Hello, My Name is Courtney

"Courtney!  Why are you so...strange?" 

My co-worker was just about to log on to Facebook, after me, but couldn't quite understand why the user name/password blanks were upside down and backwards.  She was commenting on that fact, probably because she had never seen it before and was frustrated because she couldn't log on? 

Of course, I didin't think there was anything strange with not having a normal Facebook setting.  But all I could say was, "I don't know...?"  Crap, I thought I doing a pretty good job of being pretty normal.  But was my "strangeness" really that apparent?  Even to Guyanese??

Often I will introduce myself to Guyanese and they will wonder why a girl is named Courtney.  "Courtney is a boys name," they'll say.  Or I will close my email with Courtney, and they will respond "Dear Mr. Gilman..."  One time I followed up with a phone call from an email and the lady was like, "Oh!  I thought you were a man!" 

Back in high school, I knew an African-American boy named Courtney.  We didn't have much in common, but we were buds, because of our common name.  Yes, I know Courtney is also a popular African-American/Guyanese boy's name, I tell the Guyanese who comment on my name.  Then, I kindly and calmly explain that in the United States, Courtney is also a popular girls name.  It's one of those Peace Corps "Goal #3" conversations.

But here is the kicker:  I remember a conversation I had with my father, when I was a little girl.  We were talking about what it would be like when I grew up.  He told me that sometimes, little black boys grow up to be white women.  Sometimes, little black girls grow up to be white men.  He suggested that there was a chance that I'd grow up to be the opposite color and sex of what I was when I was a little girl.  I kid you not.  Even back then, I knew that was an outrageous topic of conversation and claim to make.  I knew that it was really weird.

But I can't help but think back to that conversation and how ironic it is, that, today, as a grown white female, I'm being mistaken for, well, a black male.  Perhaps that anecdote might also help explain why I'm so, um, "strange".  I guess it's also true that the mango doesn't fall far from its tree...

Stay tuned for a detailed recap of WEnEx and pictures and thoughts and projections for the final month of service!

Love and limes!

See The Sea of Dreams

Have you ever awoken from a dream, only to realize your state of consciousness is just as dreamlike?  Or maybe something suddenly sparks your memory about a certain time in your life and you convince yourself that HAD to have been a dream.  There is no way you actually step foot in the Taj Mahal, held a naked Mandinka Gambian child in your lap, or watched the boy you were once madly in love with be called to drum live on stage with the band with whom you'll always be mad for.  Things like that only happen in dreams... Or do they?

Kiddos from the five primary schools where ChildLinK works at Children's Day 2012

Have you ever tried to keep a dream journal?  The first time I ever started writing down my dreams was for an assignment in high school psychology class.  We were talking about the unconscious mind and states of sleep and were encouraged to keep a notebook and pen on a nightstand, for those few moments when you awake from REM sleep, and you have the best chance of remembering your most recent dreams.  I even bought a dream interpretation book that allowed for some insight into what was happening when my eyes were closed.  Dreaming has always been a fascinating subject, and can be even more so when you remember them long enough to log them.  Don't get discouraged if you can't remember your dreams, right away.  Practice thinking about dreaming, as you drift off to sleep.

That's a steel pan drum set in the back!! 

I have to admit, my reality often feels very dreamlike.  Not just here, in Guyana, but for much of my life.  However, in reality, our dreams can take us to an entirely different world.  They can give us a completely different perspective, lend to new ideas and create alternative meanings and solutions to our realities.  Or they can be completely obscure and irrelevant make us question what was in the water we just drank.  Am I using the right kind of filter?!?!

Here it goes...Last night I dreamt that a Peace Corps Volunteer I once knew, but have had zero contact with, in Gambia was sending me care packages, one at a time, in Guyana.  Sweet, I know, except the care packages consisted of his "art instillation" which was a collection of paper egg crates and animal bones.  On each one, he had written endearing notes.  In my dream, I couldn't figure out the connection of an art project consisting of egg crates and bones and I couldn't figure out why, he had paid to send the whole collection, via individual pieces.  I'd be leaving Guyana very soon anyway, and who knows if I could fit them all in my suitcase, just to take them back to right where they came from?  

Besides, we've all experienced the horror and pain that is to pick up a package from the Parcel Section of the main post office in downtown Georgetown.  Why is it that something that brings so much joy and excitement creates such anxiety during the pick up process?  And although I'm fine with practicing my patience, something seriously needs to be re-visited.  Communication is key.  Safety is important and I understand that opening the packages and checking the contents might prevent the distribution of illegal items.  However, a simple numerical system, communication and accountability could help the 99.9% of the patrons picking up Pooh Bear party paraphernalia and "egg crates and bones" get back to work about an hour and a half faster.  Did I mention you also have to pay the worth of your package, according to what the customs officer thinks?

Interviewing for the video short debuting at WEnEX, at Lusignin Good Hope Learning Center.  Note the tank top/ Christmas tree juxtaposition. 

Recently, I also dreamt this group I was with was directed into a basement for a fire drill (makes total sense, I know), which was when someones glass shoe shattered into pieces.  I began to pick up the pieces by hand, but a fan was on and blowing the pieces I tried to gather, in every direction possible.  Finally, I decided I needed a broom and dustpan to clean up the mess.

That very same day, in reality, at the ChildLinK office, someone dropped a glass in the kitchen, and it shattered into pieces.  My counterpart started picking up the pieces by hand and trying to wipe the rest up with a towel, while a fan blasted on high, in the background.  I piped up about my dream about that time, and suggested they step back and let me sweep it up with a broom and dustpan.  If I hadn't come across as "different" already, I definitely just blew my cover.

For me, it's a unique and rare example of a dream that parallels reality.  It's not something to dwell on, but rather an opportunity to be introspective about the happenings in the world around us.

Every child has the right to a safe and secure home.

Thanksgiving marks exactly one month until I return to a life that will feel as foreign as not sweating or running out of credit in the middle of a cell phone call.  I may not have had a "host family" during my PC Response service, but I have encountered something just as, if not more meaningful: a "host community".  Today, while I biked around putting up fliers for WEnEX, I ran into three people in my friend circle.  This evening, while running in the National Park, I saw three more.  That doesn't even include the Peace Corps Volunteers I ran into at the office and joined for lunch.  I have been here for three months now, which is not that long, in the grand scheme of things.  But it is long enough to integrate into a community and it is long enough to experience homesickness, all at once.  It is long enough to accomplish tasks and contribute efforts to a myriad of causes, travel to a myriad of places and network with a myriad of people.  But for some reason, I feel like I have only scratched the surface. 

And I wonder, when and if I move on to something new, how long it will take to feel like I've been dreaming for four solid months... I'm a dreamer though, at heart.  I always have been and I hope to always be.  So far following my dreams has taken me from sea to shining sea.  Who knows where they will take you? 

Women's Enterprise Exposition

The Women's Enterprise Exposition is only one week away!  In the mean time, watch THIS!

This past weekend, we started filming businesses and organizations for the video short, which will be debuted on the night of the event.  So much to do and so little time. 

I'll fill you in on the rest of the current happenings around this place, when I get a chance to catch my breath.  Christmas lights have been strung, toy shops are going up and sweat-marked backpack outline has me feeling like Christmas really IS in July this year...

This Bird's Eye

Me and my host, Rachael, visiting a friend's place

Dark green, light green

 
The houses quickly became Monopoly pieces down below, as we gained altitude above.  But the fields of green and green overtook the tiny, colorful polka dots, faster than you could pass go and collect $200.

Cane and rice fields were a patchwork quilt of slight variances of green and green, interspersed with polka dots, sewn together with aquifer canals the color brown.  Grandma and Grandpa have been hardworking homesteaders, longer than I could even remember.

Boys on bikes!

Eventually, our tiny plane became the blade which cut through the shaving cream mounds of clouds of a thick, white beard.  But the raindrops were too thin shy to wash anything away.

Our flying SUV became a bumper-car amusement park ride, when we hit pockets of air.  I closed my eyes and wondered what good a "co-pilot" was whose head was permanently in the clouds.

Parching ground cassava (farin)

The very first night I spent with a fellow PCV in Kato, a town of 500 villagers in Region 8, the waning moon rose late and low and hung like the occupied hammocks there, in the middle of the languid afternoons.  Strung up by about 200 million stars, for the world to watch, the moon swung silently, lulling its villagers softly to sleep.

How quickly we get caught up in the rat race of life and forget about the little things, which helps give us perspective and realize what's truly important in this world.  I never would have imagined my perspective could hide in the corners of a developing country, but this past week, it peeked out its head in a remote Amerindian village, and I smuggled it back on the plane to Georgetown, where it is needed most, right now.  I hope to share as much as possible.

Fermented cassava (cassiri-right), cassava bread soaked in tuma pot soup and smoked meat.  Breakfast of champions.

Bike-petaled cassava grinder (on right)

Friends and falls

For a brief moment, I was back in Gambia, taking bucket baths by candlelight and occupying pit latrines.  But this interior village was much different than the one I knew.  Where were the mosque calls and rhythmic sounds of women pounding rice?  Maybe it was due to the simple fact that we all spoke the same language, but it seemed like education and health was taken more seriously and cassava took on about five more roles, including being turned into the fermented drink, cassiri.

For five days, I enjoyed the good company of conversation, culture, slowing down, sleep, breathtaking scenery and solitude.  We hiked around some of the 93 square miles and even swam in a waterfall pool.  I came back to lots of love from the homepeople in North America, as well as the momentum to continue to contribute positively for the rest of my service.  I am grateful for all of the people I have met during my time here in Guyana, even though roles might not always be initially apparent.

During this last month or so, as a Peace Corps Response Volunteer here in Guyana, responsibilities will be directed towards ChildLinK, the Women's Enterprise Exposition, and finding a freaking job.  I am open to all sorts of possibilities, so please keep me in mind when you hear of possibilities.

Interestingly enough, too, I spent my second presidential election abroad.  Once again, I had the unique opportunity to engage with US Embassy personnel, but this year, I also gained the insight of residents of Guyana.

Sunset in the Kato valley

I cannot tell yet if I am ready to depart Guyana.  There is one part of me who feels like I am just starting to get the hang of Georgetown and meeting people who could be genuine friends.  Perhaps the possibilities of contributing to this country, even further, might exist?  There is another part of me who feels like I've contributed enough to the people in a country that has spit in my face and literally given me a "shit show".  I know the ease of the decision will come, as the departure draws closer.  In the mean time, I will simply continue to give the most of myself to the areas which have most meaning, such as counseling, culture and interpersonal relationships, writing pen pals and health and happiness, to name a few.  Thanks to everyone who has lent their support during my time here.  I could not be giving 110% without it!!  Here's to a lot of love, loads of perspective and relief for four more years...

Speed Boat Life vs. Ferry Life

"It's style," I declared with confidence, as I craned my neck around to the bus seat behind me.  The courteous stranger laughed at the explanation of why I had put my shirt on inside out.  I could tell it would be one of those days.  It was only 9:30am.

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

Staring.  Glaring as if I were a giant piece of white meat.  In fact, they'd no problem declaring it aloud, time and time again.  
Oh, did you want practice slitting a throat?  Don't worry, I'll be your sacrifice.  Maybe the dark meat bull isn't enough.  
I'M GIVING UP MY FALL FOR YOU, didn't you know?!?!?!?!?!  
It's my favorite season. 
I'd give up everything for you.  Isn't it obvious by now?  
My heart is a bleeding one.  But only as long as it's beating.  So therein is where the dilemma lies...

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

Have you ever thought about what your life would look like if it were time lapsed and shown on a screen?  I don't just mean a head shot snapped, every day, but rather, your entire life filmed, and compressed into mere minutes.  Obviously, I'm not the only one who has ever thought of the idea.  There are even people who have actually executed the idea, as identified through the links.

I am not entirely sure what got me started on thinking about this, but I think it has something to do with my having developed quite a work week routine.  I enjoy routine, don't get me wrong.  But for the first time, in a very long time (probably since high school), my routine during this life chapter has ceased to greatly deviate, from one day to the next.  And I wonder what that must look like, to the outside observer. 

Waking up around the same time and biking the same route to work, passed the same trench construction workers, who inevitably shout and sip the same calls, dodging the same school traffic, boarding the same aggressive buses to the schools, coming home to run one of two routes I am comfortable with, and alternating between the same five outfits, seems kind of ordinary to me.  Yet to the outside observer, here in Guyana, it is probably anything but.

The moon is once again nearly full.  Talk about an interesting time-lapse.  Where did the last month go?  I am more than halfway finished with my service here in Guyana.  All at once, it feels like I've just arrived, while I get the feeling I should be planning for what's coming next.  But how can one plan for the unknown? 

More importantly though, what can I do to stay present, while knowing if a plan isn't in place for when I return, I will function less favorably.

Me and my new friend, Natalia, waiting for the ferry to Leguan.

It was a three day weekend for the Muslim holiday, Eid Al-Adha, so I took the opportunity to visit my friend Mary, who lives on Leguan Island, in the Essequibo River.  It was one of those mornings when they ferry was confused, so instead of leaving at 10am, it left around 12:30pm, which meant I had plenty of time to sit in the sun, under my umbrella, and write a bunch of letters, listen to a bunch of music, make a bunch of friends and get a bunch of stares.  By the time the ferry arrived in Leguan, it was close to 2pm and most of the activities of the festivities had already passed.  Nonetheless, Mary took me around the island, visiting with co-workers and co-worker's families.  I borrowed the small BMX bicycle with minimally working breaks, of her Head Mistress' 12 year old son and rode in the dress I wore, planning to maintain my cultural sensitivity of the conservative Muslim island.  Instead, I likely accidentally somewhat flashed every person who watched two white chicks ride by on bikes. 

Eid Al-Adha, also known as the Feast of the Sacrifice represents the day Ibrahim was about to prove his holiest commitment and submission to God (Allah) by sacrificing his first born son, Ishmael.   However, just before sacrifice, Allah provided a ram to sacrifice instead.  I have to give Guyanese credit.  Considering the melting pot of religions, races and class, the people of Guyana get along very peacefully (albeit aggressively).  Muslims sacrifice the Hindu's sacred animal, while Hindus cook the filthiest animal to a Muslim, the swine, all in a matter of meters from each other.  Christians span from Seventh-day Adventists to Jehova's Witness.

That day, on Leguan, Mary witnessed the entire slaughter of a cow, from it walking in and being knocked out, to the slitting of its throat, hanging of its legs, skinning of its hide and butchering of its organs and meat.  She and her counterpart went around the entire island, delivering meat to families, after they had enjoyed the organs.  I got there just in time to sample the heart and liver.  It had been a long time since I ate anything like that, and I nearly gagged.  Who knows if I would have eaten it if I had actually watched the slaughter...  Probably so, actually.  I tend to be a "when in Rome" kinda gal.

Shooting  commercial for WEnEX!

It was a short and sweet visit to Leguan, visiting with friends and riding to the "beach".  We caught the 6am ferry and were back in Georgetown by 8:30am, just in time to figure out the plans for filming commercials for the Women's Expo (my secondary project) happening on November 26th.  Finally, after a little over 4 hours of filming, we got the materials we needed, and left the studio.  I got to play hostess made lunch for the other PCVs staying with me.  We enjoyed a nice, leisurely rest of our Saturday afternoon, before deciding it was imperative to get dressed up, go out to dinner, and then dancing at the hippest hotel party in Guyana. 
After all, the theme WAS Pirates of the Caribbean. 

Natalia's 8th Birthday Party!

This afternoon, I attended the birthday party of my 7-year-old friend, whom I met waiting for the ferry Friday morning.  Coincidentally, her party was being held at a relative's house not too far from my neighborhood.  I guess that's one of the perks about being a white girl.  You can become good enough friends to be invited to a birthday party within the first hour of meeting.  Attending the party made me realize two things:  1. I miss having a host family and 2. I gravitate towards befriending people twenty-something years younger, or forty-something years older, than myself.  I spent most of the afternoon talking with Margie, an elderly woman with five grown boys (one in Pennsylvania), whose husband left her after 46 years of marriage, 5 years ago.  

Article was published and (mostly) written by yours truly!

Talk about a life transition.  Talk about an interesting time-lapsed life.  An well to do elderly woman in a developing country, who has not only seen the emergence of technology, but the emergence of development.  From outhouse and candlelight, to electricity and machine washing clothes, to Internet and cell phones...to the capability of digitally time-lapsing images.

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...