliage surrounded us on all sides. A sea-wall of sorts stood up protecting the road from any threats of rising water. People stood in their yards, on the sides of the road, and on their verandas. It was so much to take in but my eyes were peeled to this new world. One of the veteran girls in the car with myself and some other newbies, I suddenly realized, was chattering about the places we were passing and answering questions that the others were peppering her with. I listened intently, scared that if I missed anything I’d fail Peace Corps Training 101. I must have looked like a deer in headlights with everything I was taking in.

Chapter Two

We arrived at our hotel within the hour. I stepped out of the car and stretched. I was so relieved to be in the vicinity of a bed that I nearly cried. We were given short instructions and told to check in to our rooms with a roommate of our choosing. We were also told that despite our red-eye, eight-hour flight and obvious jet lag, we’d only have two hours to rest before a brief introductory training and adjusting session. A girl that I had met online before-hand, Jen, and I had decided that because of our instant connection as members of the same sorority in college, we’d bunk together. We gathered what we could carry with us, dumped our belongings on the floor of our less than ideal room, and plopped down on the beds. I can’t even remember Jen telling me she’d set the alarm but soon I was in dream land.

Two hours exactly later, a pounding on the door woke Jen and I up. What happened to the alarm? I thought. Jen and I rushed to freshen up as best we could before jetting downstairs. We joined the rest of our crew, all equally disheveled looking and exhausted. The rest of the afternoon passed in spurts of energy, confusion, sweats, and utter fatigue. By dinnertime, we were overwhelmed, overtired and over the extreme heat that of course none of us were used to yet. We piled into a room with at least ten fans positioned in strategic places intended to cool the room but that realistically only pushed the hot air around. Going through the buffet, food was piled on our plates for us. Baked chicken, steamed fish, vegetables, rice, salad and ketchup was our meal-de-jour. I balanced my overweight plate and found a place to sit with some other people I didn’t really know well, but was intent on befriending. A few minutes later a staff member announced that some veteran Peace Corps Volunteers had come to join us for dinner to answer any questions we may have for them. They introduced themselves and said the obligatory information about jobs, placements, etc.

Grabbing a plate full of food herself, a short but very cheerful looking volunteer sat at our table. We learned her name was Dallas and in mere minutes we also learned that she was a health volunteer, worked with Red Cross doing a variety of projects, and had only 5 months left in her service. What transpired next, I laugh about now, but cried over later that evening. She proceeded to confirm horrors of each of ours; we’d be stuck in remote location, fondly termed “the bush”, with no access to phone or internet ever, we’d be so poor we’d have to live off peanut butter and crackers, none of us would get the chance to visit town, all our clothes would disintegrate, we’d have no electricity ever, etc. I started panicking. Thoughts ran through my mind; would I ever get to talk to my parents, would I have to cook, read, and sleep by candlelight, and would I be lost in the jungle for two years? The rest of her time at the table consisted of her texting some guy she was to meet for a date, discussing the partying she does, and explaining how she was the social coordinator of the two groups of volunteers already in country. Only one person seemed to warm to her immediately; Tolga. If I had to pinpoint one person to be our group’s social coordinator, it was him. At the moment, however, none of that mattered to me. Pulling aside a member of staff after the dinner and confessing my fears and concerns to her, backed with a few others with the same anxieties from the same table, we were smartly told that not everyone who volunteers has positive opinions about the experience and that what we were about to embark on was what we made of it. It’s cheesy now, but at that moment I remembered hearing those same words when inquiring about my sorority and instantly felt relief. She was right, this girl may have had some sour times, but I wasn’t going to let myself become the same way.

The next day was more of the same overview of policies, getting-to-know you activities, and chatter about anxieties, fears, excitements and hopes. We went on a tour of Georgetown, the capital and only city in Guyana. The city was definitely the place to be; sitting on the bus trying to move through the congestion of people was an experience in and of itself. We were told that the first market we drove through was a ‘red zone’, off limits to us volunteers because of the serious safety and security risks. I couldn’t take my eyes off the people bartering, the decals plastered on the buses bearing sayings from “Bless Up” to “Playa Bai Get Nuff Gyal”, the strange fruits and vegetables being sold, and the giant speakers that littered the market blaring different kinds of music. The second market was tamer and we were allowed to peruse this on foot.

Walking through, I had very romantic images of myself going to market, gardening, and cooking amazing, fresh, healthy meals while in country. Back on the bus, my peers and I discussed the cultural differences, our excitement about the different possibilities of our time in country and some of the plans we hoped to succeed in completing. The more I looked around at this group of people who were to be my make-shift family for two years and change, the more I felt like I had finally found people who not only understood me but also felt the same way. Here were people who, like me, felt they needed something more in life, who strove to help others, who wanted a slice of adventure or to see another part of the world. To be honest, I don’t remember a lot of this day simply because most of my thinking was centered on outside thoughts: how hot my new home was; whether I would get worms from the food we were stuffing our faces with; how I could prevent myself from getting robbed; if I have enough bottled water to brush my teeth; would I be able to get the best deals at the market or swindled; and the latest of worries being would I get a host family that was weird and made me do weird things?

We had learned during this last-minute review session that we’d be whisked away the following day to another area of the country called Essequibo, or The Coast. This was to be our home for the next two months, where we’d stay during training. Now my fears weren’t whether or not I’d be placed in the bush but instead if I’d be placed in a house where they ate chicken feet daily, did weird ritualistic acts to ward off demons, spoke to each other in tongue, or tried to steal small tokens from the “shiny fat American” as so many of the local people had started calling us. My head started reeling from all the possible things that could happen to me while living with this family. Would the house be a mud hut? Would I have to sleep on the floor with the cockroaches? Would I catch some tropical disease in the middle of the night and not realize it until it had me in the grasps of death? Would I go missing, kidnapped and starved, only to be found amongst the snakes and tarantulas? Would I survive? You might say I worried a bit. Ok, I was freaking out, but put yourself in my shoes and I dare anyone not to think at least one of those thoughts. After willing myself to calm down and upon talking to the others, I found I was not the only one with these wildly imaginative fears.

On our third day in country, we piled onto a bus, squeezed into too-small seats and headed off to the boats. I sat next to a fellow volunteer named Liza. She was not the typical, fresh-out of college volunteer that a good portion of the group seemed to be, but was a slightly more experienced and level-headed person who hadn’t yet reached 30. She would later become a close friend and confidant throughout my service and my first encounters only confirmed that his woman was of quality caliber. In fact, almost all of the volunteers were of the same caliber, but there were just some you could tell were really going to succeed during their service. She was one of those-bright ideas, clear-headed, and knows what she’s about. I admired and envied her. I, of course, am one of those persons who people think of as sweet and cheerful and full of life, but she, she was a person people knew could get a job done and valued her because they, too, admired and envied her.

Liza and I boarded one of the two boats carrying our group and gaped through the whole ride. It was a new experience to travel through this part of the tropics with the water-trees bordering the sides of the river. The water in this part of the world is brown from the mud currents under the sea. It looks dirty, and in some parts of the country indeed it’s filthy, but on this boat ride down the Essequibo River, it looked like chocolate milk with frothy white caps crashing up against the boat. The green of the trees looked unreal next to the blue of the sky. It looked like a Bob Ross painting, one of those he did live on TV that made painting look so easy and the finished product a place you wanted to visit. The wind whipped through our hair, the water sprayed us in gentle spurts, and the sun beat down on us.

We traveled yet again in buses to our next destination, a stuffy hotel where we’d meet a member of our host family. Once inside and seated, a member of staff, Angie Love, prepped us before we were whisked off yet again. Angie Love lived up to her name. She was the epitome of comfort, love, laughs, and understanding and always had a smile on her face. She was a large woman who was jolly, looked like she was the lead singer in church, and had a motherly feel to her; when she wrapped her arms around you, you were enveloped in happiness. After giving us a couple pointers on polite do’s and don’ts, what not to wear, and reminding us to use common sense, she ushered members of our host family in and invited them to sit at the tables across the room from us. I spotted women of all different ages, a couple men, some actual families, and one obviously younger woman. She looked to be 20-something and brazenly happy to meet someone in this room. She also looked somewhat familiar and I suddenly couldn’t take my eyes off her, wishing I looked like her. Of East Indian decent, she had long wavy black hair, creamy brown skin, and a smile that invited anyone to talk to her. Angie Love suddenly said she had a great idea-wouldn’t it be great if you discovered who your host family was on your own by walking around and talking to these people who were to be your community members, your neighbors for the next two months? Yikes! I thought. I’m not ready for that! I guess that didn’t really matter though, because we all set off talking to people. I made a beeline for the girl I’d spotted earlier only to run into an older woman who was clearly eyeing me.

“Are you my volunteer?” she asked me.

“Um, I don’t know…my name is Lindsay.” I responded.

“Oh…I don’t think so. Do you know who Krystal is?” she said, clearly dismayed.

“Actually, yes! She’s right over there.” I said, pointing in the direction my first friend stood.

I continued on my path and finally found myself standing in front of this foreigner. Wait, wasn’t I the foreigner now? I took a deep breath. Suddenly I was very nervous.

“Hi. I’m..um..Lindsay.”

“Hello!” (giggle) “My name’s Reshma!”

“Do you know who your volunteer is?”

“Actually, (giggle) no! Me mother sent me to collect we volunteer but she didn’t tell me is who.”

“Oh..” Pause. “Is that your grandmother sitting next to you?”

“Ha ha…oh no! She’s just a neighbor.”

“Oh. Sorry, I’m a little nervous about meeting my host family.”

“Me, too! Meh nervous ‘bout which volunteer we’ll get. But don’t worry…we Guyanese people are very hospitable, meh sure you’ll get a good family.”

“Oh. Ok. Thanks.”

Angie Love must have noticed people weren’t getting very far because she then quieted the room and announced that she’d read out the list of assigned host families to volunteers. This provided a lot of relief to people and it was spelled out on their faces. She had people line up in groups according to where they’d be living. Myself and five other volunteers were the last to go, and I noticed that the host country national I’d been conversing with had also not been assigned a volunteer as yet. “Lily,” Angie Love started, “you’ll be in Henrietta with…” continuing with distribution of volunteers until she reached my name. “Lindsay, you’ll be in Windsor Castle with Hemraj Singh.” I had no clue who that was. To my pleasant surprise, Reshma stood up and smiled at me. “That’s my dad!” she declared when I walked back to her. My mood immediately lightened and I felt relief course through me. Something about this assignment made me feel at ease and as I looked around at the other volunteers panicked faces, I felt grateful that I’d be with this family and that I’d already made a friend.

Chapter Three

I pulled up in car with my backpack and overnight bag along with Reshma. I was overjoyed at this point, happy to have finally arrived at my new home, happy to meet the rest of the family, happy to not have to lug around bags anymore, and happy to get some food and sleep. I viewed the house from the street as my bags were pulled from the car. The house was a faint pink, two-story with intricate designs in its concrete exterior, a veranda on the top level and surrounded by plants of all different species. An almond tree stood in the front of the yard giving shade to a couple benches. The gate stood tall and proud and a peppy black and white dog, named Kujo, stood with a wagging tail anticipating my arrival. I walked the concrete sidewalk to the bottom-house area and peeked my head in. “Come on Lindsay, come on in!” Reshma encouraged me. I followed Reshma inside. I admit the first view I had of the inside was not what I had expected, but then again, I had been envisioning living in a mud hut.

Faux flowers and plants were placed in every nook and cranny and, oddly, were covered with plastic bags. Framed pictures of food, faces and scenes were on the walls. There was a couch and chair set to my left when I first walked in, also covered but with home-made couch covers. Straight ahead of me stood a table and chairs and an elaborate television stand complete with decorations, ornaments, and a TV. Tucked next to this area but hidden behind built-in shelves and a doorway was the kitchen. Behind the television stand were concrete stairs painted a combination of green and blue that led to the upper level and at the bottom of the stairs was a two-part wooden door that lead to the backyard and gave way to some of the most amazing sites I would ever come to see. Reshma and I headed up the steps and through another door. I had suddenly noticed that every window and doorway had curtains, more for privacy than for decoration. Reshma and I passed a desk, a bedroom, a second table and chairs, and then stopped in front of a painted white door. Reshma paused, smiled back at me, and then opened the door. I walked into the room expecting to see a mat on the floor and a glass and bowl, somewhat like what a kidnapped person would be provided had their captors liked them enough to provide a glass and a bowl. I’ve got to stop expecting the worst! I thought. This room was carefully decorated and cleaned with curtains waving in the breeze as if welcoming me. A beautiful wardrobe complete with drawers and a hanging area hidden behind mirrors stood in the corner of one part of the room, next to a polished wooden clothes-horse. The bed, on the opposite side of the room, had fresh sheets and a mosquito net that made the bed look like a princess’s palace bed when down, hung above it. My bags that I hadn’t seen since we landed were sitting under one of the windows with my name tags on them. Reshma informed me that the whole wardrobe was mine to use how I liked and offered to help me unpack. I thought that might be too much to do my first night, but then thought again considering that now was as good a time as any.

Reshma settled down on the bed and I on the floor. We started unpacking and chatting with ease. I learned that she was a year older than me, had just gotten divorced a year earlier, liked dancing, and liked laughing. We also discovered that one of the nights we had stayed at the hotel she had been in town. She had gone on a late walk along the sea wall and stopped to talk to a group of white people, and coincidentally she and I had chatted briefly before we had known who each other were. Now I knew why she looked familiar! If that wasn’t divine intervention, I don’t know what is. After unpacking we headed downstairs and I met the rest of the family: Reshma’s younger brother, Kevin, her mother, Katie, and her father, Pradeep. Everyone had smiles on their faces, mostly because we were all nervous, but also because we could barely understand each other. Katie had made what came to be one of my most favorite dishes in country, pumpkin curry and roti, for dinner. The whole house had the aroma of spicy and sweet pumpkin, making my mouth water instantly. I sat down with Reshma and enjoyed the first tastes of this delectable meal, sipping on fresh, hot, milky sweet tea. I closed my eyes with my first bite, the flavors of the pumpkin and roti intense on my tongue.

“Is it ok?” Katie asked.

“Mmmmmm….uh huh.” I said, with an enthusiastic shake of my head. “It’s so good!”

“You nah just say that? If you nah like it, you say so. Nah be frightened if you nah like it.” Katie started worrying that what I had said was just to be nice, but I reassured her that I truly liked it. “Trust me, if I don’t like something, I’ll tell you.”

Later after dinner, we sat outside and I was informed that this time spent was termed “taking breeze”. Indeed, the breeze came in off the sea nearby, cooling the night air. I relaxed in the hammock, the family facing me. We sat looking around at each other, unsure of who should talk first, all of us nervous and still smiling those grins.

Reshma spoke up first, “Lindsay, what part New York you are from?”

“Oh, I’m not from New York. I’m from Colorado. It’s a state on the west coast of America, near California.”

“Oh. It is cold there? Or it is hot like here?”

“It’s both. During winter, it snows a lot, and during summer it’s nice and warm. There are a lot of mountains there. Oh! That reminds me! I’ll be right back!” I ran upstairs and grabbed the gift that I’d been advised to give to my family upon arrival as a thank you for keeping me. Coming back, I handed the gift to my host mom. “This is for you and your family as a thank you for keeping me these two months.”

“Oh, wow! Thanks Lindsay!” Katie said appreciatively. She opened the gift and passed it around to each remaining member of the family. I had brought some of my father’s photography that had been previously made into cards. I explained that each scene was different, depicting foliage, winter, summer or a sunset of some sort, and all were of Colorado. After the gift had been sufficiently passed around, it was back to nervous and unsure smiles. Finally, Katie asked a question. “Lindsay, what things you like eat?” I told her that I liked a lot of things and was willing to try a lot of different things, but that I refused to eat chicken feet. I don’t know if it was my candor or the moment, but suddenly we were all laughing at my answer. I felt such joy at the response that I decided my being placed with this family was more than mere luck, it was predestined.

Our first day of training was the following day. I got up earlier than I needed to with my stomach in knots and nervous like I used to be on every first day of school. Outside, I could hear roosters crowing, someone sweeping the yard, and Indian music. The last one threw me for a loop. It’s almost six in the morning and already someone is up and playing music? And it’s loud enough for me to hear it, which means it’s really loud. Hmm…I wonder, is this normal? I started thinking about what it would be like to be waking up in my own room back home and if the neighbors were blaring music like the people nearby were at that exact moment. I got out of bed, stumbled downstairs slowly adjusting to the morning. My host father, Pradeep, was sitting at the table listening to a different Indian song that was playing on the television and eating his breakfast. Katie was in the kitchen, already cooking what looked like lunch. I could still hear the music from outside as well as the roosters. It was a cacophony of sound hitting me way too early in the morning.

“Morning, Lindsay! How you sleep?” Pradeep asked, noticing me peeping around the television stand.

“Morning, Pradeep. Good, good. And you?” I asked, remembering what Angie Love said about manners being a cultural importance.

“Good, good!” He said with a big smile on his face.

“Morning, Lindsay!” Katie said from the kitchen.

“Morning, Katie. Where are Reshma and Kevin?” I asked.

“Reshma’s sweeping the yard and Kevin must still a-sleep.”

“Oh. Um…there’s some kind of event going on across the street? Why are those people playing music so early?”

“(Giggle) Oh, them people got wedding. See, Hindu weddings, they just go for days, sometimes a week or longer. Them people play music whole time. We gonna carry you to the wedding tomorrow.”

“Really? Ok!”

“Are you ready for breakfast? Meh make you sausage.”

“Sure. Thanks!”

I sat down at the table next to Pradeep. Katie brought me a steaming cup of coffee and set it next to my plate that had already been placed on the table waiting for me. I took the cover off the plate and looked at my ‘sausage’. It was a hot dog, complete with a bun, grated cheese and carrots, and sauce topping. I took a bite. It was actually kind of good. I sipped my coffee and took another bite. Hot dogs and coffee-what a combination! I thought. When you’re in Rome, you do as the Romans, no? I relaxed and settled in with my breakfast and surroundings, the knots in my stomach disappearing.

Chapter Four

That first weekend with my host family was apparently better than most others, mostly due to fears that the new volunteer trainees couldn’t do things such as go to places to hang out or the like. My host family, already versed with Peace Corps from a previous volunteer a year earlier, knew the ins and outs of the rules and had already prepared to take me to a variety of places and events. We prepared for a cricket game/barbeque being held in the nearby cricket field early Saturday morning. I was introduced to community members who were cooking in giant pots and pans and was able to interact with them as well. Arriving at the cricket field a short time later, I noticed that it was a similar experience to getting to a baseball game early, with people preparing on the field, in the stands, and at concession stands. Of course, you can’t picture Wrigley Field when I’m describing this area, but you get the picture of what I flashed to in my mind seeing everything there that day.

My host family and I pitched in helping to arrange everything to sell and all the while introduced me to more and more people. I was the new person, and above all that, I was a white person, a rare commodity in the village. It might be pertinent to mention here that I am not “pure white” as the Guyanese people here describe me, but mixed. My mother’s family is of Native American descent and my father’s family is of German/Scottish descent so my skin is white with a pinkish-reddish tinge. I tend to blush a lot when I’m upset, nervous, embarrassed, or you guessed it, sunburned. At this point, I was both nervous, slightly embarrassed at being such a new star, and a little sunburned. You can imagine the questions and comments, most of which I didn’t understand because I was still new to the language. I quickly was pinned the ‘Pink Girl’. All day long, the more people I met and the more people that said something about me being pink, the more I regretted coming to the cricket game. I thought to myself, however, I bet this is how living here will be, so buck up and smile because you’ll need to get used to this. At some point, after the newness of meeting me had worn off and the game had begun, Reshma and I sat down to relax amongst the crowd. Suddenly spotting someone she knew, she said, pointing down at the gate, “Look! There’s one of my cousins! Oh you’ll like him, I think. Want to meet him?” Inside, I didn’t want to meet another soul until I could recover from the day, but what came out was, “Sure, I guess.”

A tall Indo-Guyanese guy walked up the steps of the stands we were occupying trailed by two of his friends. He was wearing sunglasses, dressed in a preppy manner, and had a confident but inviting smile on his face. His friends were obviously trying to imitate his style but didn’t come across quite as coolly. He walked directly to Reshma, kissing her on the cheek once and asking her how things were going with the barbeque. Reshma quickly answered him and then, with a giant smile on her face and obviously overjoyed, introduced us.

“Lindsay, this is Barry, my father’s nephew. Barry, this is Lindsay, our Peace Corps Volunteer.”

Barry took off his sunglasses and turned towards me. He stepped toward me and extended his hand. Taking it, I said, “Hi, it’s nice to meet you. Like Reshma said, I’m Lindsay.”

“Hi, Lindsay is it? I think I’ll call you Lin. Is that ok?”

“Yes, of course. Sure!” I said with a smile spreading through my body.

Suddenly I had butterflies in my stomach. Barry and I were still standing shaking hands. I looked into his eyes and he looked into mine. He smiled and I smiled back. It was like we were standing all alone, I couldn’t hear the crowd around me, and it was just him and I in a field.

Later that day, my host family and I headed back to our house to get ready for a wedding that was taking place that same weekend. When I say the wedding was taking place that weekend, I literally mean the whole weekend, and a day or two of the week, would be the wedding. The first night of the Hindu wedding weekend is called the Dig Dutty or the Maticore night, and is tradition in the Indian weddings here. It is the night when the bride and the groom walk to a halfway point (or something like close to halfway) and perform rituals. These rituals take place to represent the bride and groom coming together and aren’t complete without the traditional rhythmic beating of the tasas, or drums. The second night, or the Cook-Night, is the night where the people "sport" and prepare for the wedding day food. The bride and groom also prepare with blessings and songs for the following day, when the wedding day will occur. The wedding day is usually an early day with the wedding ceremony occurring before the noon hour. The last night, or the Kangan night, is the night when the wedding party and families break the fast they had kept all weekend long and eat sweet meats to celebrate the completion of the wedding.

When we were all finished preparing for the Maticore night, we walked down the street towards the pulsating lights and the blaring music, which could be heard at least a mile away. The yard was littered with men standing around drinking and already starting to move their bodies to dance. Inside the covered yard were most of the women, some sitting and some dancing, most drinking. The whole scene was looked like a party but it was more. People were happy to be there, most were laughing and talking with each other. I could tell that a wedding was a community affair and that no matter who was getting married, it brought many people together from all backgrounds. My host sister, mom and I went and sat down, joining a large group of women that they knew. They immediately offered me drinks and a bag of sweet pastries. More people started arriving, clearly we weren’t the only ones who came a little late, and more dancing ensued. At one point, someone tapped me on the shoulder and told me that someone wanted to see me. When I asked who, they pointed to the side of the wedding tent, where a large group of men were standing. It was hard to see into the dark after staring into the bright lights of the tents for the most of the night. My eyes adjusted and when they did, I saw Barry waving.

I excused myself, walked over to the crowd and smiled. Before I could reach to Barry, however, five men accosted me offering things I didn’t understand and wouldn’t have wanted even if I could understand Creolese at that time. I later learned that most of the guys who approached me that first time were Barry’s friends, each trying out their moves on me. Upon reaching Barry, I felt that same feeling of being alone with him even though the whole world was watching. We stood chatting for a bit, briefly brushing up against each other causing the electricity to fly through the air. To be honest, it sounds so cheesy now, but it was like kismet. We danced with his friends and the ladies I had been mixing with earlier in the evening, all the while laughing, sweating, and thoroughly enjoying ourselves.

The next day was the wedding ceremony. Reshma and I were up early to get ready. We had borrowed a sari, or a wrapped Indian long skirt that has long material to drape over your shoulder complete with a matching top, from the neighbor for me to wear. It was multicolored, almost rainbow-like. Putting it on, I felt immersed in the Indian culture and was surprisingly very comfortable. I told my host sister that I did not want to take it off and she giggled at me. She put on her shalwar, a long tunic with matching pants and scarf and we jetted downstairs. Her mom had on a sleek red dress and had put on matching heels that I swear I could reach the sky in.

Again, we walked down the road and reached the wedding house. Although this was the day that the ceremony was to take place, there was no loud music and no talking. All persons sat in chairs and watched the ceremony take place, not unlike a traditional Christian wedding. After the ceremony was complete, music suddenly blared out of the giant speakers attached to the side of the yard, signaling that the couple was married and the celebrations could begin. Some men came in, obviously a little drunk, and started tearing down the wedding alter. I was alarmed until my host mom told me that this was custom. People started moving chairs back and some people started dancing. Some women I didn’t know pulled me to dance and I joined in with my host sister. When the couple came out of the house and started to make their way to the roadside where cars were lined up, I followed with my camera. Although my pictures captured the couple and the people surrounding them, the memories of that happy bride and groom, music blaring, people cheering and the sun glinting off their outfits are fixed in my mind forever.

Joining back with my host mom and sister, we discussed going back to the house. As we were walking to the street, I saw a car that had not joined the procession of cars following the wedding party. Inside the driver’s seat was none other than Barry, smiling as I approached. We piled in the car and headed down the street.

“Lin, you look beautiful in your sari, you know,” said Barry.

“Oh. Thanks Barry.”

“You had fun today?”

“Yes, it was beautiful to watch and I really enjoyed myself.”

“Well, you’ll have to go to more Hindu weddings. I’ll take you to some.”

Two words were all I could describe from running into him for the third time: cloud nine. I could tell this was going to be an interesting two months at training; my first weekend and we hadn’t even started classes yet!

It's been too long since I've posted anything on here.. So let me apologize.

I'm sorry....so sorry.... (singing)

I want each of you to know I have NOT forgotten you, nor have I been avoiding you, nor putting things off. Life here is crazy. Literally. Internet is not readily available and if it is, it doesn't work properly. I can't even tell you how many times I've tried to put up pictures and it doesn't work. I'll also say this....apparently, I'm bad at keeping in touch so don't feel slided.

It's not you..it's me. Seriously.

Lots of love and hugs,

Linds

Thanks. Gracias. Tanks Mon.

The “real ting” here in Guyana is the food. The topic is on the lips of every passerby, every merchant, and volunteer alike. It is a source of living for restaurant owners, farmers, and market sellers. “What did you cook today, Lin?” is a common question from every Guyanese person who calls to check in on me. “You’ll have to know how cook for him” is a common piece of advice for brides about to marry. Maybe it’s a way of life, like in the south, food is such a focus for a lot of people, it shouldn’t be a surprise to me that Guyana is the same.

Today, we celebrated the gods of food by honoring an American tradition: Thanksgiving. The weeks leading up to this holiday in the states are pretty predictable. People get many canned goods ahead of time for the pumpkin pie, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, corn dishes, etc. They buy the turkey when the grocery store has a sale on the biggest you could possibly conceive of buying. The potatoes are bought and are ready to be mashed to smithereens. The table is dressed the night before or the morning of, during the commercial breaks of the Macy’s Day parade. Appetizers are prepared; the chips and dip, the small sandwiches, the bite-sized delectable goodies all to tide over the hungry family members during the football game and leading up to one thing: THE DINNER. Everyone sits around the table. It’s the same in almost every American home.

Let me now paint a picture of a Guyanese Thanksgiving. Weeks leading up to Thanksgiving are spent doing the same thing we always do. Go to our jobs, sweat enough during the day to warrant two to three showers a day, navigate the insane drivers (LA and ATL has NOTHING on these drivers) in a bus or taxi, wake up with the roosters, avoid the pick-pocketers during the holiday madness, explaining our white or pink skin and purpose in Guyana to the millionth person who of course wants to marry to get a visa to the states, and finding something edible to eat that isn’t chicken feet, cow face, curried food, bread with peanut butter, rice with something (again), or channa. You can only imagine how the Thanksgiving food made all our mouths water, just thinking about the delicious home-cooked all-American meal. It was to my delight that several fellow PCVs had decided to brave it and try to cook a somewhat similar meal. I had intended to attend a fellow PCVs house in Mhadia (Region 8) for the holiday, after all, why not see a different part of the country and enjoy Thanksgiving with some friends? However, the fee for seeing this mountainous and cooler part of the country is a little out of my price range on our budget of $200 a month. I opted to go down the road to a community not far from me and join some of the townies in a more local Thanksgiving. To my utter delight, the hostess’ dad had sprung to send some money for a turkey for his little girl and her friends. The remaining meal additions were up to us. FANTASTIC!!!

Today, I’m proud to say, I had turkey (almost unheard of here), mashed potatoes, vegetarian casserole, biscuits, cranberry sauce, gravy, and appetizers. Of course, things were substituted, but that was no matter. Each bite was the best bite I’d ever had of any Thanksgiving food anywhere. To put it simply, living in a country where American food is not only expensive but rare, eating anything American-like is a pleasure unlike any other. And might I add, all of our food was fresh-straight from the market, made with all organic foods. Funny how in the states, a meal I had today would cost someone much more because it was organic, but here is much cheaper because it’s not canned or boxed. Then came the deserts. Oh sweet Jesus. The heavenly pumpkin goo (I can’t call it anything else), the apple pie (yes! It was better than Martha Stewarts!), the candied apples (thanks Mom) and real pumpkin pie. Again, all fresh and organic…well not the candied apples, but we’ll pretend it was.

To be honest, I thought today was going to be a let-down and a disappointment. I thought I’d be sad all day being away from my family and the comforts of home. Instead, I found comfort in my friends who were sharing today with me and each other. We all literally gobbled the food and I even got to take a plate home. We laughed. We told everyone what we were thankful for. We relaxed. We talked about our jobs, our frustrations, our accomplishments, our funny moments and as the sun set and we went back to our homes, I beamed from the inside out. Today was truly a memorable Thanksgiving. I wouldn’t have wished it any other way.

I’m thankful for:

- Real turkey and gravy on Thanksgiving day

- Being a PCV for almost a year (!!!)

- Getting complimented on my Creolese by other Guyanese

- Throwing together (at the last minute) an HIV/AIDS walk with my 15 grade six students

- Screens on my windows that keep out the mosquitoes

- The unique music I hear everyday

- Running water at any point during the day

- Having electricity

- Having a fridge if not for anything else except to have cold water

- A phone to keep in touch with anyone I want

- A host family that has become my family here and will continue to long after I leave

- The experiences I have had and will continue to have here

- Losing 30lbs on the Peace Corps Diet

- Not freaking out when I see a cockroach or giant spider or poisonous centipede or other creature that could potentially do serious harm or scare the daylights out of me

- Trying everyday to believe that the above statement is true

- Being comfortable just being myself

- Being able to laugh everyday, whether with someone, at someone (oh come on you do it too) or at myself

- My friends here and home who continue to support me no matter what

*see my facebook for pictures...it takes too long to load pictures here :)

You set foot in a new world. That foot touches your new life before your head does. You are constantly catching up, constantly learning, constantly adjusting, constantly evaluating… Each new day greets you with a challenge and a blessing and if you figure out how to handle either one, then you’ve had a successful day. Tell me, then, how do you figure out your heart in a new world? When I first came here, I was scared, overwhelmed and excited. There was so much to take in and so much to learn about. Slowly, it started to sink in that I was here to stay for however long. However, the more I experienced, the more comfortable I felt. Likewise, the more people I met, the more I fell in love with Guyana. The more I fall in love with Guyana, the more I want to do whatever it takes to stay here. I won’t lie, I miss home and my friends and family so much it hurts sometimes. But there is a very large part of me that fits here. Despite these things, what your heart desires and what you actually get in life are sometimes different things. Most times, these are for reasons unknown to you until later in life unless you knew all along that what you wanted wasn’t good for you. It has happened that my heart desires something that life, for reasons unknown to me right now, is denying me. The Hindi saying for this is “Kutcha Kutcha Hota Hai”…in other words, sometimes things happen. Ben Harper puts it more simply: “Yes indeed I’m alone again, and here comes emptiness crashin’ in…it’s either love or hate I can’t find in between, ‘cause I’ve been with witches and I have been with the queen. It wouldn’t have worked out anyway, so now it’s just another lonely day, yeahhh… further along we just may, but for now it’s just another lonely day. Wish there was somethin’ I could say or do. I can resist anything but the temptation from you. But I’d rather walk alone than chase you around, I’d rather fall myself than let you drag me on down. It wouldn’t have worked out anyway, and now it’s just another lonely day, heeey…. Further along we just may…but for now it’s just another lonely day. Yesterday seems like a life ago. Because the one I love, today I hardly know. You I held so close in my heart, oh dear, grow further from me with every falling tear. It wouldn’t have worked out anyway, so now it’s just another lonely day, heey… further along we just may…but for now it’s just another lonely day. But now it’s just another lonely day… and now it’s just another lonely daaaaaaay…. Yes my friends.. Mr. Harper put it so eloquently-so direct... and while this experience is so much harder than I thought it would be, I know I’ll be stronger in the long run. Was there any drama that ended this relationship? Nope… just as Ben put it “it wouldn’t have worked out anyway”. I think what hurts the most was the expectation that a future was ahead…and how quickly that future was erased! Any messages of “time will heal all wounds” or “a closed door opens another” or any cliché things like that just don’t help…in my own words-this sucks. “Oh I could sparkle like a diamond, have silver line my soul, but no matter how bright I glitter baby, I could never be gold…” Here’s to more experiences…hopefully my heart will be up to the possibilities.

“Roll!” “Pick she up” “Yeah…” “Vreed-en-Hoop/New Road!” “One mo, one alone, meh need one mo!” These are the cries of the conductors and drivers of the buses in Guyana. Anywhere you go, you hear these short but very distinct shouts. You also hear the familiar kissing noises of those same conductors trying to get your attention. It works, believe me it works. It’s the operation of the public busing system here. It’s a glorious symphony of noises, actions, and people. The bus pulls up to it’s designated spot. Out jumps the conductor, sliding the door on the left side as he does. “Sis! Ya goin’ Berbice? Meh got special price fah ya, sis. Come, we leave jus now!” The conductor starts his (or her, very rarely her, but sometimes it is a ‘her’) salesman bought. It is usually some compliment to a passerby, some offer to take the bags they are holding and help them to the bus, or the promise of a smooth ride with a bus that leaves in the next 5 minutes. These are all most likely lies. But smooth lies they are…and wonderful tactics to draw the crowds in. And it’s not just one conductor, but about 10 or 15 in one area, all manning a bus, all working hard for the little money they’ll get at the end of a long, hot day. And all those conductors are shouting the same thing, at the same time, to the same one person in hopes that you’ll choose their bus and their bus will fill up faster. The faster the bus fills up, the faster you leave. That’s the trick to leaving fast. Get on a bus that’s already 50% or more full. You’ll leave within that 5 minutes the other conductor promised you 7 buses back. The bus is full now, and you’re already sweating, beads down your back and on your nose and upper lip. You’re crammed in with 14 other people now, not including the conductor, the driver or the two people in the front seat. They want one more. A lady with a market bag gets on the bus and you suddenly wonder where the conductor is going to sit. No worries, they cram the lady next to the person in front of you saying, “Bai, gimmie a lil’ squeeze, na”. Somehow the guy closest to the window scoots one millimeter to the right and all four people fit in one seat, comfortably. The conductor slides the door close and leans halfway out the window, still kissing at any passing pedestrians. The driver honks his horn, made to sound like a trumpet that plays 5 notes over and over until it fades out. He’s alerting the other drivers that he’s coming and they shouldn’t pull out in front of him. I’ll have to write about the horn system later. Off we go. Breeze flows in through the open windows, and you can breathe a sigh of relieve for the breeze that instantly cools you and everyone around you off. Now you just have to keep watch for your stop. Be vigilant. Hold onto your bags. Have your money or your change ready. Here it comes now…ready? “Conducta!” He turns his head. “Corner comin’ up!”… “Corner comin’ up!”, he yells to the driver. The lady in front of you sucks her teeth. This means she has to move to let you out. Oh well, let her suck her teeth in frustration. The bus shrieks to a stop. The conductor slides open the door, the lady in front of you gets out, leaving you 2 inches to get out yourself and pay the man who spends his life in the wind. You pay, collect your change and the bus takes off with you still standing there gathering your bearings… the sliding door closing as the bus gains speed. Let me explain something to you…in Guyana, oh wonderful Guyana, to get around you MUST take a “cyar”, “bus”, or “tapier” unless you have your own vehicle, bike, or motorcycle. Being a PCV, most walk to where they’re going if it’s within a mile or two or you take one of the three public transportation vehicles; this is because no volunteer drives due to complicated rules and policies so that includes a car or motorcycle. From personal experience, I say take a car/”cyar” (ke-yar), it’s less people to deal with and it’s more comfortable than squeezing into a tapier or a bus, but it’s sometimes more expensive. But enough about the logical parts of travel, for now, I speak purely about the system. Here in the land of Guyanese people, things are done slightly differently. This would be an obvious deduction of any foreigner visiting, but for the Peace Corps Volunteer, you take on this world because it is your life for two years, give or take, and it doesn’t seem so different to you after so many months. I, for one, am personally impressed with the busing system here. It’s more of a glorified hitch-hiking system, but still, it’s got some really unique points to it. ‘I’m a little foggy about this busing system you speak of Lindsay, can you explain more?’ Well sure! Picture this: You come out of your house and it’s 8:20am. You have to be at work by 9:00 the latest. You live a total of 30 minutes away from work and it looks like it’s going to be sunshine all the way. Think you’ll make it? Well normally we’d be inclined to say, duh! But here, you’re pushing it. You’ll make it, but only by the hair of your chinny-chin-chin. Every morning I wake up around 6:00 or 6:30. This is late by Guyanese standards. Whatever. I wake up, shower, make breakfast and lunch (yes, I’m a planner now… shocking I know), and get ready for school. I pack whatever I need to get through the day and make sure I’ve got my money ready, my keys in hand, my cell phone charged and in my purse, and my bottle of water. I head out to the road. Lucky for me, I live right on the main road. This means I could potentially catch a ride to the next drop off point within minutes, or it could mean that every living being passes me by within a 15 minute period. Confused? Just wait. I stand at the end of the driveway and wave my hand in a nonchalant manner, so as not to give anyone the wrong impression. Buses will pass and the driver points in one direction, the conductor leans out the window and kisses at me. No, he doesn’t want to date me (although I do get proposed to at least once a week if not more), he wants to know if I need a ride to Georgetown. No, I’m not going there…I need to get to the junction. He drives on. A car pulls up. “Miss, you go de junction?” “Yes, you goin’ deh?” “Yes, Miss.” I am called ‘Miss’ because I am a teacher. I get in the back seat. Today I’ll be wedged in between two other people about my size (not large, but in a small car, we seem giants) and in the front seat will be two people. Hey, gotta get the most amount of fare, right? At the junction, we all pile out, each paying $60, the price for a short drop. I walk to another part of the junction and stand for what seems forever. “Good Fortune, Miss?” “No, Patentia” “No, meh nah go dat far”… “LaGrange, Miss?” “No, Patentia” “No, meh nah go deh”… “Patentia, Miss?” “Yes!” My wait is over. I’m in another car, this time next to the worst smelling person I’ve ever met…or will meet for the day. Oh, it looks like he smells because of the bucket of fish he’s holding. Guess I’ll meet another person who actually smells like fish and isn’t carrying a bucket later. Joy. The ride is long. Yes, I live 30 minutes away, but we stop and go. You see, how the system works is people get picked up and dropped off everywhere especially if you are taking public transportation. It’s much like the busing system in bigger cities, ie Chicago. But instead of scheduled stops where you know where the bus is going, people just yell out where they’re going. One minute you’re sitting with 4 other people, the next you’re sitting with 4 new people and in the span of 10 minutes those 4 new people have changed 2 times. Each fare is different, $60 for a short drop, $80 to pass the river, $100 to get over the bridge, and $120 to get to Patentia, my drop. It only took 40 minutes today. Good timing! I’m 5 minutes late. No matter…I’m the first one here, aside from all the kids. But school starts at 9:00am, right? Right. ‘Just now…’

I’m sitting It’s almost 1 in the afternoon. I’m lazy today. I can’t seem to get going at all. What have I done? Watched Om Shanti Om and Wedding Crashers, made some breakfast, painted my nails, and washed some dishes. Now I’m listening to Imogen Heap’s Hide and Seek and sitting in front of the fan. There are just days when I’m not inclined to do anything, despite what piles up in front of me.

I feel out of touch with the world; like I’ve lost contact with who I am or used to be. I feel like a different person, “sinking, feeling…spin me around again and rub my eyes” and wake me up. The things I want and experience and do are all so strange from what I was and what I used to be. Now my strongest desires and my hearts pull are here, in the music, in the people, in the sunshine that comes up at the same time and goes down at the same time everyday…”where are we, what the hell is going on? The dust has only just began to form crop circles in the carpet, sinking, feeling…”

This summer has held many transformations for me, not to mention while not a lot has been going on with my job and my site, I have had a lot of time to travel and meet with new people. I know there are many more things and experiences to come for me, and as my mom so eloquently put it, if I gain nothing from this experience but patience and flexibility than I will be a better person for it. Since the beginning of June, 3 people have left, and now with one week left, actually the first week of school here, one more departs. Each has a different reason and each meant something unique to our GUY 21 group and likewise no one will ever replace them. At this juncture in my time here (now 6 months!), I no longer feel like an outsider, but a person indeed a “white coolie gyal”…the problem is that I don’t know how long this feeling will last and I don’t want it to go away. I wonder if this is how some of the older volunteers felt while others were leaving around them. Like being in a tornado and standing still while the world around you flies like mad. I feel like Imogean puts it in perfect terms… “mmm…what ya say? mmm…that you only meant well, well of course you did, mmm…what ya say, mmm..that it’s all for the best, of course it is mmm…what ya say, mmm…that its just what we need when you decided this mmm… what ya say, mmm…what did ya say?”

I apologize here for not keeping in better touch with several people. Trust me that I have not forgotten you nor have I put our friendships or our memories aside, but have been consumed and swept up in this country in all aspects. For instance, a month ago I wrote an insanely long letter to one particular friend and it’s still sitting waiting to be mailed out. Don’t ask me why I haven’t mailed it, I guess the “just now” attitude has taken over. Well with everything except what how I feel with my site. I’m a little impatient with progress and with seeing results or feeling like I’m actually doing anything. And I’ll most likely eat my words later on about me not doing anything. If anything, I can say I’ve successfully made some of the most wonderful relationships here with people from all walks of life and from all different backgrounds. And the thing is that I really love each and everyone of them.

My Creolese is getting better everyday. My Hindi has slacked a little from lack of constant lessons, but those will resume sooner rather than later. Would you like a taste? When you see someone next, put your hands together in front of your chest like you’re going to pray, slightly bow to them and say Namaste. Namaste in Hindi means “I bow to the divinity within you”. In Hindu culture, it is believed that everyone possesses a divinity within themselves. That’s not to say that each of us is divine like God, but rather that our souls possess this quality in which we are a part of God. It is a greeting that expresses respect and honor. Then when you’re done, you can say, “ai, bai (or gyal), meh like yah style bad, bai.” This is Creolese for I’m really digging the way you do things, or I like your choices/I respect your lifestyle. Now you have a little taste of what my daily life is like. Of course I don’t say these things to everyone nor do I encounter people who accept me right off the bat, but I try. Everyday I try. My mom laughed on the phone with me the other night saying, “Lindsay, I’m so proud of you. You have been eating things you wouldn’t normally eat here and you’ve been doing things you wouldn’t normally do here. You’ve really changed a lot since you’ve been gone.” I didn’t realize she was right until that moment. Not that changing is all that conscious until after you realize you’ve changed, but still. I guess my only wish is that I don’t change so much that I lose myself completely…meh nah know no mo’ bai.

Won’t you take me to funky town? I wonder if that’s what other people sing when they feel in a funk. Or does funky down imply a town where everyone is truly crazy? Which is it? Either way… I’m in a funk today. I woke up at 6:55 this morning to a text message and pounding upstairs. Ok take those things away, and the sun was shining through my bedroom windows, the birds were singing outside and I wasn’t sweating but instead very comfortable-makes you want to barf doesn’t it? This week has been a little crazy; came back from visiting my host family over the weekend after waiting for the bus to fill up for 45 minutes and riding on a defective boat that took an hour instead of 30 minutes, went to the hospital to visit a friend (not a PCV but a local friend) and secretly thank God I’ve only been in nice hospitals, visited with a fellow PCV and talked about the universe, boys, religion, Colorado, and jobs, spent some time at the Peace Corps office, realized I needed to sweep my house badly because of the ants, visited with a family in my village, spent more time at the Peace Corps office, ran out of credit in my phone, tried to avoid my landlords, made small talk with my neighbors next door, washed my laundry and hung it out to dry, swept part of my house, cursed the ants who came back anyway, listened to Jim Gaffigan, relaxed in my hammock, cooked, went on a hunt for food at lunch time and found all snackettes were out of food at 1:45 because “lunchtime is over”, looked in my box at the office and found a beautiful scarf from a GUY 19 friend who’s leaving on Saturday, caught the last boat over the river just in time, and realized that those GUY 19 friends are people I may never see again.

I guess part of my funk is living up to the GUY 19 PCVs. These people who are leaving are some of the most amazing people I’ve ever met. When a PCV leaves at the end of their 2 years, they have to write what’s called a D.O.S., or a Description of Service. It’s really a glorified resume with a couple paragraphs about government shlop mixed in. Well one of these GUY 19 PCVs has probably one of the most impressive DOS ever. As I talked to him in the office yesterday I slowly realized how much he’s done and how little I’ve done. Reading through his DOS was depressing and encouraging all at the same time. This guy started his own NGO (non-government/non-profit organization) for pete’s sake. He also tutored, obtained computers for the NGO, got funding for a building for the NGO, never took a day of vacation, and did a myriad of other things. If I had to write my DOS now, it’d look something like this:

- Took free Hindi classes with a family at the junction

- Learned the names of all the teachers at my school

- Helped with Food for the Poor through a BINGO Fundraiser and Saturday morning Share-Outs

- Survived Dengue and still wanted to be a PCV

- Learned how to make 3 different kinds of roti

- Learned some phrases of Creolese

- Mastered the busing system of Georgetown

- Read 6 books

- Lost 30 lbs

- Got free furniture in a matter of 2 months

Ok…so it’s only been 5 months, 2 of which were training. I know there’ve been other things I’ve done and will continue to do, but man it’s hard to live up to these amazing GUY 19ers. I guess I could use the motivation from seeing or hearing about the projects, but I’ve been told that not everyone creates their own NGO, that not everyone learns another language successfully, that some people just worked at the health center or school and did things there, some people created a small group of women or men, that basically everyone is different and everyone’s work is different as well. It’s hard being in this limbo period, not knowing what tomorrow will bring or what my projects will be like or if I’ll be successful at all.

Good morning! It’s 8:45 here in Guyana. I’m sitting in my newly hung up hammock in my living room. I shouldn’t say sitting, I should say lounging and occasionally swinging. I’m listening to a myriad of music: some from a KBCO album (thanks to Amy, Casey, Lesley, and Greg), some from Dave (PCV), and some from Guyana (bootlegged, I mean, copied, music). I’m in a great mood. It’s been a while since I’ve written on the blog, mostly because I haven’t had much computer time, but also because I haven’t been in a space to write. Maybe I should have been writing to better help me out of my stress and so on, but until now, I have just been trying to distract myself.

Let’s see… I’m no longer homeless. I’ve been living in what is called a bottom house for two months. It’s slowly been filling with furniture (for a good month and a half it had only a bed and a clothes horse/rack, stove and a fan). Now I have a table, a hammock, a second-hand shelf and fridge, my mosquito netting up, a rope strung to hang my clothes on, a second fan, curtains, and some things ready to put up on the walls. Things are coming around. Do I feel comfortable in my house yet? Not at all… but I’m trying.

The job. Well…it’s a combination of frustrations, confusions, joys, and social hour. For the first two months at site (I’ve been at site for three now), I went to school about half the time. Mostly because I was homeless for a month and kept moving and had to go into a million meetings, but also because there really wasn’t anything I was doing. My counterpart and I had agreed that the first two months (consequently the LAST two months of school) were going to be an orientation of sorts for me. Now, I can, with a 100% guarantee, tell you the names and the classrooms of all the teachers at the school, totaling 17, not including me and the headmistress (principal). During this last month out of school, Peace Corps had a week-long conference with our group and our counterparts in which my counterparts and I agreed to work on their library to get it in working condition and cleaned out/organized. We also came up with a great literacy program to try for the Christmas term (fall). So you might ask, well, Lindsay, what’s the problem? Well, as ambitious as we were in that conference, here it is almost August and we have yet to start on the library aside from design anything for the literacy program. I’ll be coming up with the test, but that takes about 2 hours to type up and print off. Being in a third world country, things take a long time to get done. I guess my frustration lies with this and with the frustration of working in the education system here, among other things. Don’t get me wrong, I am loving being in the Peace Corps and have had to really separate Peace Corps from the Peace Corps Experience (fellow PCVs you know what I’m talking about) so it’s really all you make it, but it’s just taking time to get into my own. Patience…patience…sigh.

Relationships: I’d have to say on the whole my relationships with other PCVs, Guyanese and Barry have pretty much stayed the same, with a few minor adjustments. 1) People came to PDM (Project Design & Management Conference) changed. This was to be expected, but to the degree at which some of them have changed is shocking to me. Some are very jaded by things that have happened in the 5 months we’ve been here, some have become partiers or slight alcoholics, some are very obviously depressed (totally understandable seeing as how I’m going through a bit of that too), some are floating on cloud 9, and some are still trying to figure out what the hell they’re doing here-I take that back…we’re all still doing that. 2) The relationships that people have cultivated with other Guyanese are also surprising. Some are still trying to figure out what these people we work with, ride with, shop with, live with, etc are saying or how they are behaving. I’d like to say I can understand the Guyanese a lot more since being here, but there are still days I’m blown away with misunderstandings and miscommunications. I’m pretty sure that’ll happen the whole time I’m here, no matter what. 3) Then there are the romantic relationships…some have blossomed, some have wilted and some have burned in flames, both for the good and bad. I would also venture to say that most all romantic relationships have resulted in an evaluation of communication skills, of safety measures, and of self. I say these things from experience and from what my fellow PCVs are going through as well. This is not to say that the romantic relationships are going badly, but they really force a person to define what they want, to stand up for what they want, and to constantly think in the other person’s shoes. Because of the cross-cultural differences, there have been some miscommunications and misunderstandings and almost all assumptions have been completely wrong. Truthfully, it’s been a lot of work and it takes away from things that people are here to do. However, if you can figure out how to balance your work and your relationships and how to stay true to yourself, you’ll be golden. Such is my quest. Haha.

On a side note and because I don’t want to end this blog all depressing and such, I recently filled out a fun questionnaire of sorts and I encourage you to do the same. Be honest with yourself and also be creative. Then give it to someone you really want to know more about, or send it to me and I’ll fill it out for your reading enjoyment.

1) Life is…

2) Tomorrow…

3) When I wake up in the morning…

4) I have a low tolerance for…

5) If I had a million dollars…

6) People would say I’m…

7) I love…

8) I don’t understand…

9) I lost…

10) Maybe I should…

Pictures of my house and school to come soon!

Unknowingly, I walked into a room Thursday evening and was accosted by a cacophony of harsh news. Michael Jackson-DEAD! Could it be? Was it merely a joke meant to scare two unsuspecting GUY21 Volunteers into not leaving their things in the lounge for too long? No… I sat in shock at the news. The following day, as I walked around Georgetown, I passed each store on Regent Street, Brickdam, Ave of Republic, etc., and out came waves of Michael Jackson. Let me interject myself by saying this: never in my life have I gone to another country and felt so connected with a group of people as I have here. That being said, the Guyanese are some of the most hard-core Michael Jackson fans I have ever met. That makes me feel connected on an even bigger level. Maybe I’m really Guyanese at heart? The mourning has continued this weekend. Going to visit another volunteer, Michael’s ghost followed me along the journey. Passing cars, the stores whipping by on the roadside, Michael lurks in each fleeting moment. Today, I waived my white flag of defeat and decided to join paying homage to the King of Pop. I bought a couple CDs of his greatest hits and as I looked at the covers of these “bootlegged” CDs, I realized that the Guyanese have made Mr. Jackson a part of their eternal culture in their own way. To better convey what I mean, I have included the Guyanese titles of His Majesty’s CDs… enjoy from the Caribbean!

Thriller Album:

Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’ = “Me Wan Start Some-ting”

Baby Be Mine = “Ah Babes, Be Me Own”

The Girl Is Mine = “Dah Gyal Is Me Own”

Thriller = “Triller”

Beat It = “Choke He Up”

Billie Jean = “Dah Mad Gyal Billie Jean”

Human Nature = “Uman Nature, Mon”

Pretty Young Thing = “Dah Young Gyal Pretty Bad, Bai”

The Lady In My Life = “Me Mistress in Me Own Life, Mon”

Michael Jackson: History – Past, Present, and Future; Book 1

Billie Jean = “Dah Mad Gyal Billie Jean”

The Way You Make Me Feel = “Me Like Wha You Do Meh, Bai”

Black or White = “Black Bai or Whitie Gyal”

Rock With You = “Me Wine Wit Ya Mon”

She’s Out Of My Life = “Oh Radica, Why You Leave and Go?”

Bad = “Bad Serious, Bai”

I Just Can’t Stop Loving You = “Me No Wan Stop Lovin’ Ya Gyal”

Man In The Mirror = “Dah Bai in de Mirror”

Thriller = “Triller”

Beat It = “Choke He Up”

The Girl Is Mine = “Dah Gyal Is Me Own”

Remember The Time = “Dis One Time, Remember Bai?”

Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough = “Nah Stop, Bai, Ya Get Nuff Nuff”

Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’ = “Me Wan Start Some-ting”

Heal The World = “One Love, Mon”

Any Guyanese person and Peace Corps Volunteer in Guyana will personally know the title of this blog the second they look at it. Radica, a phenomenon sweeping across Guyana, is the title of a song here that blares at all hours of the day and night, for birthday and wedding celebrations, while people are "sporting" (guyanese term for drinking and partying), at sports games, and many more occasions.

Let me further explain: first of all it's a chutney music song that's catchy and annoying all at the same time. Chutney music is a "form of music indigenous to the southern Caribbean, primarily Trinidad & Tobago and Guyana, which derives elements from soca and Indian film songs" (Wikipedia). It's very upbeat and was first religious in nature and sung by families but has since caught like wildfire and become one of the most popular forms of music, aside from soca, here in the Caribbean.

The song, also followed up by three additional versions, has the following lyrics:

Since you leave me

I am alone

I am like a dog

Without a bone,

And I don't want to be alone

So Radica why you leave and go?

oh oh oh oh

So Radica why you leave and go?

To listen to it fully click or paste here:

http://www.toronto-lime.com/music/chutney/CHUTNEY%202K9%20-%20Kenneth%20Salick%20-%20Radica.htm

Of course, there's Radica's reply:

Since I left you

I'm so happy

You didn't say how ill you treat me

You meant so much but not enough to me

Ah (I) had ah (a) right to leave and go

oh oh oh oh

Ah had ah right to leave and go

Again, listen to the song, it'll all make sense:

http://www.toronto-lime.com/music/chutney/CHUTNEY%202K9%20-%20Devika%20Ram%20-%20Ah%20Had%20Ah%20Right%20To%20Leave%20(Radica%20Reply).htm

You might be asking yourself why I'm telling you this information. Well my friends, I hear this song almost every single day. It's in my sleep and dreams, it's at the restaurants I eat at, it's on the commercials and in the cars passing by. It haunts me. Now I pass it on to you so you too can have it going round and round in your heads all day long. Enjoy! It's a small taste of my life here in Guyana wherever you may be.

P.S. For background information about why the song is the way it is, click on this link. I didn't know this until today, so I thought it was interesting to add. Cheers!

http://www.trinidadexpress.com/index.pl/article_news?id=161437886

Some girls and I from GUY 21 after movie night

Swearing in ceremony... just before we sang Amazing Grace

Me swearing in and getting my pin.

Barry's mom at her house the morning we all left Essequibo.

Me, Barry, and his mom all having breakfast before I left

Sitting in the Peace Corps office with AC is the best feeling in the whole world. You might say, well I get that everyday and who cares about sitting in an office, but oh my holy goodness. A bug-free zone without anything flying at your face and free AC???!?!?! WOW!!! That's a rare treat in Guyana.

So far my experiences have been great here. It's been a roller coaster of emotions, new faces and names, laughter, tears, frustrations, challenges, and jokes, but I have the feeling it's getting off to a great start.

Just got to my new site and although there are some obstacles and hurdles I'm having to overcome, I can see a light at the end of the tunnel and these challenges will soon be met head on. Although it would take me a year to describe and detail, I can tell you that I have some amazing support through fellow PCVs, community members, PC Staff, and host family/boyfriend. Those are the things that make it or break it for me and having all of those people on my side helping me along the way is amazing in itself. PLUS... It really carries me along knowing that all the people I love and care for at home are thinking of me, because I think of them everyday too.

Ok...enough sappy talk. I've got some pics, but I want each of you to know it takes FOREVER to upload them... so this is a rare treat my friends! :)

In case you’ve never heard about this little word, I’m about to school you in what’s becoming a slight epidemic across the coast in Guyana. Having not really heard about this virus, I didn’t really make it my duty to read up about it until it was too late. For the past week, I’ve been sitting in a private hospital room. Of course, while writing this note, I’m not in the hospital anymore, but from Monday to Friday, I was a Dengue-filled “happy camper”. Dengue is a virus that you can catch from mosquitoes. It causes high fevers, constant headache, a slight rash or extreme flushing of the skin, weakness in the entire body, nausea, loss of appetite, aversion to anything to eat unless is juice, water, or fruit, and extreme exhaustion. Well, I woke up on Wednesday of last week (the 18th to be exact) and felt crummy, but not totally incapacitated. Then Thursday rolled around. The PCMO (Peace Corps Medical Officer) came to see me. It was all downhill from there. I took a boat immediately that afternoon to Georgetown and proceeded to stay in a hotel for the next 4 nights. By the time Monday rolled around, I hadn’t felt any better and in fact was getting worse. That’s the day the PCMO said, “That’s it, Lindsay, we’re taking you to the hospital.” Well, I can tell you that even though I felt like dying, the nurses, PC staff, and all the other visitors and people who came to take care of me made me feel so special and ultimately helped me get better.

I arrived back at my host family’s house (finally) on Friday late afternoon and rejoiced that I was back in a bed I wanted to sleep in, around the people who made me laugh at least 15 times a day, with clean clothes and a place I’ve come to call home for the time being. Last night, more people came and visited me, having thought for sure I was dying too, but it’s funny how rumors like that get around. They were all so worried about me, but at the end of our visit were all reassured that I’m almost 100% better and I’ll be spending the next week catching up. Oh, and I missed my host volunteer visit but will probably report this week about staying in Region H, Hotel and Hospital. Hahahaha… Yay for Dengue!

Pagwah- the celebration of Good over Evil, also the celebration of spring.

Poularie- round, hush-puppy-like bites of goodness. Made with ground split peas, flour, yeast, pepper, garlic, thyme, orange coloring; squeezed out into little balls and deep fried. Served with “sour” also a salsa-like dip. OH THE GOODNESS!

Prayers- each family’s prayers are different. Muslims pray 5 times a day, Hindus pray every morning, and Christians, well we all know when they pray J!

The amount of holidays, food, and family traditions are so diverse here there’s a different experience at every corner. This past week was the celebration of two holidays, one right after the other. (Technically, one is being celebrated for a week, but that’s beside the point.) On Tuesday, Youman Nabi was celebrated by the Muslim population here on the Essequibo Coast. Although my family is not Muslim, we had the day off from training, school, and work, as did everyone else on the coast. Our day was spent at the local “ball field”, or sports ground, watching cricket being played in a tournament. My host mom and I made Poularie to sell, and boy did it sell out. She’s one of the best cooks in town, sound familiar mom?? Not much celebration is done for Youman Nabi, as it is a solemn holiday, so Muslims in our community usually spent the day at church or cooking food.

The next day was Pagwah. I can only describe the exciting and crazy events through one word sentences, so here goes…

Powder! Colors! Food! Food! Food! Drenched! Joyful! Community! Music! Food! Food! Food! Drinks! Friends! Family! Laughter! Food! Food! Food!

Get the picture? All of Guyana celebrates this amazing holiday by waking up extra early to start cooking food. My host sister and I started celebrating at around 8:30 when a good friend of the family’s came over with a bucket of water and proceeded to dump one bucket each on my host mom, sister, and then me. We then dumped water on here… sound a little weird? Well then we ran to 3 or 4 houses and did the same thing to our neighbors. After we were finished with what the Hindus call “wetting of the skin”, we went to community houses and proceeded to get more wet, but this time were also smacked with different colors of powder (think baby powder but different colors). All in our hair, all on our face, on our neck, and on our clothes. My mom would have freaked at the mess… just kidding! J

All morning was a parade of colors up and down the streets and the music and dancing was everywhere. The smiles on people’s faces as we drenched them with water and powder and screamed “Happy Pagwah!” was a memory I cannot and do not want to forget. Although this is a religious holiday celebrated by the Hindu population, all of Guyana takes on this festive holiday.

Pagwah is continuously celebrated for the rest of the week and ends today, Tuesday March 17, 2009. Any persons with remaining powder will be looking to get rid of it and there will be final church ceremonies as well as an all out free-for-all. For my first three weeks here these holidays took the cake and I’ve not stopped having fun! What a perfect introduction to Guyana-it makes me not want to leave.

February 28, 2009

Rain. I wash my hair with it, wash the dishes with it, and bathe in it. It’s amazing what it does for the skin and my hair. Today, Cynthia (pronounced Cyn-tee-ya) was braiding my hair (also called plating) and she told me how soft my hair is. She said, “meh, Linseey, your hair soft, yeah.” She told me how she wished for soft hair and how when she marries she hopes her children will play with her hair like she plays with mine.

Today is Saturday and I’m currently sitting in one of two hammocks at my host family’s house. It’s upstairs and overlooks the village, or at least one side of the village. I’ve come back early from an all day cricket and barbeque event at the local cricket field. Early this morning, I walked down the road with my host mom and took food to the poor house. There, I also watched “fried rice” being made. Similar to what all of you have had in a Chinese restaurant, only this was fresh made and I got to help. It was made over a big pit-like oven, itself made of clay and cement. I spoke with a lady who lives in the “poor house” and we discussed my coming over to help volunteer in some hours during the week. Keep in mind, it’s pouring on and off during the entire time I have woken up and am over at the poor house. My host mom suddenly says, “Come, Linseey, take a ride with Rishma, we go to the barbeque.” This basically means, see this taxi? I’ve gotten a ride for you to go to the barbeque and on the way, pick up your sister…

Cricket’s an amazing sport, although I still have NO clue how to follow it. Many of the men went onto the field and took what looks like bats (only flatter) and swung as someone bowled a ball to them. I won’t go into details because it gets too confusing and even I couldn’t follow it. Two teams played first, although I was assured there would be more players and more games but because the rain had been falling and falling hard, there weren’t a lot of people there. Well, that soon changed and more and more people came to the field. Soon, people were buying beer, pepsi, water, barbeque lunches, and dancing to music with the biggest speakers I’ve ever seen used at a community event.

I started to meet many different people and all of them smiled so very big at me, it made me feel even more comfortable. I have yet to meet an unfriendly person. All of them sort of already knew that I was a Peace Corps Volunteer because the village isn’t big, so news spreads fast, but this is ok with me. It’s weird telling people that you’re a volunteer come to help Guyana, but they all love the idea of me being there. Plus, some of the other families here are also hosting, so many people know about the PCVs. Then I met a man who works with the Ministry of Education and just speaking with him encouraged me even more to continue on my journey here. He’s an Amer-Indian man who has worked with the Department of Education for many years, and his son now works with him as well. Speaking with the two of them about community literacy programs and motivating students was inspiring and idea-sparking for me. It makes me want to stay in Essequibo to help here and be around my host family instead of in the interior. We’ll see where I get placed, though. Right now, it’s too far down the road to tell anything about that just yet.

Tonight, I’m going to a Hindu wedding. It starts tonight and goes until tomorrow evening. Really it started a couple days ago, but tonight is a party, and then tomorrow is the ceremony. I’ll be wearing a sari and my host family will be dressed in formal wear as well. I can’t wait to experience that. It’s something that’s very privileged to go to, so I am excited to have been invited at all! I’ve already been asked, “Linseey, you drink, yes?” and “Linseey, you like curry, yeah?” and things like “Linseey, you dance and have a good time?” I’m sure more is involved than just that, but for now, I’m thinking it’s sort of like a movie a friend of mine had me watch and I’ll just go off of that until I really experience it.

In signing off for now, I leave you all with some phrases to ponder.

“Just now” which means in a little bit and really could mean anywhere from 5 minutes to 5 hours or even days.

“Take a breeze” which means come and hang out with us on the porch and relax while we talk.

“Gaffing” which means talking back and forth and sometimes talking in elevated terms, but always friendly conversation. It’s sometimes perceived as an argument.

“Yeah, mon, it’s ok” which means yes and ok all at the same time.

“Yeah” if said at the end of something means ok.

So, mon, you come just now and take a breeze with me and we’ll gaff, yeah? Love you all.

February 27, 2009

It’s morning here in Essequibo. I’m finally with my host family and have had a full night’s sleep (believe it or not). The first thing I wake up to is not my alarm on my watch, but the rooster outside my new house and the dog, Kujo, barking at the rooster to hush. Although the rooster is up an hour earlier than I intended to be up, I am awake. The more I’m awake, the more I listen to the noises outside my window. I lay under my mosquito net and I hear wild birds chirping and cawing in the jungle; I hear the next door neigbor’s bhangra music playing; I hear my host mom and dad outside giggling with each other while one sweeps and the other tends to the plants; I hear the taxis (more like minivans) hustling past the houses; and again Kujo barking at the rooster.

Today is Friday. Yesterday, I met my host family, an incredible Hindu family with the greatest laughs. As I relaxed in their hammock and chatted with them, I instantly bonded with each of them. There are four of them and I feel like it’s part of my own family from back home (the only difference being that I have a sister and a brother instead of two brothers). It is tradition that the host mom makes meals for you and helps you to learn the culture and the skills needed to do your job while in Guyana. So, my first meal was one of the best I’ve had yet: pumpkin curry, roti (a type of flatbread), chicken and a chai-like tea. Also, for training, our host mother packs us a lunch (yes, I feel like I’m going to elementary school only because I carry a backpack and a packed lunch, but we both giggled about it). OH my deliciousness!

As I continue to write this it’s now night. This day has been long. And today is also the first day I’ve felt really homesick. I’ve been overwhelmed and bombarded with information and homework, yes homework. All 33 of us had confused looks on our faces during the training. And that wasn’t even when it was time to leave and we had to figure out which taxi to take (haha). But, coming back to my host-home, my host dad was waiting outside by the almond tree for me. He said jokingly, “I was about to come on my motorcycle for you.” They care for me, take care OF me and make me laugh. So, I guess even though it’s hard to believe I’m here and really doing this Peace Corps journey, I’m here, and every moment that passes is another moment I’m living in true paradise.

I close my eyes, only for a moment, then the moment's gone

All my dreams, pass before my eyes, a curiosity

Dust in the Wind...

All they are is Dust in the Wind...

Same old song, just a drop of water in an endless sea

All we do, crumbles to the ground though we refuse to see

Dust in the Wind....

All we are is Dust in the Wind...

Now don't hang on,

Nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky

It slips away, and all your money won't another minute buy

Dust in the Wind...

All we are is Dust in the Wind...

Dust in the Wind...

Everything is Dust in the Wind,

everything is Dust in the wind...

The wind...

With six days left until I board the plane to leave and step into another life, I'm thinking and reflecting on so many different things...people I've loved, people I've lost, people I'm going to meet, and people I'll never lose touch with. This next step in my life is of course exciting and nerve racking, but is really just another course in my road of life. I've experienced the best and the worst in my life. The best of friends, the best of traveling, the best of laughter and moments to cherish. The worst of things are just bumps along that road. It's true what Kansas said, everything, in the end, is just dust in the wind...

As I was sitting at Sonic (yes Sonic) yesterday with my mom, I had to point out that this wasn't a funeral for me. It simply is a move. Of course, that move is thousands of miles away and practically in a different world, but still just a move. It's also a move for others. A move away from seeing me everyday, from picking up the phone and calling me to tell me about the stupid driver in front of you or your day or exciting news. But, all of these moments will still happen. With or without me. That's not to say I'm not sad about not being able to share those moments with my loved ones, but I know that life will go on with or without me there to share in it....

It's amazing...it's amazing all that my friends and family can do. It's amazing, makes my heart sing...And I can't wait to share my adventures with you. I already miss all of you so very much it breaks my heart to think about it. You'll see....if it's meant to be, nothing can compare to deserving your dreams... And remember, everything is dust in the wind.

My old roommate just sent me this reassuring quote... I feel it's fitting and I have to give credit to him and Benjamin Button.

"For what it's worth: it's never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There's no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you're proud of. If you find that you're not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again. "

It's coming down to the wire. Down to the seconds. It's day five of my trip in Georgia with one half day more... I've seen lots of friends, had several laughs, and driven down many roads. The weather has been perfect, like it's showing me the best of Georgia with it's 65-70 degree days, blue skies, and little humidity...it's even a little rainy today, which I am very pleased to get to experience as well. The smell of the rain coming and the winds blowing through the trees warning us of the flood gates about to be opened is one of my favorite things to experience.

But, the truth is, there aren't enough days to spend with the friends I already don't get to see that much; really there isn't enough time to spend with the people I DO get to see all the time either. You blink and the moment is gone. You turn your head and it's a different scene. Different people. Different situations. Different. Nothing ever stays the same. Things come and go...

The time here has been such a blessing. I am most comfortable here. Most relaxed and most at ease. A perfect send-off before such a raging adventure. But the worry about this adventure is still lingering in the back of my head. The worry of my new job, the worry of the new people and the worry of the little things-mostly and foremost the worry of the unknown. I know all of the answers to these worries will be revealed to me once I'm in Guyana.

For right now, it's just a lot on my mind. I know that sometimes I just have to let go, but up until that point, my head is swimming. It brings tears to my eyes to think about not having the people I care about most be able to go through this adventure with me. And not for me, but for them as well... I guess everyone goes through their own adventure in their own way, and I know this is mine, but the last question I have pacing through my brain is, where will this adventure take me?

These words can be found in my Welcome Book or any Peace Corps Volunteer's for that matter. The words can be translated to mean several things, but the most obvious being "don't let stress get to you/don't stress out". Yeah right.

So far, I have exactly 18 days left until I say good-bye to everyone I know and love in Colorado. I have exactly 4 days until I go to Georgia to say my good-byes to friends there. I have 3 more days of work. 1 more time to go to church. I do, however, have an unlimted amount of time to feel anxious, nervous, excited, sad, melancholy, and a mirad of other emotions during a variety of experiences and situations.

I got off the phone with two fabulous people who are in Guyana about 3 hours ago. While it was hard for me to hear the two because they were on speaker phone and have accents, I understood exactly what was being conveyed. This is it. There's no turning back. Not that I'd want to, of course, but still. We spoke about what were my family and friends' were feeling towards my leaving?, had I packed yet?, what are my fears and my anticipations?, what was I most excited about and what was I most nervous about? Did talking to them get me geared up and rearing to go? Sure! And now that I'm sitting back at my desk, comfortable and knowing what lies ahead of me, I'm suddenly not ready at all.

I know I'm not the only one with this anticipation and excitement. I know I'm not the only one with piles of things to take with me, yet to be packed. I know I'm not the only one who's nervous about the culture, the heat, the bugs, the food, and whatever else comes to mind. Does it make me feel any better? Nope. What I feel at any given moment is stress. Stress about final bills, stress about packing, stress about saying good-bye, and stress about arriving to say hello.

Don't take stress.... Don't take stress.... I don't think it's as easy as lather, rinse, repeat. But all the same, I think I'll just repeat it over and over...

Guyana Sun Setting over the Ocean

There are stars in the southern sky

Southward as you go....

There is moon light and moss in the trees

Down the Seven Bridges Road....

Now I have loved you like a baby

Like some lonesome child

And I have loved you in a tame way

And I have loved you wild

Sometimes there's a part of me

Has to turn from here and go

Running like a child from these warm stars

Down the Seven Bridges Road.....

There are stars in the southern sky

And if ever you decide you should go

There is a taste of time sweetened honey

Down the Seven Bridges Road.....

Steve Young really knows how to write a beautiful song. The haunting, poetic, magical song speaks to me like an old memory that I forget about until I listen to the lyrics pouring out. I can close my eyes and be suddenly lost in another world where I'm back, running through the Georgia woods behind my house, laughing with the neighborhood kids, chasing fireflies and not getting cold even though the sun had long set. I wonder if my experience(s) in Guyana will be like these fond memories the song invokes; the way I can still taste the sweet tea, or smell the rain in the air before it comes pouring down, and the way a summer picnic could bring families from far to the same crowded but joyful spot. I can listen to this song over and over and it still makes me feel like I'm standing in one of my memories, content and feeling like nothing in the world could shake me.

I can only hope for memories that evoke so much feeling and emotion as this song causes me to relive each time I hear it. Will I make new memories that make me stop and wish I could relive them in Guyana? Will I find things I've been searching for? Will I be able to fulfill my role as someone who makes a difference? Will I find that I've got a longer road to go before I'm truly content with my life, my self, my heart and my deeds? I guess looking back years from now, I'll know then....

It's been snowing on and off today. Not even snowing...I'd call it flurrying. It'll snow for a small amount of time, and then it'll stop. And start up again. It's like my emotions about this trip. Last night, over plates of Chinese food, my mom started tearing up (when does she not?) and said, "Lu, You only have one more month here". For some reason I rolled my eyes, but then when I woke up this morning, tears poured out. It wasn't from the workout I did at 5:30am, and it wasn't from my fingers touching the hot straigtening iron...I'm just getting nervous. Don't get me wrong, I'm excited, but there's a part of me who's equally nervous, and sad to boot.

I wonder what getting on that plane will feel like; what saying goodbye to the ones I really care about will take; if I'll wake up in Guyana and wish that I were just waking up to go to work at home instead. Nightmares? Sure I've got them... but they're not about the things I think about when I'm awake.

Now the snow's coming down hard and you can't see the mountains anymore. The sky's a permanent gray-ish white and you can barely see the trees in the distance. Days like these come and go, I know. I just wonder if my fear and worrying will too. Or if it'll just increase closer to my departure date. On off, on off.... This emotional rollercoaster I've decided to ride is going through loops faster than I can throw up my hands and squeal, but as soon as I recover, another loop-de-loop comes right around the bend.

I know the butterflies in my stomach will come and go. I know it'll be different in a couple days. I know when it's all said and done, it'll be one of the best experiences of my life. These are all things I know. What I don't know is how to handle leaving...

At least that's what I keep repeating to myself... I am leaving for Guyana (South America) in t-minus 4 weeks, 3 days, however many hours and seconds. It still hasn't fully hit me yet that I'm leaving. I mean, sure I've gone to JAX and gotten somethings to bring with me, and sure I've told my work (an experience in itself), I've talked about it with friends and family, but it really hasn't hit me yet. I'm sure it'll be hour 3 on the plane to Guyana and all of the sudden, I'll say, SHIT!! I'm really going and doing this! I guess if there were more to know and more to prepare myself, I'd feel more ready and more adjusted, but as it turns out, I've read all I can and I've talked to people that are in the "Peace Corps loop" but nothing can prepare an individual for the experience they are going to have.

Here's what I know:

- I'll be leaving February 22nd for Philly to do staging (bascially an orientation and a gathering of the other members of people who are going with me).

- I can only bring 80 lbs of junk with me. That's 40 lbs per bag and one carry-on.

- Guyana is 5 degrees N of the Equator, so that means I'll have a curly fro for sure.

- I'm pretty sure I'll have email access, but it all depends on what I'm doing there and where I'll live.

- I'm going to be a Community Education Promoter. (What that is...I'll let you know more as I know more)

- It's going to be hot as hell, and there's going to be bugs, bugs and more bugs. Oh and snakes too.

- Guyana is the only English speaking country in South America.

- Their exchange rate is $200 for our $1. I'll be making $40,000 a month! WOOOO!!!

- The rainforest there is lush and practically untouched.

- I'm going to miss my friends and family so much, but I'm sure that 2 1/2 years are going to go by really fast.

I guess Nelson really knows what he's talking about, but I'll have to experience it myself just to be sure.