Driven by Agression, Fueled by Fear

Oh, Georgetown.  You're teaching this suburban girl so much.  Preparing me for the potentials of big city life back in the States, should I ever end up in one.  My street smarts are starting to stack up as high as the palm trees, although I'm no longer as green as its leaf.  I've heard if you can drive in Georgetown, you can drive anywhere, and I believe it.  I'm starting to think if you can bike in Georgetown, the same rule applies.  In the past two weeks, I've actually been present during two motor bike accidents and one of my more exciting mini-bus rides resulted from being side swiped by an over taking car.  Perhaps if the drivers turned up the music a little more, it would help their reflexes.  One morning, I practiced bracing myself during the jolts, protecting my bag and holding my ears closed, all at the same time!  I'm no longer surprised by random people attempting to draw attention to themselves through lewd conduct and strangers instantly thinking they need to be my friend.  In fact, the names I hear while I'm biking are quite entertaining.  Since here is English, everything is explicit.  From "white meat" to "white girl" to "snow flake", prelude always takes form in a kissing, sipping sound and "endearing" baby or sweetie.  I’m privy to homeless men with extremely impressive dreads and zombie-like gates aimlessly moving about the streets.  Once, due to my keen observation skills, I even witnessed a swift, discrete drive by exchange of a very large stack of currency.  And like I mentioned before, petty theft is fairly high here, so I always try to be alertly aware of my surroundings.  I’ve ran through different scenarios in my head and the solution I come up with most of them is to just act crazy.  Being crazy just throws people for a loop.  In fact, it’s one of the suggestions Peace Corps gives us, right before acting out physically.  Each and every day, as I see a little more, I tuck away a little more.  Because at the end of the day, you never know when or where you’ll have to reach into your little bag, to keep them from doing the same.

I celebrated a month in Guyana last Wednesday.  It seems pretty fair, although it feels like I could have easily celebrated six weeks or six months, just as easily.  Living once again in a country with only two seasons, time feels somewhat irrelevant.  It's safe to say that I’m comfortable and familiar with my surroundings, although I haven’t explored too much of the city on my own.  I stick to my bicycle routes, comprised of work, markets, the bank and post office and friend’s houses.  Inevitably, my shirt needs a good ringing out after every single stop.  I’d rather bike or walk than take a taxi, perhaps because I’m frugal, which might limit me, at times, to experience some of the fine dining and entertainment Guyana has to offer.  But, perhaps because I’m frugal, I’d rather buy food to cook, and create my own entertainment, and save the limited spending money allotted, for weekend excursions or giant annual events…enter GuyEXPO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Last night, my friend Susan and I attended the annual event that Guyana holds in Georgetown, featuring businesses, small and large, throughout the country.  A couple of weeks ago, one of my co-workers informed me that GuyEXPO was an event, not to be missed.  Of course, our perception of not to be missed events could easily be as different as our hair products, but as time moved closer to the opening, my curiosity got the best of me and plans were made, tickets were purchased and attend, we did.  And I will admit, she was right.  As a foreigner, I was blown away by the expansiveness and expensiveness of the event.  There are few places when you’re traveling and living abroad, that will remind you of being at home.  A fancy restaurant with adequate or less than adequate service, might be one of them.  Or people bronzing themselves on a beach.  Or a ginormous replication of the Texas or Oklahoma State Fair, as was the case for GuyExpo 2012.  

First thing I did when our tickets were torn?  Splurge on and devour an entire bag of cotton candy.  I was 12 again.  Oh, wait, 22, or 32?  There was a midway.  There was a bounce house.  There were trampolines.  I told Susan that if I were in the right attire, I’d be jumping.  She added…and the right age?  To which I replied, um, I’m not?  We toured business booth, upon business booth, picking up a myriad of pamphlets and brochures, sampled wines, masalas, and Mak-C (the powdered drink mix of choice here).  We saw entertainment out the wazoo, while the scents and smells of amazing food wafted through the air.  We each purchased a couple of items from the AmerIndians, to take back to the homepeople.   She, grass skirts and headdresses for her grandchildren, I crab oil infused soap.

Attending the Expo reminded me, once again of the disparity in this country.  It is something that I’ve been thinking about a lot lately.  Disparity is demonstrated around the world.  The haves and the have-nots.  The working to live and the living to work.  We toured a section of the fair solely dedicated to extravagant home furnishings, just like you’d find at the state fairs back home, and I asked a rhetorical question aloud: how many people can actually afford these things?!   The answer is, actually, a lot of people.  But most people can’t.  Most people probably couldn’t even afford the entrance price of the Expo.  Maybe I’ve been thinking about all of this because when you’re a foreigner, you’re automatically placed in a different financial category or your status is automatically raised.  Many times, you’re “in” with the livin’ large and in charge crowd, whether you deserve to, or even want to…  Back home, I’m nowhere near livin’ large.  The interesting thing about Peace Corps is, even here, I’m nowhere near that status, either.  But I was fortunate to be born in a country and to a family that allowed me the opportunities on which I’ve capitalized and made the most of.  I received an excellent education, which has empowered me to excel in areas about which I’m passionate.  But it’s not just me who received the education and opportunity back home, and THAT is the difference abroad.

In the schools and in the homes, there is a culture of punishment through fear and aggression.  You see it clearly when you’re placed and working within the schools.  Our counselors have their jobs cut out for them.  Decades upon decades of “fixing” “problem” children through violence and voice raising has produced a society of many vocal and aggressive adults.  Of course, not everyone raises their children this way, but if you are not even aware that there’s any other way, and that’s how you were raised, what are your options?  I’m looking forward to helping the counselors with their daunting tasks of behavior change.  First thing on my agenda is showing attention through positive reinforcement.  I tried it out last Monday, during an incredibly aggressive and disruptive group session about safe touches with 13 twelve year old boys.  The counselor noticed it too.  But at the end of the day, you just have to do the best you can.  And at the end of the day, we all fall asleep, even if it’s not in the same place, every night.

Welcome to the Big Screen

Our experiences from the world around us shape who we are on the inside.  We are shaped and matted like the tessellation-patterned wallpaper in the breakfast nook of our childhood homes.  Each family's pattern varying slightly from one to the next.  It commences as early as we are born, with our parents, and only concludes when we expire. 

Every day, we witness and participate in occurrences and are spoken to by people, which sets the stage for our moods and levels of productivity.  The degree by which one is influenced by these occurrences (good or bad) varies from one person to the next, as much as the cereals our parents bought back when.  Not only are we impacted by the words of the people, but the tone in which they talk.  (If you can in fact, understand them).

When we travel and experience new cultures and learn about their norms and customs, our peripheral vision seems to expand.  If we don't allow ourselves to become jaded, perhaps we will come away with a little more patience, a little more empathy, a handful of friends and in this case, very tanned arms.  Certainly, there's the potential for a little collection of very interesting stories, too.

Fortunately, entering my fourth week of work, I am pretty clear on my role as a response volunteer.  Unfortunately, upon realizing that my role involved supporting counselors located in schools in what Peace Corps has deemed "red zones", and that I'd be traveling to and from these schools on a daily basis, alone, we had to call meeting.  And it couldn't have come at a better time.  The day prior, there was a shooting that resulted in a 17 year old's death, right around the corner from one of the schools.  It was an isolated incident, but a police officer shot the kid like six times in suspect of a planned gang activity later in the day.  The whole thing sounds sketchy, and the residents are pretty upset.  Some of the parents from the kids at the school came and got them, others wanted them to hang tight there.  The counselor working at the school ended up spending the rest of the afternoon at our ChildLinK office.  It's unlikely that anything would happen at the primary school, but if residents feel that their town is being unlawfully attacked, everyone is going to be on high alert.

It is my agency's responsibility to provide transportation relating to work, but funds are only available to take the bus.  So the meeting was to come up with an alternative, and see where we can pull funds from for a taxi.  I submitted a proposal and budget to Peace Corps last week and they're meeting tomorrow.  I really hope we figure out something very soon, because my time here is short and I want to be of as much help as possible, which means spending more time with the counselors, and less time at the office.  In the mean time, I've been helping the organization with their idea to submit articles to the local papers, in hopes of raising awareness about child abuse as well as ChildLink's services. Eventually we'd like to come up with a sort of parenting advice column.  I wrote up a case study, based off of one and we took it to the papers last Friday.  We got a positive response from one, and it's planned to go to print during the week of Child Protection Week, in two weeks.  I'm also working on gathering information for a referral manual, as well as participating in presentations and training sessions.

Ridin' da bus to Kaiteur Times.

As a white, blonde chick, I already stand out like a sore thumb.  When I told my counterpart this, she said, "Really?  You're blonde?"  What she meant was, as she further explained, was that all the blondes in the movies she watched didn't come across as very smart or with it, and that truly, I must not be a blonde.  I took it as a compliment, while silently cursing Hollywood.  Just a couple of days prior, she was also shining from our being in the spotlight..."like a real moviestar" she had said.  Here's what happened:

AmerIndian Heritage Festival and Tournament at the National Park.

Like I mentioned before, the unwanted attention is on par with Gambia, but it appears the petty theft is higher.  I have heard of a handful of instances where volunteers have been mugged, usually walking at night.  I feel safe in my neighborhood, but definitely don't venture too far from home, after dark.  However, it's the first time I've ever lived in a capital, and I'm getting a dose of street smarts.  The other day, my counterpart, Kai, and I had just gotten off a bus and were going to stop by her bank, before walking back to the office, and a man dressed in a long sleeve black shirt and dark jeans (in this heat), began to follow us.  We both noticed it and Kai told me to move my umbrella to the right because he was staring at me as we were walking.  We crossed through traffic and there he was again, on the other side.  He never said anything to us, just kept a short distance, until we went into a store to see if he'd leave and he posted up right outside.  At that point, I called PC and they decided to send a car for us.  I got off the phone and pretended like I was shopping, which is when he came into the store and started pacing.  PC called back to say one was on their way and we all moved to the front of the store.  The whole time, I had no idea what this man, who never said a word, but was obviously very honed in on me, wanted.  Would he try to grab my bag or was he after more?  Kai gave him the stare down a couple of times, but for some reason, I was intimidated.  He seemed like he had a plan and somewhat stable minded.  I wasn't able to get up the courage to find out what it was he was after.  Probably, because I didn't want to know.  It was like if I didn't know, I didn't have to give it up. 

 The car came and we were taken back to ChildLinK.  The PC staff said he had seen him around there, harassing people before, so I guess we were just on his turf.  But that turf isn't a "red zone".  It's a place where I'll probably cross through dozens more during my service here.  For Kai and I, it was a very eventful day.  In her perspective, we were stars in a movie, with a rescue ending.  Sounds good to me.  I can write an acceptance speech and was planning to adopt five Guyanese children, anyway.  I'll probably need a little bit of a raise from $250 a month, though...

Five Minutes With Ms. B

Ms. Brenda :)

Allow me to introduce Ms. Brenda.  She's our cleaning woman at ChildLinK.  She's our oldest employee, not only by age, but also employment.  She's worked here from the beginning, ten years back, from Christian Children's Fund, to EveryChild-Guyana, to ChildLinK.  "I get old now", she says.  She's our friend.  She's our story teller.

Monday in the office.

Last Tuesday, the 4th of the 9th month, (her words) Ms. B celebrated her 61st birthday.  The staff pooled together and bought her some good smelly bath thingies.  Ms. Brenda is never with out a smile, or a story, and usually she's with both.  I knew I needed to learn more about the lady that keeps our quarters tidy, and I knew you needed to know, too.  So I asked for a little chat, and this is what I heard...

Ms. B doin' her thang.

Growing up in New Amsterdam, about two hours down Guyana's east coast, Ms. Brenda was one of three kids.  I don't know too much about her family yet, but cake baking is in her blood. And today, when she's not making our place sparkle on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, she's baking yummy cakes and pastries at home and sellin' in the streets on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  Today, in light of potluck Mondays (which I'm trying to introduce, slowly), she brought a fruit cake.  I tried asking her what her most popular item was, and where exactly she sold, so that I could maybe run into her one day, and she simply said, "If they want, they buy!  They choice.  I make orders, too."  I told her I never thought not eating gluten was unfortunate, until I met her.

Kitchen is so clean!  Thanks!

When she was 21, Ms. B came to Georgetown and "got shine!" (saw the glamor of the city life)  She soon married and had two daughters, one of whom is in the States.  A grandmother of three, her husband passed in 1988 and she never re-married.  I asked her how they met and how he died, and she just smiled.  Maybe it was too personal, for as new as I am.  Finally she just said, "He got sick, an' die".

Another clean room!

I wondered what it was like for her to move to Georgetown, after living in a smaller town.  "Georgetown busy.  Any community, different walks of life.  People good, people bad."  What advice could she give me about being new in Georgetown, myself?  "Don't walk too late.  Never know minds of people.  Be wise.  Be careful."

My tailor made skirt and her tailor made blouse.  Two kids on a couch.

Spoken like a true, wise woman.  I'm grateful to have crossed paths with Ms. B.

Pictures

Trying a poem out on the crowd.

Open mic poetry night. at UpScale

Sea wall sunset.

A capital divided.

Clouds on the sea wall.

He Thinks My Helmet's Sexy (J/K...It's Just Opposite Day)

This morning, while dodging the normal cars, pedestrians, motorbikes, dogs and goats, on my bike ride to work, I thought about two things:  1) I'd better ride really fast because those clouds look a little too dark for my comfort  2) It's kind of like I'm living every day as opposite day.

Opposite Day was that game kids used to play in elementary school.  I remember it as being a strange way of trying to get out of doing something, or insulting someone (or reverse insulting someone by insulting them-which I guess is a compliment in a twisted way).  But opposite day here has a different meaning to me.  Opposite, you might say, which I realized when I once again set out for my bike commute on the left side of the road, surrounded by a city of dark-skinned residence.  I stick out like the mutated white grape on an entire vine of dark purple.  But still, just right for the picking (or rather the picking on).  I'm used to it by now.  I was plenty exposed to it in Gambia, not only with the adult men, but also the stranger kid punk boys walking home from school.  Being here brings back a lot of memories (good and bad) from Gambia, and it's hard not to draw comparisons between the two.  However, even though they both begin with G and are situated on the Atlantic, they are, indeed, opposite.

Yesterday was the first day of school.  I've been indirectly affected by the lead up to school starting, and now, school starting.  The first week at work (last week) was pretty slow, as a result.  I've discovered a bike route fairly void of traffic, which increases my "Frogger" score immensely, each and every day.  On one of the stretches of road, lies about 5 different education centers, including primary and secondary schools (high school), as well as the teacher's union and scout's association.

At the beginning of last week, it appeared there was lots to be done to get ready for the start of school, as observed by my riding to and from work on the school-lined road.  The trenches freed of anacondas (just a guess) and the extremely tall grass that made up 3/4 of the area of the school needed to be "slashed".  Slashed.  From the "slash and burn" technique of farming.  But in this present day, it is not the ancient scythe which a man uses for this work, but the mighty and powerful Weed Eater.   And for as many Weed Eaters that have made their way into this country, I've yet to see one single push mower (gas powered or otherwise).  Every day, I'd see 3 or 4 men working on on field, mouths covered with makeshift bandannas.  Every day, more and more of the grass was effectively slashed and the trenches cleared.  Every day, I imagined how grateful (or confused) they'd be if I had presented them with a lawn mower.

Yesterday, my quiet school-lined route felt as crowded as an OU home football game and my Frogger points declined significantly, as a result of the complicated stops and starts on my bicycle.  But the kids looked so cute in their uniforms and the parents looked so proud to be accompanying them, that I couldn't help but glorify the first day of school.

Today, the road was significantly less crowded, which allowed me to appreciate the beautiful and subsequent "burn" which will now prevent the Weed Eater people from returning until next season, most likely.

And shortly after I arrived to work, down came the rains and washed the anacondas out.