When The Rain Falls on Washing Day

I'd seen her beatin' heart drip with ache, rung out and hung up to dry for the last damn time.

Sweetheart, I mourned.  When will you learn?  Don't you realize the energy you intend to save is at the ultimate expense of your own?

But Momma, she cried, if I don't put my heart out on the line, I'll end up just like you.

I couldn't argue with the child.  Her father had a left a scar, as dark and as deep as the C-section mark from her birth, the night he left us.

To this day, neither one have ever really healed.

**************************************************************************

Every day, whether realized or not, we put something out on the line.  After all, what is life worth living, if we don't take chances?  I'd venture to say that most of the time, like our easy-to-wash and quick drying cotton shirts and undies, our line is pinned with the kinds of emotions and intellect with timely bounce backs.  But every once and a while, you acknowledge you've worn those jeans and slept in those sheets, for as long as you can stand it, and like your heart, and in rare cases, your life, up they go, out on the line.

Recently, I spoke with a friend about his time in Afghanistan, with the US Army.  He was in charge of helping oversee an Afghan penitentiary.  He went on to explain that many of the inmates were there as a result crimes they committed, surrounding the dirty work of the powers that be.  Who knows how long they'd remain in prison and how just their crimes and sentencing were.  But they had certainly figured out how to entertain themselves, especially at mealtime.

***Disclaimer...the following material may not be suitable for younger readers***

During mealtime, when the US soldiers delivered the inmate's food trays, some inmates would deliver mixtures of feces and urine, right in their face.  The soldiers were instructed not to react, but simply suck it up, wipe it off, and keep delivering meals.  For this incredibly heinous act, the Afghan inmate was sentenced to a mere ten days in solitary confinement.  I can't quite remember how much time in solitary confinement was given for the same act, in the States, but I believe it was closer to a year.  He gave an example of a soldier who reacted "inappropriately" (use your imagination) to that behavior, and the soldier lost an entire rank (about a $10,000 demotion).

When negativity results from things that are out of our control, or even the choices we make, we often seek out a scapegoat on which to place the blame.  (This isn't the direction my life was supposed to go; I didn't sign up for THIS; if only I would have been accepted to this program; gotten that job; married that person; sat in the back of the car that was hit in the front...my life would have been different).  Other times, we are simply at the wrong place at the wrong time.  In any case, it is hard not to separate ourselves from the situation and recognize that, more than likely, it isn't a personal attack on our own person.  More than likely, another person's negative experience is affecting them adversely, which in turn, directly affects you.

If we can think of it in those terms, with respect to variables such as culture, education, familial upbringings, and present circumstances, it helps put these situations into perspective for us, as we look at the greater picture, as opposed to an isolated incident.

The other day, I was riding my bicycle to work, when I noticed someone yelling and screaming up ahead.  As I approached this man, I realized the yells and screams were directed towards me, and that, before I knew it, so was a giant mouthful of spit.  Since I was on my bike and wearing a helmet, I was able to duck just in time, and just enough, to where his saliva just skimmed the top.  I had never seen this man before, that I knew of, nor had I done anything to warrant his behavior directed at me.  And yet, I immediately wanted to cry.  It felt SO personal.  Some people might had decided to stop and confront him, but I was almost to work, and didn't feel like messing with it right then.  More than likely, he wouldn't have even known why he did it in the first place.  (A similar thing happened to me in the Brikama market in Gambia, when, completely out of nowhere, I was spit on in the face.  I reacted quickly and loudly, yelling for any help I could get, in order to locate my assailant, after which he was caught and brought to the police station.  I filed a report at the station, and with Peace Corps, which I suppose was enough conviction for me, since I never found out what happened to him, legally speaking).

It took me a bit to compose myself and process what had just happened, on the rest of my ride to work.  Obviously, it wasn't a personal attack on me, just like the aforementioned mixture shoved at the soldier.   I had "chosen" this adventure, here in Guyana, but what did that mean?  That I should tolerate and accept everything that comes with it?  Was I even being applauded for my efforts; my time here appreciated and truly desired?  Some days it is easier to tell than others, but every day offers perspective and something new.  We'd like to think that we will at least get out what we put into a situation; that someone will notice, or rewards will be issued, but that's not always the case.  We'd like to think that, for the help we provide and the selflessness we share, we won't get spit or shit on, but unfortunately, that's not always the case either.

Fortunately, though, every day is a new day.  Every day is a chance to applaud someone's efforts, to learn something new, to share something old, and a chance to change something small; that is, if you're willing to put yourself out on the line.

"An AmerIndian's Life is Not So Easy"

"Black Water" is the color of iced tea, and just as pleasant temps to swim in.

Moon Mission Meeting

Chicken lickin’, feather pickin’, feather’s stikin’ from our hair.

Buck bead stringing, women singing.

Fish are frying.

Turtles dying.

Sun is trying, and succeeding.

Men are hissing, some are pissing, most are missing why we’re pissed.

Fly wine flying from the stands, straight to our hands and stains our glands.

Sun stains us tanned.

Children creeping (pupils peeping), white bodies: steeping bags of tea, black waters be.  All eyes on me.

Full moon amps up the winking night.

Full volume sets a stage for fight.

This festival at nine month’s close.

More fun of time, none I coulda chose.

St. Cuth’s and Peace Corps’ Mission meeting, host families plus friends.

Our mission is met.

*********************************************** 

So sums up my weekend excursion to the closing festival for Amerindian Heritage Month at St. Cuthberg's Mission.  And, as they played the lyrics on repeat over the two days I was there, I repeated and hummed to myself  "...not so easy.  A manke kasi ti".  Interestingly enough, it was a phrase I said very often, aloud, in Mandinka, while I was in Gambia.

Travel to and from St. Cuth's was in fact, relatively easy.  So easy in fact, I thanked my lucky stars on the night of the full moon.  It only took us two and a half hours by transport, with what would have surely taken at least four and a half in Gambia.  It was my first travel adventure in country, outside of Peace Corps transportation.  

The term, Amerindian, refers to indigenous persons who inhabited the Americas as far back as 11,000 years.  Guyana is one of the few countries whose native population refers to themselves this way today.  There are nine prominent tribes spread across the country (Wai Wais, Machusis, Patomonas, Arawaks, Caribs, Wapishana, Arecunas, Akawaios, and Warrus).  In the St. Cuth's region, you can find the Arawaks.

The festival kicked off with a pageant.  Let me repeat that.  The festival kicked off with pageant.  It was to crown the Amerindian princess of that region, to compete in next year's national Amerindian pageant.  We were in a small Amerindian village, far away from anything else, on a Friday night inside the tiny primary school, where the generators might had well just run off beer, because everyone else was.  Villagers young and old crammed in to see the show.  Seven teenage girls alternated between displaying themselves in evening gowns (soundtrack: the first 8 measures of Sinead O'Conner's "Nothing Compares" on repeat, yup, seven straight times in a row), to convincing the judges each is the most passionate about their platform, to dancing traditional dances in grass skirts and bikini tops.  At one point, a very drunk villager jumped up on stage, in front of the entire crowd, and danced lewdly with the poor girl performing.  It took two people to forcefully pull him away and drag off the stage.  It was the first live pageant I had ever seen and I can easily go the rest of my life without ever experiencing another one.

Shanty in the middle of town.

There were many neat things about the festival, though.  The following day, I met about 20 two year volunteers, placed all around the country.  I spent the night with one who lived and taught in St. Cuth's.  She actually stayed with her host family, in an upstairs room, and the next morning the familiar smell of deep fried omelets and Nescafe wafted up the stairs and straight into my nostrils.  It was nice to be back in a village, hanging out with native families, if only for a day. But, as I was getting ready to crawl into bed the night before, I searched to turn off the light switch all around her room, with no luck.  So I decided to ask her host brother if he knew where it was, to which he guffawed, "We ain't got no switch!"  Totally embarrassed, I thought to myself, of course they don't.  The electrical grid gets turned on when the guys feels like it (probably around 4 or 5 pm) and turned off when he remembers (around 10 or 11pm).

We spent the rest of our time watching native dances, supporting the women's cooperative craft market, hiking down the lonely palm lined trails that led to chilled relief in the form of black tea-tinted creek waters, tasting delicacies and getting to know each other a little more.  The day was as full and familiar as the moon.

Primary school sports day at the brewery.

The past couple of weeks at work have failed to follow the waning cycle of the moon, actively speaking.   National Child Protection week was two weeks ago, which involved outreach in the form of sensitization presentations to businesses, parades, concerts and heightened awareness in the schools.  It was also sports week, during which students compete within their schools and the winners then compete regionally, and finally, nationally.  I had the opportunity to attend one of the primary school's sports day, which was held at...a park?  No.  A secondary school's track?  No.  The national beer brewery?  But of course!  Fifty elementary school aged kids ran wildly and determined-like around the Banks Brewery field while a small crowd of men sat sipping booze, glued to the football match on the tube.  At least there was endless ice!!

In addition to my responsibilities at ChildLinK, a fellow PCV has asked for some help with a project that overlaps with my area of focus here in Guyana.  She and a friend are planning Guyana's first Women's Resource Exposition (WEnEX) and enlisting the assistance of folks involved in different business, organizations, governments and government sectors, to pull it off.  It will be held on November 26th and we'll be inviting women run and women focused businesses, as well as women supporting organizations to serve as vendors who will showcase their products, promote their services, and network with each other.  The idea behind the whole event being to promote awareness of successes, as well as challenges that the women of Guyana encounter and face, to raise awareness of gender based violence, to empower, encourage and help bridge the gap of inequality that is so pronounced in this country.  I've been able to contribute thus far by helping write the invitation letters for the businesses, organizations, key note speakers and panelists, as well as the sponsorship letter for the major corporations from whom we are seeking help.

A counselor introducing the Tell Scheme to parents at a PTA meeting.

And...in addition to this exhibition, our counselors at ChildLinK have been asked to put on a Children's Convention in mid November.  We sat down last Friday to brainstorm and came up with some great sounding ideas.  This convention will serve as the community outreach portion of the project, which is projected to wrap up finally, March 2013.  We'll hold the event at one of the primary schools, and invite children and parents and teachers from all of the schools in which we work.  There was discussion of children from the five schools performing skits, poems, etc., as well as inviting prominent members of the field and government to give opening remarks, small entertainment in the form of a bounce house and trampoline, informational booths surrounding education, protection and privacy, health and play (the last of which I enthusiastically volunteered to help support, but to no avail- I was assigned health, which was a close second for me, anyway).

Still, everything moves slowly.  Back home, I'm used to packing my days to the brim, often times beginning with an awakening and refreshing 6:30am Mysore yoga class with friends, and ending with one of the numerous social or educational "obligations" which regularly present themselves on an almost nightly basis.  The entire day would be filled with working a half day at one job, half day at another, or another, taking time to be a mentor with one person, and a friend to another three, taking time to write, stopping in to check on my art at the shops around town, making art, making meals, feeding friends, working on or around the house, etc. etc, etc, all while transporting myself with my trusty and true Free Spirit baby blue bicycle.  I enjoy days packed to the brim, although, I suppose it's easy to get wrapped up in the hustle and bustle.

Coming to Guyana has forced me to once again slow down, and once again explore that very important virtue, patience.  I don't have the same resources or sources of support here that I do back home.  I've told myself that this period will be a time for personal reflection and growth and writing, since I don't really have any art supplies, and the ones at my disposal are quite pricey with this PC budget.  But that's totally fine.  Focusing on other interests and  accepting new challenges helps make one a more well rounded person.  What slowing down means for someone, speeding up presents similar struggles for another.

Botanical Garden's pond in Georgetown.

It's strange to think about what I miss from home and be thinking about what I will do when I return to home, all at the same time, in such short of time.  Of course, friends, family and Roscoe top the list, and everything that comes with all of that.  But I started thinking about sounds recently.  There are no railroad crossings, trains or train whistles here.  I don't hear clock towers chime or church bells ring, or even mosque calls for that matter.  I'm in the capital city and mostly I hear horns.  At night I hear crickets and an orchestra of barking dogs.  In the mornings, I hear roosters crowing, and as of late, my next door neighbor's mother-in-law, singing an acapella devotional in the loveliest voice, which brings me out of my slumber and into a presence that I can only feel inside my home.  It is completely different out there.  I hear sips and kisses and whistles and the bells of horse carts and horse hooves clacking on the pavement, nonstop talking, Caribbean and Christian music blaring, children being children and numerous other things.  The other day I saw a decaying baby crocodile on the pavement on the way to one of the schools...

I miss hugs and warm, sincere smiles.  I constantly wonder what's in store for me, come January.  Will I have a job lined up?  Where will that job be and what will it entail?  Why is it so hard to remain present, so far away from home?  Even when home is not even so far away, with both distance and time...

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.