The Blythlyway in Guyana

Saturday, October 21, 2006

The heat has been seeping beneath my skin these last two days and for the first time I wonder if I will one day simply break under it, while waiting for the rainy season to start. I was so thoroughly overheated yesterday, in the middle of the cloudless, fire hot sky, that I took out the thermometer because I was convinced I had a fever. But my temperature read 97.6 and, since denange fever was out, the only thing I could do was break off a chunk of ice from the side of the freezer, wipe my body down with it, and lay back in the hammock to writhe in the breezeless afternoon, well past the point of being able to transcend my circumstances.
We took our first excursion out of the friendly confines of New Amsterdam on Sunday. After Miriam Adelaide finished with one of the Luther League groups, she met me on the road near the ferry launch (called here the stelling). The stelling is also the area where the buses congregate looking for to fill up with enough passengers to make their trip profitable. Fill-up is perhaps an understatement. For just about every mode of vehicular travel the Guyanese make the utmost effort to maximize the passengers who participate. They are in fact deftly efficient at the energy consumption to distance traveled ratio, at least within the confines of the modes of transportations available to them. For instance it is not at all uncommon to see four people using one bicycle (Father pedaling, Mother side saddle across the bar, older child on the backstand, younger child held on the handlebars by mother or father). It is frankly an amazing display of dexterity, balance, and trust, which makes me wince to think of those pull behind kid carriers with the long orange flag. Safety thorough ability and awareness not armour and size. It should go without saying that nobody, and I mean nobody, wears a helmet on a bicycle here.
Their efficiency, however, is based on necessity not necessarily desire for family unity.
There are still the solitary drivers of private cars, although the number is not high, as usually even private cars are utilized for the novel idea of carrying passengers. If in the United States today there is an average of one and a half cars for every eligible driver (a statistic which continually astounds me), in Guyana I would hazard to guess that the ration is closer to one private car for every one hundred eligible drivers. What the statistic doesn’t show is that, just as in the states, the cars are owned overwhelmingly by those with higher incomes. For the vast majority of Guyanese the price of owning and operating a car which is not used daily for commercial gain, not simply transportation, is completely and utterly beyond their means. More people do use motorcycles and motorbikes. But for most people public transportation is how you move about.
There used to be a network of buses and trams of some type I am told but this is no longer the case. Within town people use cabs. These are small sedans, which are zoned for certain areas, privately and seemingly only individually owned and operated, and ubiquitous here in New Amsterdam. If they were yellow it would look like Manhattan, but they are all different colors. Not all of them, but almost all, have a name or saying emblazoned on the windshield and or back window in neon spray paint. Names: like Moses, Magic Man, True Love, Salvation, or Libra, which are referenced by people and printed in newspapers. As in the bus, known as Jesus Saves, was involved in a head on collision on the Corryentene Highway. Fares are flat rates between points, which are more or less the same depending on the driver. These cars are licensed for five seats, including the drivers. The first time I took one was coming back alone from church in Canje. I waited for a few minutes near a group of people who were also waiting for a car, and then I decided to start walking, as the spot was pretty far down the road, in the countryside, so not that many cars come by. Eventually a car stopped, a girl got out of the front seat and I got in. There were three women in the back. We started and stopped almost as quickly to pick up an older woman. I thought it a good idea to give up the front seat to her and squeezed in the back. Six of us, but it seemed reasonable. A few seconds later, we stopped for a young girl, who jumped into the front sharing the seat with older woman. So much for chivalry I thought. And again a few minutes after that, we stopped and a man and a baby squeezed in on my side. Now we were full, 8 adults and a baby- or at least there wasn’t anybody else to stop for until after we dropped off two of the women in the back. The occupants turned over multiple times, till eventually, after everyone had changed into another person twice and then got out, I was alone in the back till my drop off. We traveled a distance of perhaps five miles. I have also made the same trip completely by myself. And most often you only share with one or two people, but you never know until you’re at you destination.
In order to get out of one town and down the road to another you take a bus, which is also numbered for zones and comes with it’s own unique name/blessing/ macho posturing statement. Two things need definition before I continue. First when I say down the road, I mean down the single lane, narrow, patchwork asphalt that is the only road on the SE coast. Eventually this road ends at a dirt track, which leads to the stelling to Suriname. In every town there is also the back road and eventually the back dam (over which vehicles are hard pressed to cross), but, unless you want to hack through the cane fields or swim the mangrove swamps, you have to take the one road to get anywhere. Secondly a bus here is now a mini-bus slightly larger than a VW bus. They are operated by a driver and by a conductor (usually young men), who shepherds/harangues people in and out of the sliding side door and takes fares. You can get in or out anywhere on the route, and the conductor often is out side drumming up passengers. The buses have four benches besides the front and drivers bench. Part of the middle two benches folds up to provide access to the rest of the seats. Officially they are licensed for fifteen seats including the driver. The newspapers have been filled fairly regularly with stories of accidents involving these buses. Before I ever sat in one I knew that they were overcrowded, driven at excessive speeds, often times with extremely loud music blasting the entire ride, and occasionally driven by intoxicated drivers. From my personal pedestrian and bicycle observations they are the most dangerous, aggressive things on the road besides the huge diesel transport trucks. But everyone uses them for that is the only way to get from town to town.
Quickly after meeting Miriam at the stelling we were hailed by a conductor of a fairly full bus. We told him we would look for another as he was full and he assured us that, as the ferry had just come in, everyone was full. “I wouln’t lie to you about that man.” As I was sure he would never lie to get a foreign passenger, and since the bus was neither overly flashy (some buses are tricked out low-riders) nor overly decrepit (other buses seem destined to fall apart at a good pothole) we jumped on. Or should I say the conductor moved three children around and forced a hole in the first back middle seat upon which we both fit if I sat just so and Miriam turned sideways. As we took off down the road a man in the back called out. “We see how you pack this think, let us not see you drivin too mighty fast.” The Driver assured us that he did not like to drive fast in the slightest. When we passed over the Canje bridge, the driver slowed to let someone throw a coin out the window and over the side. Good luck for his new baby I think. Whereby I noticed that, scrunched in the lap of the woman next to Miriam, there was a small, less than one-week-old baby. I tried to give Miriam more room to give to the mother, but was already abutted against another mother who had a two year old on her lap. There were nineteen adults and four children, if you count the baby. The driver put the lone seat belt in the car on as we left New Amsterdam.
The one piece of advice we had gotten about taking the bus was to be sure to sit in the middle, because it was safer. Presumably they meant that there was more padding, in the form of people around you, in the event of an accident. Luckily then, I guess, this is where we found ourselves seated. And I must say that, regardless of potential crash safety, being in the middle is the way to ride. You actually feel cushioned by your fellow travelers; more secure because you are unable to move or more important, unable to be moved by the sporadic contortions of the moving vehicle. The crush of humanity is comforting, like chickens roosting close together through the dark night. Equally important to the increased sense of security being in the middle is the fact that you can’t see a bloody thing that is happening on the road ahead. Since I had, by entering the vehicle, given up my ability to drive and control the situation, it calmed me immeasurably to not have to watch the vehicles coming head on swerve out of the way at the last second. All I need was a stewardess to bring by some ginger ale. Instead I sat back in the little nest created for me, tickled the chin of the two year old, and tried to catch a glimpse of the surrounding countryside.
In truth the ride was quite safe; the drivers were respectful of human life, didn’t play any music and only tromped on the accelerator on occasions when I am sure it was absolutely necessary. Of course I couldn’t see a thing, but I assume that this is what was going on and ignorance is truly often bliss. In fact, compared to a few of the white knuckled, gut clenching, close my eyes in the face of imminent impact rides I have had with Pastor Roy on the road running late on Sunday from one service to the next, I enjoyed myself immeasurably. At one point everyone asked our permission to drive down a side road to drop the new baby off at its doorstep. Once we figured out what they were asking we of course assented. I don’t think anyone else in the vehicle had any choice, but we are foreigners so we get asked these things. We drove off the road on one of the many dirt tracks, weaving through bumps and ruts slowly past one room stilted houses and larger as well, till we came to the babies house where a whole extended family (more people than could possibly fit in the house I hope) was waiting outside with smiles and cries of joy at this new member of the household. Welcome, always it’s welcome here. We arrived at the Lutheran retreat compound about a half-hour after dark. We were the last ones to be unloaded and the driver and conductor asked us to be sure to pray for them on the road.
Corriverton has much less population density than New Amsterdam. The area of the country had also, in general, been more economically active in the last decade. One of the major sugar production facilities is located just a few miles from the Lutheran compound. There is also a greater disparity between those with and those without. At nights, not long after sundown the road becomes very quiet, even lonely. Brian and Kristen, two Americans who have been living in Guyana invited us to this part of the country. We had the pleasure of meeting Kristen at our missionary training session in Chicago. She has been in the Peace Corps in Guyana for the last few years and has a wide-ranging knowledge of the country as a geographic whole. Brian was the first intern in Guyana in the same program, which Miriam is now engaged. Subsequent to finishing his intern year here and returning to finish school he returned to Guyana to take his first Pastoral call in Skeldon. Brian and Kristen grew up very close to each other in Wisconsin, dated, broke up and then twice found that they were unexpectedly place in the same country on the other side of the world through different organizations. They were recently married and now are here for another three years, Brian as the Pastor of four churches and Kristen responsible for running the retreat center in Skeldon. They are a wonderful resource for us as well as burgeoning friends.
They live in the main house in the Lutheran Compound in Skeldon. Compound is a fairly accurate description. There are two large bunkhouses, a large central building with a dinning hall and meeting rooms, a church and two houses. The grounds are fenced and gated and there is full time security. One month before Brian initially moved in his soon to be house was robbed substantially. Everything is well groomed, spaced and locked down. You don’t really go out on the road an hour after dark. They have a magnificent veranda on their main upper floor, which overlooks the road from a set back position. It has a glimmer of a view of the river and Suriname behind it. While we stayed with them we spent a good portion of our time sitting on this veranda, talking and watching the activity around us. Lutheran groups from around Guyana use the space, including for a large youth camp, and international groups come and stay when they are doing short-term aide work or spiritual exploration. We had the place to our selves the two nights we were there. The breeze is wonderful off both the river and the Atlantic. The first night was among the best nights of sleep I’ve gotten since our arrival.
Brian and Kristen are runners. Miriam and Kristen kept each other sane during training by running together and it was a large part of how they developed a closer friendship. So they all planned to go running on the beach early the next morning. Beach 63, so named because of it’s proximity to village 63, we had heard was the place were people up and down the coast came on weekends and especially Easter Monday to gather and fly kites. I decided I would get up with them, take a cup of coffee, and have a relaxing sunrise at the beach while they sweated.
We arrived at the beach during a low tide, parked the car and they were off. I decided not to take the car keys from Brian and started walking down the beach. Instantly there was a small swarming of us all by sand flies, but they passed as everyone else took off running. I wandered towards the water, where flags on poles were marking the depth. The Hindus fly triangular red flags on sticks in their yards and temples and here also on the beach. The sun was just starting to make it through the clouds. My coffee was hot and for the first time it made sense that my coffee should be hot. Everything was quite lovely.
Before I could reach the water, the sand flies got pretty bad. Especially I thought in an area of damp, low lying sand. I retreated from the water, slapping them off me and headed for the first wooden stand of benches that I could, thinking that up off the ground the sand flies would get blown away and I could sit in peace. The bleachers are ten benches high with a wooden back to provide shade in the afternoon. They look out towards the sea. It felt like I could easily sit still there for an hour or so and enjoy the peace of the morning. The sand flies had calmed down, as I had thought they would, the moment I stepped onto the wood. Over to the side in the sand a stray dog was running in circles, laying down once everyone in awhile quietly for a few moments, and then thrashing it’s head about in the sand, getting up and running about in circles again, trying to keep ahead of the sand flies. It looked a little insane and I felt both sorry for it and lad that I had escaped up the bleachers.
For about ten minutes everything was beautiful.

Then the sand flies found me.

Gradually at first, then increasing to a swarm so that I could do nothing but get up and move. ON the ground I started moving fast, slapping and shaking all the while. They coated my feet and arms and I made a dash for the water, eventually plunging in up to my knees in my pants. This way my feet were safe, and the wind moved them to my backside only. I attempted to ignore them by adopting my best Buda Repose and staring out to sea. It worked for a while and I almost didn’t feel the bites on my arms. Then stringed creatures, half fish – half snake, started unburying themselves from the sand and skidding on top of the muddied water around me. A large thing splashed nearby. I realized I was not the Buddha and sand flies were still biting me.
So I broke and ran down the beach in circles, cursing and flailing at the flies. I stopped short of trying to bury my head in the sand. I headed towards another bleacher and it was a little better up in the air again. My skin was starting to show evidence of being bitten. My feet were now almost uniformly red and swollen except where my sandal straps covered the flesh. The flies found me again and chased me off. I realized that I had at least a half an hour until the runners returned. I didn’t have the keys to the car. The beach was lined with fields and palm grooves and fenced off. The road we came in on was now fairly far away and I wasn’t sure what relief it offered. The water was not something people swam in I was told, pollution of creatures I wasn’t sure which. To put it mildly I felt trapped there waiting for the death by 1,000 cuts. I even went so far as to wish I had gone running! I went to the water and back to the benches. At one point I accepted my fate and stood in the water with my arms inside my shirtsleeves and tried to remove myself as far from my body as possible.
By the time they returned I was in a pretty good mood. Even took a picture or two as they came gallivanting gaily down the beach. But there was no hiding the bites on my body. For the rest of the day I got a small little taste of how people react to a diseased body. Unfortunately the Guyanese are used to seeing diseased bodies so there was very little noticeable reaction. At one point we were sitting in a bank and I was playing with a young boys head and I realized that if we had been in the states the mother would have never let me touch him. It took me a good half-day to return to feeling connected to myself physically again. Miraculously I never itched any of the bites and now four days later there is very little evidence that I had been bitten at all except the usual multitude of mosquito bites. But at one point I had At Least 1,000 little red splotches on my body where a bug had taken some of my blood.
We spent that day in the market and on the road, going through some of the motions of a normal day off for the two of them. We shared many stories. At one point an American Doctor, who was visiting the country co-ordinating the work of his Lutheran church from Oklahoma, swung by and we listened to some of the accounts of a seventy year old man who had been coming to Guyana for ten years now, learning and sharing his talents and passions. A friend of ours from Holden Village is a member of his church. His brother lived in Holden Village for many years. What a small, extraordinarily exhaustive, massive world.
In the late afternoon we headed to the sugar estate. Brian and Kristen through fortuitous meetings and conversation had been invited to become members of the managers club of the estate. The Primary benefit being the use of a swimming pool! So in the heat of the day we drove through the gate and onto the estate. Suddenly I felt transported to colonial days. The openness of the space without the normal crush of people and the feeling that I had been removed from the rest of the country; an oasis of Private privilege. Well-groomed and manicured lawns and flowering shade trees. I kept expecting to see English gentlemen standing by with pipes in their mouths talking about that months production figures. And in the middle of it all a pool with a diving platform.
Getting out of the car the paint started to peel and I noticed that the decorative water fountain wasn’t working any longer. The life guard (a middle aged Indian man) was asleep in the men’s changing room. Brian and he exchanged greetings and the lifeguard shook the sleep out of his eyes and took up his position in the poolside chair. Nobody else really used the pool at all, at least not on weekdays, except a Canadian Presbyterian Pastor and his wife who arrived as we were about to leave. Everybody started swimming laps while I dove off the platform a few times and sat soaking in both the cold water and the surroundings. The lawns had just been cut. The grass had been raked into hundreds of symmetrically spaced mounds about 2 ft high and three feet in diameter; somebody else would pick it up tomorrow. It was the most precise organized thing I had seen in two months. It was weird, really weird.
I borrowed Brian's goggles and started swimming underwater. I only really enjoy swimming if I am underwater and have goggles on. I was reminded of the hours I used to spend at the public pool in Columbus, OH between the ages of 10-13. The pleasure of diving in the eight-foot deep section again and again for little rocks or nickels that I would throw in. Could I pick up 5, 6, 7 as they floated to the bottom amid the dozens of other bodies, arms and legs flashing the underwater light around me. The goggles and the pressure of the water isolating me and narrowing the focus of my existence at least for the space of each dive between the chaos of splashing people and the confusion of growing up.
I started doing dead man floats with my eyes closed trying to relax the tightness of the muscles in my neck and my assaulted skin. I would float, lungs full of air, and then exhale slowly allowing myself to sink till my feet touch the bottom of this also eight-foot deep pool, then push up and get another breath to repeat the cycle. While sinking once, I realized that I had goggles on and I opened my eyes as my feet touched the bottom. I spread my feet into a balanced stance of some unknown martial art. I was rooted to the ground; at once settled and filled with renewed stability. I moved my arms fluidly in front of my eyes and they were without spots, both weightless and yet as tangible against the water as they had been lost inside my shirt hiding in the open air.

Unfortunately I couldn’t breath.
So I headed to the surface.

I repeated this breathless landing on the bottom of the pool a number of times till I couldn’t restrain myself from laughing aloud and swimming over to tell Miriam about this amazing, hilarious activity that was restoring my sanity. Eventually we headed back to their house and spent the rest of the night eating dinner (Kristen made calzones and the change in cuisine was astounding) and talking late into the evening breeze. It was hotter that evening and the bites had some sort of effect on me so I couldn’t sleep and ended up watching TV in the middle of the night in silence. The Indian channel had subtitles so I watched one of Bollywood’s finest till I could attempt to sleep again. The next morning we all drove back to New Amsterdam in their car, as Brian tapes a television discussion and bible study with Pastor Roy and another Pastor every Tuesday.
Brian was given a church to pastor in the first week of his internship as a 24-year-old seminary student. Within the first week a young member of the congregation died. Currently he is the Pastor of four churches, one of which is made up of the children that nobody else wants and a few elderly women. Kristen lived for the first 6 months of her Peace Corps service in a house with 12 other Guyanese where there was no space except that which you could create in your mind. The only water was brought upstairs in buckets from outside. For two years she taught young children and worked at a health clinic in a town where one out of six people were living and dying with HIV/AIDS. She has witnessed a person killed in a machete fight from ten feet away. They are returning to Guyana newly married to work at least another three years here. We are amazed and lucky to call them our friends and Miriam’s colleagues.
Everyday life in Guyana is for me a mixture of intense, immediately observable physical interactions. Sometimes I rush to embrace them in all their flawed glory, excited at learning more of the place, and at other times I only want to remove myself from them as quickly as possible, feeling trapped and eaten. But I am lucky for today I can sit in my house, on a morning in which the sky has broken open and the clouds still cover up the suns heat, listen to the Brandenburg Concerto and write down my thoughts on paper. I’ll only be interrupted by watching the chickens run by and talking to my neighbors.

2 Comments:

At 9:22 AM, Blogger J.J. said...

I'm supposed to be "working" but find it all meaningless after reading your latest entry. Truely amazing.

 
At 2:36 PM, Blogger Ziomal said...

Very nice! I like it. law enforcement ethics

 

Post a Comment

<< Home