Wuk good, buddy, dis ting deh dun

Even though I've now been back in the UK for roughly four months, I thought one final post to give the soon-to-be-retired blog some closure was needed. It was harder to write than I expected.

The fact it took me four months should go some way to show you how difficult it was, which probably sounds either pretty feeble or pretty lazy of me, but there you go. 

Every aspect of my then-life was ripped away from me and, I guess, I went through a lull tantamount to mourning. I can talk about it more objectively now, though, so yaaaaaay!!

Coming back was something I'd avoided even contemplating during my last couple of months in the country in which I'd lived and worked, made friends who became family, adopted various animals, learned to make curry, picked up so many other disparate skills, and generally called my home. I absolutely fell in love with Guyana's melting pot of cultures, its joyous celebrations, vibrant flora and fauna, and passionate and friendly locals. I'd known roughly the date I'd be leaving from the very beginning, but that didn't make the approaching deadline any more palatable.

The month Claire and I spent wandering around the Caribbean after officially leaving our jobs in Orealla served chiefly to allow us to move on - a bit - from our lives in Guyana, whilst still enjoying the climate/fruit/creole/pace of life we were used to. It constituted a lazy interim between "teaching 40 unnaturally hyperactive children in the blistering heat for six hours a day" and "lying on a sofa in Manchester, huddled in a blanket and mournfully singing Trini Soca on your own for six hours a day".

It was also a sweetly trite way for the pair of us to end our gap years: we started them together and, after a challenging six months in Wakapoa, and amazing five months living with two other Project Trust Volunteers and a friend in Orealla, ended them together.

On a less corny note, the convoluted return journey took the piss.

We'd already undergone some somewhat gratuitous flights in the last month (stupid Trinidad), flying Georgetown - Port of Spain - Castries - Port of Spain - Bridgetown, and had assumed that, since we'd be returning to London from Guyana via Barbados anyway, we'd be OK simply to hang around in Bridgetown at the end of our Barbados holiday, and catch our connecting flight from there.

Not so. We spent a tense few hours on the phone to various airlines booking and rebooking, so our repertoire of stupid needless flights extended to encompass the delightful "Bridgetown - Georgetown - Bridgetown" leg. 

By the time we blearily greeted the other volunteers (fresh from the PT flat) in Georgetown, we already had over a day of flights and airports under our belts. When we landed back in Barbados we then had nine hours of sitting around ahead of us, so Heather and I decided to ditch the airport and head to the beach. We swam (with turtles. Just thought I'd get that in there), sunbathed and drank a fair amount of Banks beer before skulking to the guesthouse Claire and I had just spent two weeks in, and begging the lovely owner Pauline for a shower. She happily obliged, and I got to say another goodbye to the people I'd met (and spent lots of time dancing and swimming with) in Barbados, which was lovely.

The flight back to Gatwick passed before we'd even settled into it properly. Having spent the last year on boat rides lasting, on average, 10 hours (where you don't get a seat, human companionship OR a free packet of peanuts), and bus journeys tipping the scales at 18 hours, we were all incredibly excited to have a comfy seat, a little TV (TV! We hadn't seen one of those in months!), blankets, and a couple of hot meals for a contemptible eight hours. We then said our goodbyes to the 14 other PTVs we'd just shared an incredible year with - although it didn't feel too final, since we knew we'd be seeing each other in a couple of weeks for our debriefing course on Coll.

As I sat on my final flight of my year - to a surprisingly sunny Manchester - I had little time to do anything other than vaguely articulate in my mind what I was going to say first to my family in the airport. When I finally did see them I think it went something along the lines of "aaaaaaaarhhhhhh!!!!!!", which wasn't the plan, but I feel got the message across sufficiently.

I then had a delightful - if slightly hectic - couple of weeks catching up with family and friends. And running around the house checking for things that had changed (we got a new fridge, yo). And re-befriending the cat. And wearing all of the clothes I'd forgotten I owned. I also enjoyed everybody telling me how tanned I was, because it's hardly the norm for me to look anything other than, according to the foundation I hadn't used in a year, "Porcelain". I'd unintentionally lost a fair amount of weight due to not feeling hungry in the heat or being able to afford protein, so I very much enjoyed eating that weight back on also.

Debriefing was poignant, as we were all acutely aware that it was probably the last time we'd be together as a group, and able to talk non-stop about Guyana without pissing anybody off. We ended the year in a suitably Guyanese fashion: we wore tibisiri skirts, drank rum, and danced to Caribbean and Portugese music non-stop for 48 hours. 

Volunteers who'd spent their years in Sri Lanka, Thailand, Namibia and Malaysia were there also (and, having been in more religious and conservative countries, did not dance in quite the same way to us), so it was nice to be able to catch up with the people we met on training and see how they'd changed in twelve months. The predominant changes every country group seemed to boast were being more laid-back, happy, tanned, and colourfully-attired. 

The change unique to the Guyanese PTVs was that we now dance like slags regardless of the music or situation around us.

Reverse-culture shock wise, the only thing that's majorly affecting me is the time difference. I'm still functioning very much five hours behind everybody else, which accounts for both my writing this at 2.55am and my eating breakfast at highly inappropriate times. Having said that, I'm also a little thrown by the variety and availability of food ("What? You mean things other than rice, plantain and cassava exist?!"), and lack of pulsing music at all hours of the day. I'm attempting to counter this by forcing those around me to wine, and listen to nothing but the songs I now have on my phone thanks to my students bluetoothing them to me (none of them own shoes or furniture but they all have Blackberries!). I decided about four seconds ago that I'm going to add my Guyanese Playlist to the sidebar so anyone interested can have a listen to the songs we heard on repeat from day one.  Music is a MASSIVE part of life in Guyana - and the Caribbean in general - so, if you do listen, you'll definitely be hearing the soundtrack to our everyday activities, however mundane they were.

I miss my friends and students an amount I never thought possible. In fact, thinking about my life in Guyana at all for too long still makes me well up. Luckily, communication systems have improved in both Wakapoa and Orealla recently, meaning that we're able to text and call each other, and the kids finally have a use for those damn Blackberries. I'm still in frequent contact with most of those I got to know and love during my year away, and get to flex my otherwise dormant creole every few days. I also receive picture updates of my puppy, who's looking very grown up :).

I'm now happily settled into Durham University studying Biology. Possibly too happily settled in, considering I've carried the "Just Now" work-ethic home with me, but never mind, eh? There's also the chance I'm going to get myself expelled because I'm brewing rice wine under my sink following our tenderly-refined Orealla recipe, but, again, never mind, eh?!

 

So, that's it. 

Once again, thank you so much to everybody who helped me, either in Guyana or the months immediately preceding it. Whether it was through donations of money or time, I couldn't have done any of it without constant support, so thank you. If all you did was read this blog, then thank you for taking an interest.

Words will never be enough to express my gratitude, really. Hopefully I'll be able to pay it forward and assist anyone I can with whatever their current undertaking is.

These past few months have been life-changing ones. If anything travel-related happens to me I'll stick it up here (if I remember). For now, my life will revert to studying and trying to save money so that I might return to Guyana.

And I have no doubt that I will return at some point. Next time, though, I intend to have a degree and more experience behind me, so I can actually attempt to make a difference. Undoubtedly, the person who benefited most from my year away was me. I know I did make a difference to my students, and I'm proud of that, but the problems this country faces extend far beyond the classroom. Schemes and techniques need implementing at a grass-roots level if anything is to change, rather than half-baked ideas being thrown haphazardly on top of an already-malfunctioning tower of policies. Maybe I can be involved in that.

For now, it's our tentative plan to head back in 2014, but I guess we'll see wha'gwaan just now, bais and gyals...








Edit: It's just occurred to me that if you're not friends with me on Facebook you won't have any idea of what anything I've blathered on about actually LOOKS like, so here're (a lot of) photos, in absolutely no order...

Grade 6 students dancing merengue at our leaving party (Orealla)

With fellow teachers (Orealla)

Elaine and Heather, enjoying each other's company (Georgetown)

Claire's attempt to cutlass her coconut open (Orealla)

Wining during Mashramani (Georgetown)

Rupununi Rodeo over Easter (Lethem)

Most of the '11/'12 volunteers (Gatwick airport)

Merengue with Andre, my 7A student (Orealla)

Liming at the PT flat (Georgetown)

Kids playing cricket (Wakapoa)

The Creek meeting the Pomeroon River (Wakapoa)

Kisharie and Roveena, my Grade 7 Remedial students (Wakapoa)

My 19th birthday, spent in a lumber boat with my presents: a pig and an umbrella (Charity/Wakapoa)

Wakapoa

Some of my Grade 7 Remedial students, at an impromptu Christmas Concert rehearsal under the mango tree (Wakapoa)

Kaieteur Falls (Region #8)

What can be seen of Wakapoa from the creek during the dry season. Water reaches right up to the Kumaka tree when it's raining heavily

Kanuku mountains (Lethem, Region #9)

Playing with the dorms kids (Wakapoa)

About 2/3 of Grade 7 Remedial (Wakapoa)

Louann, a Grade 1 student and our neighbour (Orealla)

Miss Janet and Dale during our farewell meal (Wakapoa)

Doing our washing in the Corentyne River (Orealla)

Orealla School

Our house (Orealla)

Leaving Wakapoa

"The Road" (Orealla)

Dale and Pogo mid-Rockies (Georgetown)

The Potaro River (Region #8)

What can be seen of Orealla from up the hill. Our house is nestled in there somewhere.

Quagmire and Adam West in my hammock, on their first day of hammock-stealing (Orealla)

Me and Claire learning to make tibisiri skirts at Auntie Esther's house (Orealla)

How close it's possible to get to Kaieteur Falls (Region #8)

Walking down the hill (Orealla)

Labaria (a type of pit viper) are so venemous and ubiquitous that they're cutlassed on sight (Orealla)

Taking the kids to The Resort (Orealla)

Drinks up the hill (Orealla)

Some of my 7A students in the library (Orealla)

Trip to see some nearby waterfalls (Orealla)

Wakapoa kids invading our house to play cards and drink Milo was a nightly tradition

Top of the hill, walking to school (Orealla)

Walking to a volleyball match (Siparuta, Region #6)

My Dad and brother kayaking around Arrowpoint nature reserve (Region #3)

Top of Big Mama Hill (Orealla)

Umpiring cricket. See? I know the rules now! (Wakapoa)

Playing with dorms kids (Wakapoa)

Adam West, stealing my hammock when a little bit older (Orealla)

Walking home (Orealla)

 

Gaza me seh

Firstly, I must extend my apologies for failing to keep everybody even vaguely abreast with goings-on this side of the Atlantic - any time I get access to a computer I ultimately end up googling completely pointless things that've been bugging me throughout term-time.

In Georgetown, for example, the first thing I did was find out the words to the last verse of "The Owl and The Pussycat", and then which date Freddie Mercury died.

All completely essential stuff to know, I'm sure you'll agree, when you're in desperate need of changing your flight times so you can actually get home, and haven't spoken to friends or family for months. Let it never be said my priorities are askew.

I'm writing this from Barbados, having been here for three days, and Saint Lucia for two weeks prior to that. It's been a fantastic period of time, but I'm sure I'll fill you in later. Given the title of this blog writing about Guyana should probably come first.

Our last few weeks in Orealla passed quickly. Too quickly. The obligatory tears marked the occasion of our leaving party (as did my leaning on a bridge and breaking it, before tumbling into the drain it crossed), and our dog Adam West endeared himself to people by loudly choking on a bug during the speeches, then chasing the headmistress' infant son as he toddled around after his mother. A dignified affair, all in all. The days either side of the party were spent touring the village attempting to articulate our feelings about leaving our home, and thanking the countless people who've been our adopted families for months. Oh, and trying to find a home for Adam West, which we did. We led him to his new owner wrapped in tinsel, trying valiantly to make him look less like the bug-eating child-chaser he is.

Visiting Auntie Esther (the mum of Miss Angila, a fellow teacher) had been another of our main pastimes throughout our time in Orealla, and we packed as many hours in with her as we could before leaving. She taught us to weave properly, then make skirts and jewellery from tibisiri (soaked, dyed and dried palm leaves, not dissimilar to wicker. I'm not actually sure what wicker is. Perhaps tibisiri is wicker), then fry fish properly, then lose eating competitions. I'm kidding, of course. She clearly taught OTHER people to win eating competitions, just not me. I'd been talking myself up for days, too, so my defeats were just embarrassing.

We then left the village in style. That is to say I fell over in some mud whilst carrying my rucksack to the boat. The most embarrassing part was definitely the fact I wasn't even carrying a LARGE rucksack, since I'd fobbed that off on Dale ages ago.

Oh, yeah, and Dale was there :) He'd come from Wakapoa to visit me for a few days, and within hours of his arrival had gained himself the callname "Drags". Considering mine is "Tatty" (which does have an innocuous explanation, but it's funnier if it doesn't) we made quite the pair.

Our last few days in Georgetown were spent in Coffee Bean, getting our fill of bacon, Rockies, getting our fill of Forró, Shanta's, getting our fill of peanut punch, St. George's Cathedral, getting our fill of.. God, I guess.., and the zoo, getting our fill of dead/dying animals and a spider monkey called George who I'm 90% certain stole a bit of my soul when he looked at me.

Heather and Pogo (Heather's friend, who'd been living with us in Orealla for a month) then headed to Trinidad and Tobago, the majority of the guys went to Rio, and Claire and I got a bus to the airport to begin our journey to Saint Lucia.

Now, just for those who haven't had the joy of island hopping in the Caribbean (how much of a prick do I sound right now? Don't worry, I'm back home soon and you can all punch me), most flights bar those to Barbados are routed through Trinidad, and consequently I've been to Trinidad four times. I'm aware that there are those of you who'll argue that I can't technically say I've been there, since the hours I've spent in Trinidad have all passed in the airport, but I assure you that during my limited time I've squeezed in as much learning and exploration as possible. I'm not sure if I got a flavour of absolutely everything the country has to offer, but from my brief stays I'm confident in saying that Trinidad's culture is primarily based around planes.

From the very first minute of being in the airport we started making friends:

"You look like a rapist," Claire told me upon catching a glimpse of my passport at the check-in desk.

"She thinks I look like a rapist," I added helpfully to the woman behind the desk. The woman smiled wanly, passport-based humour doubtless a great novelty for her. After a brief stint of going through all of the coins in our pockets so we could buy a pen (the seven currencies we've used this year have inexplicably merged into a horribly jangly stash of useless shrapnel), we proceeded through security. I, as always, was flagged as suspicious looking. Must be my rapist face.

"Do you have anything in your shoes?" the frowny security man demanded to know. His suspicions were not unfounded, as both of my shoes had feet in them. It later emerged he meant the walking boots I'd shoved at last minute into my hand-luggage, and I had absent-mindedly put a bottle of pepper sauce inside the left one. I smiled sadly as the first of many liquids was confiscated from me. And yes, I'm well aware of the much-published rules restricting the carrying of liquids, so have no excuse other than stupidity and blind, hopeful faith in Trinidadian security personnel.

We landed on the balmy isle of Saint Lucia and were immediately swept under the wing of Lorraine, the lady who owned the guest house we'd be staying in for two weeks. She truly was an amazing host, ensuring that every morning for breakfast we were provided with freshly brewed coffee, mangoes, crusty bread and a selection of jams. We ate in her garden, swinging in her hammock and surrounded by her dogs. She also gave us rides to a variety of attractions, including the Moule-à-Chique lighthouse, Laborie Bay and anywhere else she thought we might like. It transpired that we liked pretty much anything she took us to, so she widened her horizons and took us to the Caribbean's only "drive-in volcano".

Sounds like it'd be sick, right? Sadly we were not impressed, but politely took a photo anyway, before hurrying back to the car.

She then introduced us to her neighbour Werner, who's spent so long in London and whose speech is peppered with so much English slang that he's now technically only 20% Lucian. He accompanied us to the cinema (supposedly to watch Batman, but it'd sold out. We watched instead a film I can't even bring myself to talk about. "Madea's Witness Protection". Do the research) and a variety of bars for treacherously moreish cocktails. He took us dancing in Dennery, and invited us for moonlit karaoke sessions at his friends' houses. We also went to several lunches. We turned up to the first expecting the typical laid-back (still lovely!) affair of fried rice in hammocks, so were rendered speechless when presented with glasses of Malbec and shown to a beautifully set table. We tucked into fig salad, tender chicken, and breadfruit, and as we sat making dinner party-esque conversation, it struck me as entirely not-in-keeping with how the rest of our year had been. Until a chicken wandered in and laid an egg under a chair, anyway.

Whenever we weren't with Lorraine or Werner, we would hitchhike all over the island, often visiting things at the whims of our (always friendly) drivers. We packed a lot into two weeks, but a big part of me wishes we'd elected to stay in Saint Lucia for the whole month. As we tearfully hugged Werner goodbye at the airport we realised how genuinely sad we were to leave, even though we were now bound for another two-week holiday elsewhere. We attempted to mollify ourselves by go through security without having anything confiscated, but they took Claire's washing powder so that plan went out the window.

We've only been in Barbados for a few days at the time of writing, and as of yet haven't done much exploring beyond our immediate area. It's hurricane season, and though the afternoons are still blistering hot, the mornings have all been stormy. I'm happy to report the cocktails are delicious, though. Yesterday we were sitting reading on Dover Beach when a couple of rasta men approached us and sat down nearby. They were talking amongst themselves in Bajan creole about the white ladies, and were taken aback when we understood them and vaguely pissily joined in their conversation. It had the potential to be awkward but we all laughed it off and we then sat eating roasted breadfruit and tuna with them. We're going turtle-watching with them later.

As I'm sure you're all aware the men's 100m is about to start, so as much as I love typing asanine drivel into the interwebs I'm going to bid you all farewell and go see whether Blake or Bolt wins.

xxxxxxx

HASTY HASTY POST ARGHHHHH

I should probably be a little more embarrassed about the fact we will illegally sneak across borders and time zones to acquire cheese, but I'm oddly proud of our Dedication To Dairy.

So we're in Apoera, an Amerindian village in Suriname a couple of hours' boat ride from Orealla. Whenever we tell people we plan to go, they shake their heads in a manner that suggests collusion between us to warn us, not unkindly, that "The Surinamese are backward, miss. They hang their washing on their verandas and the mud there is red." We nod sagely, staring impassively at the red mud all around us and making a mental note to take our clothes down from our veranda when we get back.

We're here to (attempt to, for we oft get distracted by the cheese) organise traveling for July. We had grand plans to explore swathes of South America, then remembered we're piss poor. We've therefore reassessed and decided to fly to St. Lucia and Barbados, after spending a week or so in the Backward Capital of the World: Paramaribo (capital of  Suriname). It's a tough life, eh? Unfortunately, we really don't have the money to do anything exciting once we GET to these incredible places, so we'll most likely ruminate on a beach for a month before returning to the UK and pretending we did stuff.

Life is much the same in Orealla as it was last post. Teaching has stepped up a gear, thankfully - another teacher recently went on leave, so I inherited her class by default. It's the remedial class again (although this remedial class can write, refreshingly!), and I'm now well on my way to having twenty-or-so more minions. I've achieved this by, primarily, being a bit of a bitch to them. I'm still refusing to whip them, and always will, but parading round HOLDING a whip seems different? (Probably not). I also hold them back with me over breaks/lunches if they have refused to work during the lesson, which no other teacher does. This does lead to them grumpily informing me that I'm "a mean Miss", but I find it difficult to be moved by this when they tell me so whilst sitting in their own seats and finishing their work, and students from all other classes run up and down the corridor or drift into one another's classrooms throughout their lessons. The lack of stationery problem is still at an all-time high, though: about ten minutes into an early lesson I noticed no one was doing that "writing" thing. I stopped gesturing at my exquisite CFC diagram and frowned.

"Why aren't you writing, Anoeska?"

"No pen, Miss."

"What about you, Brinsley?"

"Need a next pen, Miss. Pen crank out."

"OK, put your hands up if you're sitting there doing nothing because you don't have anything to write with."

At this point there was a pause (supplemented with a questioning sweep of my eyes over the room by me), then about 3/4 of the hands tentatively went up. At the beginning of the year I lent my pens/pencils/rulers/erasers/razor blades out to every imploring and grasping hand, but given that the contents of my pencil case have been gradually whittled down to one pen (it's black. In Orealla all official documents are done in blue ink, so I'm not allowed to touch anything), I've had to stop doing that and now simply make my lessons SUPER INTERACTIVE!!!!!1

Oh, update. We can't afford to go to Paramaribo, and, hastily and recklessly making the decision to sacrifice eating and sight-seeing, we've booked St. Lucia and Barbados for two weeks each. I've now run out of time on the computer so much dash. I promise at SOME point I will write something of a decent length that actually fills you in on what I've been doing.

Much love to all. Hope it's not too cold over there. It's rainy season here now so we're all shivering in the 30 degree temperatures. Ha :)

Easter Summary

I find myself with a bit of unsolicited free time (we thought the boat back to Orealla left Skeldon at 3pm, so rushed from Georgetown, panicked for a couple of hours about missing our only ride home, then found out it's actually going at 11) so I might as well update this thing.

I've been thinking quite a lot recently about how quickly my time in Guyana is passing. I was warned by several people before I left the UK that the first couple of months - the period in which I'd be undergoing the transition from A-level student to teacher - would drag, but once I'd settled in the time would fly by. The latter, at least, is true, but I never really felt time was dragging - even initially. The truth is, Guyana isn't the hardest of countries to settle into. There's no language barrier (per se. Grappling with creole is an ongoing thing, but it's simple enough once you disregard everything you know about grammar and start saying "nuff" instead of "a fair few"), the overwhelmingly Caribbean atmosphere and pace of life makes getting stressed difficult (and completely pointless, since no one will respond to it), and the abundance of fresh - and free! - pineapple, coconut, mango, passion fruit, banana and cashew is a bonus, too. Yes, all the PTVs have experienced trying stuff, but the general consensus whenever we meet is "OMFG how do we only have 8/6/4 months left?!?!?!?!?!" It's odd to think that this time last year I was eagerly awaiting my May Letter informing me of my project, and now my replacement will be feeling the same. If anyone reading this happens to be going to Guyana with PT this year, hello!

Anyway, that's enough of that, here's what I got up to over the past couple of weeks: (here comes the mammoth bullet-pointed list)

• Fell over myself scrambling out of my hammock to run and fling my arms around my parents and brother, as they stood looking jet-lagged on a Georgetown street corner at 2am.
• Sat in shock as my brother emptied his hand-luggage onto the bed, revealing the wide array of British food he'd good-naturedly been lugging around for 24 hours.
• Held hands with a spider monkey for about an hour in The Most Depressing Zoo on Earth.
• Laughed heartily at the Agouti's common name being "John".
• Returned to Wakapoa, and underwent the awkward meeting of The Boyfriend and The Parents. Luckily he erased any tension by producing a baby giant otter. 
• Realised just how annoying the cry of a baby giant otter is. 
• Dragged three very unwilling people to Lethem for a rodeo, which involved an 18-hour minibus journey down Guyana's only road.
• Fell asleep and missed the giant anteaters everyone else saw.
• Ate lots of meat on a stick, whilst drinking farrine from a cup and waving at Donald Ramotar. He waved back!!
• Spent all of my money on an exquisite vaquero hat.
• Danced Forró with three surprisingly willing people.
• Sat through another 18-hour minibus journey, but this time the trip was punctuated with rattlesnake spotting in which I actually managed to partake. Our driver also leapt out of the bus at 2am to have a cutlass fight in the middle of the road with a driver who'd been travelling in the opposite direction. 
• Went to Splashmins creek/water park, figuring we'd have a lovely day out.
• Sat shivering in the rain at the totally empty Splashmins, refusing to get out of our swimwear and admit defeat. Like the resilient Brits we are.
• Drank plenty Carib when we realised it wasn't going to be a lovely day out unless we were high.
• Went black caiman spotting at Arrowpoint nature resort.
• Actually spotted lots of black caiman (caimen?). Well, other people did; I spotted a few black caiman EYES. It counts. (There's also a huge black caiman who basks on a stelling every day in Orealla, so I didn't mind not seeing these ones up-close).
• Watched in mild-yet-passive horror as my brother failed to hop elegantly from one canoe to another and fell - veeery slowly, while being drawn into the splits - into the caiman-filled creek.
• Climbed a teetering wabbani to see a marabunta/tarantula hawk wasp nest, and broke the lovely walking stick I'd been carrying all morning.
• Dived off a stelling and got loads of water up my nose.
• Sat crying on the flight to Kaieteur as the water stuck up my nose and my sinuses reacted to the pressure changes and caused me horrible, horrible pain.
• Immediately forgot the pain as we pushed our way through the rainforest, following the roar of Kaieteur falls.
• Ate cheese whilst standing in a triumphant pose at the top of the falls.
• Marvelled at just how close we were able to get to the falls. Almost fell off the edge, I did.
• Took several photos leaning over the drop on one leg, freaking out those nearby.

Crap. Just been informed there's a staged blackout happening in a min. Did loads more but will fill you in another time. Inabit x

Easter Escapades

I'm sitting in an internet cafe in Georgetown - feeling wonderfully clean and cosmopolitan - having endured the seven-hour boat journey from Orealla to Skeldon. The last time we got the boat, we'd managed to head down with enough time to sling our hammocks up in a suitably space-hogging manner, then spent the trip liming and playing everyone's favourite game: "What do you reckon is the most annoying birdcall?". Yesterday we didn't plan quite so well. We ran down to the boat five minutes before it departed, throwing our cat (in a loving way) at a student, yelling "please look after her for two weeks. Thank you!" behind us. Claire used her wily Northern Irish ways to claim an unoccupied hammock, Elaine sat on the roof, and I was relegated to the floor. The hammocks (filled solely, it appeared, with people who enjoyed drooling and dropping things) and various boxes of fruit took up most of the airspace, so I curled into a tiny ball amongst piles of timber, and spent the night going "ouch, dammit" whenever the boat listed too far to the side which would render my face crushed by a different pile of timber.

I was glad to arrive.

We then got a bus from Skeldon to Georgetown. I fell asleep, which I'd assumed was an acceptable thing to do on such a long trip, but it seemed to alarm my fellow bus-goers. When most people sleep on public transport they look as though they could do with a blanket. I, apparently, look as though I could do with medical attention. Since arriving we have been gaffing with Ry-Ry, a PTV stationed in Chenapau, a Patamona village in Region 8, and mooching around our favourite GT haunts. Coffee Bean, basically. We're killing time before heading to the airport tonight to pick up my parents and brother, and then begins THE EASTER SPECTACULAR!

And no. I do not want to give the following two weeks a less crappy name.

I've decided to categorise this post, to organise it in my own head. more than anything else.

Our House

The positively palatial building in which I now find myself living is a turquoise wooden contraption on stilts. It was apparently quite roomy when Elaine and Heather had it to themselves, but Claire and I put a stop to that nonsense by erecting a bunk bed in the living room. Heather and Elaine have been absolutely amazing, considering we gatecrashed their lives with very little prior warning, and we've managed not to have any arguments more serious that "whose turn is it to make the roti/feed the cat?". It does feel rather like we're on an extended school trip, what with all the white people in such a confined space, but luckily we're all chilled out enough that we're not stepping on each others toes too much. As far as I'm aware. Maybe I'm just oblivious to my irritating ways...

Teaching

Getting to school, I'd just like to mention here, involves walking up a very, very steep hill in very, very hot weather. I refuse to allow Amerindian toddlers to best me by getting up faster than I can, so I'm getting fit, at least.

At the minute, I'm not doing an enormous amount of teaching. Far less than in Wakapoa, anyway. Arriving towards the end of term meant that all classes were engaged in little more than revision in preparation for the end-of-term exams, so my job to date has mainly involved running CXC Biology and Human and Social Biology revision sessions (apparently they're different enough to justify their being distinct subjects. I beg to differ, based on what I've seen), and covering the classes of any teachers who happen to be absent. This being Guyana, there are several AWOL teachers at any given time, so I'm nearly always doing something. Being ferried around to classes ranging from Grade 1 to Grade 11 has also enabled me to learn a lot of names, which is obviously useful. Next term I'll be teaching some Grade 10 Biology. Grade 10 are touted as the nightmare class, but I still seem to be new and tall enough that they're all pretty scared of me. I'll enjoy this power while I can; I know it won't last.

Free Time

When we're not teaching, we're liming, and this activity can manifest itself in any number of ways. I'm a pro at sitting for hours in my hammock eating mango and talking to people over our veranda, but "liming" can also include wandering aimlessly, bathing in the river, hacking coconuts to bits rather more inexpertly than my Guyanese counterparts, laughing when the cat falls off something, washing clothes in the river, cooking curried anything, wining, drinking Surinamese beer, reminiscing about wining and drinking Surinamese beer, playing chess/scrabble and napping. It's a simple and lovely life.

On Saturday we headed to "The Resort" with a group of students and Chess Man (a guy from Georgetown, whose name we don't know, who decided to instil enthusiasm for chess in Amerindian kids. The response has been genuinely phenomenal). We were told we'd be leaving at 7, so I begrudgingly rolled out of bed and headed to the river to bathe. It was a supremely hot day. At ten to, we collected Mark - a boy from Grade 6 who loves nothing more than to mock the way we walk (it's too upright, apparently) - and dragged ourselves up the bastard hill, Adam West in tow, since he wouldn't stay home. I wasn't too put-out at this point, since we'd been promised there'd be a tractor at the top to take us across the savannah to the resort, but after sitting around waiting for two hours it appeared this wasn't the case. We then staggered across the dusty earth for hours, feeling a little more moisture wick from our blood-streaked bodies every time we parted our cracked lips to scream in anguish, or brushed against a particularly dry bit of vegetation. It probably wasn't as awful as I'm remembering it to be, but it was surely pretty damn close. Luckily the resort is an icy cold black-water creek, so we splashed around merrily in a jolly little boat for a couple of hours and cooked some chow mein before bumbling back home. It was delightful in the end.

Well, there really weren't as many categories as I'd thought there would be. Huh.

Anyway, I'll see you all after Rodeo! xxx

Orealla!... for which I still need to find the address...

This post will be very short, but not for lack of stuff to say; I'm just in a rush.

Claire and I are back in Georgetown, having already been here last week for Mash. It was a fantastic few days, marred only slightly by everyone turning to stare at us incredulously when we used the Guyanese flags we'd been carrying as a picnic blanket (we're nothing if not a bit culturally insensitive). This time we have with us all of our possessions (well, not everything - we were given less than 24 hours' notice that we'd be leaving Wakapoa for good and hastily gave away a fair few items, including our beloved kerosene stove and a t-shirt I'd destroyed by letting the kittens sleep on it. And then spilling kerosene all over it.), because we're moving to Orealla tomorrow. Wow, the flow of that sentence was really reduced by the incessant parentheses-usage.

Anyway, yeah, we're moving to Orealla. I know next to nothing about it, but it's in Region 6, right on the Surinamese border. Oh, and Elaine and Heather - two other PT volunteers - live there. They were also in 'Town for Mash, and us moving in with them was briefly (and excitedly) discussed, but quickly dismissed as improbable at best. The problems we'd been facing in Wakapoa have worsened dramatically over recent weeks, and we made contact with our rep and PT. We expected any action to be taken slowly, so were very surprised to receive a phone call yesterday afternoon telling us to say our goodbyes. Given that Orealla has no mobile phone reception, I'm sure Elaine and Heather will be even more surprised when they come home from the market tomorrow to see two white girls sitting on their doorstep.

After the phonecall we shakily (but happily) returned to our classes to tell them we'd be leaving the next day. Any hope I'd had of getting my students to plot a graph evaporated as I was swarmed by hugs from crying twelve-year-olds. It was a decidedly bittersweet afternoon: we're pleased to be leaving Wakapoa at this point, but really have made friends here, and it was horrible to have to say goodbye. After we'd finished hugging, my class sat in complete silence, staring at me.

"Why are you never this quiet when I'm trying to get you to do your Social Studies?" I asked, frowning.

Devin, a boy usually more given to rapping and slapping the heads of the people sitting in front of him, stood up, looked around and very slowly said "We're hoping that if we're quiet, you'll change your mind and stay."

That's when I started crying.

In the evening (after dorms kids had helped us to pack our bags, and helpfully sat and ate the margarine we wouldn't be taking with us), we were thrown a farewell party by some friends. The evening rapidly went from "actually quite classy" to "lots of drunk people crying and taking lots of photos". I drank my fair share (and several other people's fair shares) of rum, and spent hours throwing up, still crying and taking photos. They're incriminating snaps, to say the least.

Gotta leave in style, y'know...

So, that's that. We're Orealla-bound, and still pretty dazed. Dazed and happy, though. I won't be able to contact people in any way other than letter-writing, and I don't even know my new address yet, but in a couple of months those of you with whom I've been corresponding thus far will begin receiving mud-streaked letters and pleeeeeeeeeease write back :) And, if you're feeling particularly generous, send marmite...

Right. I'm off into the jungle. See you all (figuratively) at Easter! xxxxxxx

Mash and general angst

Hitherto unyielding money issues have consistently impaired our ability to get out of Wakapoa. Most weekends we find ourselves confronted with a stark choice: stay home and sacrifice another fragment of our sanity as we wash clothes and sing the chorus of "Buffalo Soldier" on a loop (incidentally, this isn't the least agreeable way to while away the time, but one definitely feels a touch of cabin fever) or catch a boat to Charity, which is obviously preferable but does rather eat into our basically-non-existent cash supply.

Luckily, we're sometimes stripped of the element of choice; that is, when we run out of food and our need to eat dictates we leave and restock. 

This trip to Georgetown is in part due to the above, but mainly the fact that the last vestiges of whatever sanity we once possessed are now rapidly falling away like bits of wet cake (I miss Black Books).

We're blaming a combination of things: our headmaster/HM, a lack of anything to do due to our HM's stranglehold on the village, our HM, the corrupt education system, our HM, teaching being soul-crushingly frustrating, and our HM. It was only when, last week, we were forced to stab a guy in the chest and both cut about five inches off our hair in a fit of misdirected rage, that we realised we weren't coping very well, and decided to get the hell out.

The fact that our trip coincides with Mashramani - a celebration of Guyana's becoming a republic in 1970 - isn't so much a happy coincidence as a handy guise under which to travel. "Partaking in a carnival" is distinctly more agreeable than citing "killing spree imminent unless we're allowed out for a few days" on our leave applications. 

Now that I've made my time here sound sufficiently awful, I'd like to qualify that Wakapoa is an incredible place and I'm still glad I did this. It's shown me with (horrifying) clarity what I can and can't deal with, and has also afforded us the opportunity to do some pretty amazing things. Hopefully the meeting we've arranged with the Guyana rep for this evening will enable us to continue experiencing amazing things. 

And give our hair a chance to grow back.

Mashramani - an Arawak/Lokono word, literally translating to "celebration of a job well done" - commemorates British Guiana achieving independence from the UK in 1966 and becoming Guyana (and later, in 1970, the Cooperative Republic of Guyana). I taught my class the significance of this in a Social Studies lesson last week, and felt guilty and colonial as I strode around lecturing them on their own country in my gung-ho, Mary Poppins-esque manner. All that was apparently born of this lesson, though, was a string of misgivings about British people (valid), and their choices of national symbols. Several students approached me over the next few days to wonder aloud if I didn't think "Union Jack" was a bit of a stupid name for a flag.

So, aside from doing Britain a great disservice in the wider world, what else do I intend to achieve over the course of the year?

• See Kaieteur, the world's largest single-drop waterfall. And hang over the edge, obviously.
• Enter at least one event in the Lethem Rodeo at Easter, and encourage Claire to do the same.
• Improve my Spanish. My current, diminutive repertoire will make this an easy one to achieve.
• Continue to see improvement in my students' literacy. I have put a lot of work in with them both during and after school, and was ready to maul when our HM said learning to read wouldn't benefit my class, and to play more cricket with them instead. Regardless of his feelings on the matter, I am going to continue dragging my students kicking and screaming through phonics exercises, and the one book the school has ("Walk Two Moons" by Sharon Creech). We still play lots of cricket, anyway.
• Learn more Arawak than "die kan shie cabo".
• Find more books, for students and for me. There's a tiny library in the primary school with a few things donated by various agencies and missionaries, but the children aren't allowed to access it. The contents mostly wouldn't be of any use here anyway. Think the original 1984 Macintosh manual, and a Mavis Beacon touch-typing textbook (the village has limited electricity, and no computers). After some digging I did find a collection of T. S. Eliot, which I've been devouring in my hammock. His asperity and attenuated sensibility (and, I like to imagine as I read, his dapper dress sense) are the perfect foil for our shaggy appearances and the vastness of the continent on which we're living. Hah, look at that. I'm waxing romantic about poetry. There's something I rarely did six months ago.
• See more of South America. We're in the process of drafting an itinerary for the month we'll get to travel between Summer Term ending and our flights back to Gatwick on the 15th August. Peru and Bolivia are on the agenda, and I'm desperate to see Chile, but monetary constraints will likely ensure that we get as far as the end of the creek.
• Learn to enjoy cricket. Learning the rules, and being able to discourse upon them at length, does not mean I've grown to like the game, which is unfortunate in this region.
• Stop powering my way through bags of sugar with a spoon, reasoning that "hey, if I'm living near the Demerara River I might as well get my fill, right?"

And that's about it. Adios x