Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Wendy Kopp is my hero
Just a couple weeks ago I got the congratulatory email, welcoming me to be a corps member in Oklahoma. That is the new focus of my blog. No more donkey rides, motorcycles crashes, 90 degree weather, or rice for breakfast. Wait, I take that back. These are all possibilities. And in addition to all the unknown ruckus I might tumble into, I can rely on tornadoes to spice my life up a bit. Goodbye New York, hello Tulsa!
Monday, December 26, 2011
Aftershock
Now that I have my feet somewhat firmly planted on American soil, I can allow the re-entry shock to tackle me down. Re-entry has side effects unlike the typical culture shock of arriving in a foreign country. Re-entry grants time for reflection. Those “re” prefixes tend to cultivate a bleary-eyed reminiscent effect. After the bittersweet conditions of my departure, which excluded the sweet, some interesting memories resurfaced that I am just getting to write about now.
As a prelude to this story, let me just say that my friend Kat is a survivor. Not only did she spend her vacation time and money to visit me in a third world country, but also she endured the most ridiculous endeavors with laughter. In summation, I believe we could win the Amazing Race due to our perseverance through both Ghana and Guyana.
The Sunset International Hotel will be our first stop. The legitimacy of this hotel was slightly discredited with the hourly rate posted on the check-in window. Why would a hotel need an hourly rate you ask? To that I say, go ask your mother. The second alarming signal was the hotel room itself. We lugged our suitcases up to the second floor—anyone who is surprised by the lack of handicap accessible buildings is unprepared to continue reading the remainder of this recap.
We entered our disgustingly dank, dingy room. I decided to use only “d” word to describe it, and diabolical almost made the cut.
We still maintained high spirits until our broken fan, quickly and ironically, blew them away. No fan. We can manage. Then we tested the water in the shower. Mud brown. We cannot mange. I explained the situation to the receptionist, and she attempted a half-hearted argument for staying in the room.
For clarification, I still had every intention of staying in the hotel. Volunteer pay conditioned me to have incredibly high standards for being deterred from forms of shelter. Or would that be incredibly low standards? Irregardless, Kat became a victim by default of being my guest.
Room change back to the first floor. We hesitantly peered down to the end of the hallway. When the rooms stopped being rooms and turned into a storage closet. “Is that our room?, Why is the door the same color as the wall?-None of the other doors are like that. Let’s take a look inside.”
Our previously sketchy second room floor scoffed at this room. My oh my, how I grossly overestimated what fifteen dollars a night can get you. That is the lesson I learned. The closet space we ended up staying in consisted of a bed with shuffle space to the shower. We did have a working shower—with one towel that could not pass as clean even with the Snuggle bear cuddled in it. The toilet flushed, but we had to provide our own toilet paper. The one barred window in the room was located above the bed in prison fashion that you could not see out unless you stood on the bed. In this hotel you do not need a black light to see all the dirt and germs on the bed, you simply have to look at it with the naked eye. Upside, they sold Redbull.
As a prelude to this story, let me just say that my friend Kat is a survivor. Not only did she spend her vacation time and money to visit me in a third world country, but also she endured the most ridiculous endeavors with laughter. In summation, I believe we could win the Amazing Race due to our perseverance through both Ghana and Guyana.
The Sunset International Hotel will be our first stop. The legitimacy of this hotel was slightly discredited with the hourly rate posted on the check-in window. Why would a hotel need an hourly rate you ask? To that I say, go ask your mother. The second alarming signal was the hotel room itself. We lugged our suitcases up to the second floor—anyone who is surprised by the lack of handicap accessible buildings is unprepared to continue reading the remainder of this recap.
We entered our disgustingly dank, dingy room. I decided to use only “d” word to describe it, and diabolical almost made the cut.
We still maintained high spirits until our broken fan, quickly and ironically, blew them away. No fan. We can manage. Then we tested the water in the shower. Mud brown. We cannot mange. I explained the situation to the receptionist, and she attempted a half-hearted argument for staying in the room.
For clarification, I still had every intention of staying in the hotel. Volunteer pay conditioned me to have incredibly high standards for being deterred from forms of shelter. Or would that be incredibly low standards? Irregardless, Kat became a victim by default of being my guest.
Room change back to the first floor. We hesitantly peered down to the end of the hallway. When the rooms stopped being rooms and turned into a storage closet. “Is that our room?, Why is the door the same color as the wall?-None of the other doors are like that. Let’s take a look inside.”
Our previously sketchy second room floor scoffed at this room. My oh my, how I grossly overestimated what fifteen dollars a night can get you. That is the lesson I learned. The closet space we ended up staying in consisted of a bed with shuffle space to the shower. We did have a working shower—with one towel that could not pass as clean even with the Snuggle bear cuddled in it. The toilet flushed, but we had to provide our own toilet paper. The one barred window in the room was located above the bed in prison fashion that you could not see out unless you stood on the bed. In this hotel you do not need a black light to see all the dirt and germs on the bed, you simply have to look at it with the naked eye. Upside, they sold Redbull.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
I dreamed I was back in Guyana
Surrounded by all the familiar faces and places that I came to love in the eight months I spent there. Except, dreams are dreams because of their oddity. Distortion of reality that you do not recognize until you are awake. The VSO, who had returned to Canada, had never actually got on the plane. Rather, she had stayed in Guyana and painted her face as a mime and her arms were painted black. Even in the dream I could not quite understand her strange appearance. Friends who have not spoken to me since I left were casually greeting me and admiring my new tattoos. Throughout the dream I was basking in the sun. How warm. How sweet to feel the warmth of the world again.
Then the dream turned nightmarish. I walked up a hill to find two more volunteers. On the hill there were penguins. “Penguins!” I exclaimed. Only to have them transform to vultures and begin to attack me. “Luckily I covered my eyes first,” I thought, as I ran from the vicious beak that had hooked onto my face. My friend reprimanded my fear of the vulture-penguins and simply shooed them away from me. I felt foolish for being so afraid of them.
In the dream I knew I had only a day or two to reunite with the friends that I left so suddenly two months ago. For some reason, there was no rush or anxiety. Just a serene feeling of belonging and purpose. “I could just stay,” I kept persuading myself, “I don’t have to leave again.” The dream has interesting timing too. Today is the day I was supposed to be coming home. I was going to get on a flight to come home for Christmas for two weeks. Instead, I am dreaming of what life would be like to visit Guyana. Guess it is time to finish reading Fraud’s psychology of dreams.
Then the dream turned nightmarish. I walked up a hill to find two more volunteers. On the hill there were penguins. “Penguins!” I exclaimed. Only to have them transform to vultures and begin to attack me. “Luckily I covered my eyes first,” I thought, as I ran from the vicious beak that had hooked onto my face. My friend reprimanded my fear of the vulture-penguins and simply shooed them away from me. I felt foolish for being so afraid of them.
In the dream I knew I had only a day or two to reunite with the friends that I left so suddenly two months ago. For some reason, there was no rush or anxiety. Just a serene feeling of belonging and purpose. “I could just stay,” I kept persuading myself, “I don’t have to leave again.” The dream has interesting timing too. Today is the day I was supposed to be coming home. I was going to get on a flight to come home for Christmas for two weeks. Instead, I am dreaming of what life would be like to visit Guyana. Guess it is time to finish reading Fraud’s psychology of dreams.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Solve the following equation:
White girl exercising+equator sun+ridiculous humidity+spectators+tame animals+wild animals=
Do you have any guesses? No, it does not equal kidnapping! This is no 20/20 special. the correct answer is Endless Entertaining Stories (EES). Here are some of the highlights.
Despite my modest dress and attempts to look like a boy when I am running, I still manage to catch the attention of some community members. Most of the time they address me with a statement about what I am doing such as, “you’re exercising,” “you’re weary,” or “need company.” Yes, I am definitely running. Yes, I think I most definitely dehydrated and ready to succumb to heat stroke. No, I would prefer not to have the company of people running alongside me with ease as I am dragging my legs in true Igor fashion. This is no exaggeration. One man biked past me during one of my panting-jello legged-I can’t go any further-breaks and insisted that I continue to “trot.” I retorted in my mind, “Sir, I would love to, but I am currently experiencing an explosion in my lungs.”
The wild animal variable refers to the peanut-sized monkey that a boy rode by with clinging to his arm. In true tourist fashion, I ooohhhed and awwed enough that he came back and allowed me to hold the itty-bitty monkey on my arm. Kat, it was almost as cute as the one in Oriella. When I returned home, I couldn’t help but think “only in Guyana.”
Do you have any guesses? No, it does not equal kidnapping! This is no 20/20 special. the correct answer is Endless Entertaining Stories (EES). Here are some of the highlights.
Despite my modest dress and attempts to look like a boy when I am running, I still manage to catch the attention of some community members. Most of the time they address me with a statement about what I am doing such as, “you’re exercising,” “you’re weary,” or “need company.” Yes, I am definitely running. Yes, I think I most definitely dehydrated and ready to succumb to heat stroke. No, I would prefer not to have the company of people running alongside me with ease as I am dragging my legs in true Igor fashion. This is no exaggeration. One man biked past me during one of my panting-jello legged-I can’t go any further-breaks and insisted that I continue to “trot.” I retorted in my mind, “Sir, I would love to, but I am currently experiencing an explosion in my lungs.”
The wild animal variable refers to the peanut-sized monkey that a boy rode by with clinging to his arm. In true tourist fashion, I ooohhhed and awwed enough that he came back and allowed me to hold the itty-bitty monkey on my arm. Kat, it was almost as cute as the one in Oriella. When I returned home, I couldn’t help but think “only in Guyana.”
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Taxi please
After seven weeks of training, I am ever closer to our Swearing In date!
No longer will the minibus be my main mode of transport. No sir, I am a step above the rest; only taxis for me at my permanent site in Edinburgh, East Bank Berbice. Unlike the taxis of NYC, these taxis accommodate any individual that is going in the direction they are driving. And unlike the minibuses, taxis only fit 5 people. Phew, no more smalling up that results in me sitting on my neighbor’s lap.
Since I only spent roughly a week scoping out my new crib in Edinburgh, I hardly got to appreciate the new taxi experience. There are two rides that made quite an impression. Not only did the drivers not charge me, both the men happened to be…tipsy. The first time it was not until after I got in the car that I was aware of the driver’s state, and he reasoned that he had to finish his drink during one of the stops because in his words, “they don’t want me to drink and drive.” Can’t argue with that logic. Luckily, after just a few minutes on a deserted dirt road on the way to New Amsterdam, I was able to convince him that I was at my stop and I continued the rest of the way on foot.
However, the second time, I was less on my guard because it was a family of six that picked me up. To understand the story, there is a little background that needs to be explained regarding the holiday Phagwah. Phagwah is a colorful Hindu holiday. Literally, Phagwah is all about throwing colored powder at people, smearing it on their facing, and then dousing them with water to rinse off. The order of these three parts varies and repeats for the process of the day. This family had not had the rinsing off phase because they were covered in head to toe in reds, oranges, purples, blues, and greens (Hindus wear all white on Phagwah too so that they can just bleach out the ty-dye of colors). They graciously stopped to offer me a ride, and I did not see the harm until I sat in my seat and the father bombarded me with the request that I “carry” him to America. In other words, he wanted me to get married to him while his beautiful wife (appropriately named Bonita) fumed in the front seat because she did not see the same humor of polygamy that her husband did. The remainder of the ride was spent in awkward anger silence until they dropped me off and the husband again attempted to invite himself to come to my house.
Needless to say, I am going to start screening my taxi drivers before I enter the vehicle with a simple, “Have you been drinking,” followed by showing my ring and insisting that they deliver me safety because “My husband is waiting for me at my stop.”
No longer will the minibus be my main mode of transport. No sir, I am a step above the rest; only taxis for me at my permanent site in Edinburgh, East Bank Berbice. Unlike the taxis of NYC, these taxis accommodate any individual that is going in the direction they are driving. And unlike the minibuses, taxis only fit 5 people. Phew, no more smalling up that results in me sitting on my neighbor’s lap.
Since I only spent roughly a week scoping out my new crib in Edinburgh, I hardly got to appreciate the new taxi experience. There are two rides that made quite an impression. Not only did the drivers not charge me, both the men happened to be…tipsy. The first time it was not until after I got in the car that I was aware of the driver’s state, and he reasoned that he had to finish his drink during one of the stops because in his words, “they don’t want me to drink and drive.” Can’t argue with that logic. Luckily, after just a few minutes on a deserted dirt road on the way to New Amsterdam, I was able to convince him that I was at my stop and I continued the rest of the way on foot.
However, the second time, I was less on my guard because it was a family of six that picked me up. To understand the story, there is a little background that needs to be explained regarding the holiday Phagwah. Phagwah is a colorful Hindu holiday. Literally, Phagwah is all about throwing colored powder at people, smearing it on their facing, and then dousing them with water to rinse off. The order of these three parts varies and repeats for the process of the day. This family had not had the rinsing off phase because they were covered in head to toe in reds, oranges, purples, blues, and greens (Hindus wear all white on Phagwah too so that they can just bleach out the ty-dye of colors). They graciously stopped to offer me a ride, and I did not see the harm until I sat in my seat and the father bombarded me with the request that I “carry” him to America. In other words, he wanted me to get married to him while his beautiful wife (appropriately named Bonita) fumed in the front seat because she did not see the same humor of polygamy that her husband did. The remainder of the ride was spent in awkward anger silence until they dropped me off and the husband again attempted to invite himself to come to my house.
Needless to say, I am going to start screening my taxi drivers before I enter the vehicle with a simple, “Have you been drinking,” followed by showing my ring and insisting that they deliver me safety because “My husband is waiting for me at my stop.”
Thursday, March 10, 2011
What do wrestling, trenches, and dog meat have in common?
The answer is simple. They are the topic of my brief blog for today. What name is professional wrestling going by these days: WWE or WWF? Regardless, this is the sport to watch in Guyana apparently. Well, that and cricket. I think I finally got the rules down; I am just waiting to test out how well my soccer skills transfer.
On a non-related note, the trenches in Guyana are quite a sight. Trenches is more appropriate than ditches because trenches provoke a more accurate visual. Trash strewn about, random cattle chilling out, and black liquid bubbling with unidentifiable diseases/objects/creatures. Did I mention that a fellow trainee happened to fall into one the other day? He has not transformed into the Boogey Monster yet, but I am keeping my eye under my bed.
Actually, I do have to keep my eye under my bed due to a different imposter. The other day, I happened to reach to the back of one of my drawers to retrieve some clothes, and instead I wound up holding a handful of newspaper shreddings. A nest-like clump of them. Now, my drawers are lined with newspapers, and my superior detective skills allowed me to infer that I was entertaining a guest.
Around 3 am the other night I awoke to a crunching sound. I am the only human in the room, and I was not crunching on anything. In my disorientation, I was able to identify the crunching noise coming from my purse. Using the light from my Kindle (the Kindle is more useful by the day) I tried to pinpoint the perpetrator. And the crunching (and my concern for the issue) promptly stopped.
The following morning, I inspected my bag. What had the mystery creature been hunting? A pack of cheese crackers zipped in a baggie of course. I can’t help but speculate that I might be housing a mouse, or a Lizard with a craving for salt (or identity crisis). All in all, I ended up setting a trap that my host mom gave to me. Don’t worry; it is human as traps get: a piece of paper with stripes of glue on it. So far, the only thing I have caught is a naughty four-year old that keeps creeping into my room. A dual purpose trap, if you will.
Finally, I will address the dog meat. As far as what I had been told, Guyanese people do not eat dog meat. Iguana sure, but dogs, no. Therefore, when I saw the sign stating a farm was selling dog meat for 70GD, I gagged. I reported my horror to my host sister-in-law, only to find out that the sign is a joke. Joke or not, that place is going to freak people out. Get a better marketing technique because grossing people out is not quite an effective tactic for sales.
On a non-related note, the trenches in Guyana are quite a sight. Trenches is more appropriate than ditches because trenches provoke a more accurate visual. Trash strewn about, random cattle chilling out, and black liquid bubbling with unidentifiable diseases/objects/creatures. Did I mention that a fellow trainee happened to fall into one the other day? He has not transformed into the Boogey Monster yet, but I am keeping my eye under my bed.
Actually, I do have to keep my eye under my bed due to a different imposter. The other day, I happened to reach to the back of one of my drawers to retrieve some clothes, and instead I wound up holding a handful of newspaper shreddings. A nest-like clump of them. Now, my drawers are lined with newspapers, and my superior detective skills allowed me to infer that I was entertaining a guest.
Around 3 am the other night I awoke to a crunching sound. I am the only human in the room, and I was not crunching on anything. In my disorientation, I was able to identify the crunching noise coming from my purse. Using the light from my Kindle (the Kindle is more useful by the day) I tried to pinpoint the perpetrator. And the crunching (and my concern for the issue) promptly stopped.
The following morning, I inspected my bag. What had the mystery creature been hunting? A pack of cheese crackers zipped in a baggie of course. I can’t help but speculate that I might be housing a mouse, or a Lizard with a craving for salt (or identity crisis). All in all, I ended up setting a trap that my host mom gave to me. Don’t worry; it is human as traps get: a piece of paper with stripes of glue on it. So far, the only thing I have caught is a naughty four-year old that keeps creeping into my room. A dual purpose trap, if you will.
Finally, I will address the dog meat. As far as what I had been told, Guyanese people do not eat dog meat. Iguana sure, but dogs, no. Therefore, when I saw the sign stating a farm was selling dog meat for 70GD, I gagged. I reported my horror to my host sister-in-law, only to find out that the sign is a joke. Joke or not, that place is going to freak people out. Get a better marketing technique because grossing people out is not quite an effective tactic for sales.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Why hello Mr. President!
Can I start off this post by saying that yesterday was hands-down the most dreamlike day in Guyana thus far? After training ended around 4:30, my day got exponentially better by the hour.
It started with the minibus ride home. Typically, catching a minibus after training is a hassle. Because of the rush hour, the buses are packed pretty full. The bus I flagged down yesterday happened to only be filled with a group of 5 or 6 school girls. As we started our trip back home, I noticed that the driver was not taking any more passengers. “That’s odd,” I thought. Then after he dropped us off, he refused to take money, and wished us a great rest of the day. It turns out he was just a random man who decided to be gracious enough to give two foreigners a ride. What a gentlemen!
Chelsea had invited me to join her to attend an award ceremony in Georgetown that same night. Since getting out of the house does not happen all that often with the Peace Corps curfew, I could not pass up the opportunity. Noel was our driver and escort for the evening out. We stopped by a cultural center briefly, and during those ten minutes, we had the chance to see the Prime Minister from afar.
What could top seeing the Prime Minister you ask? Why, getting my picture taken with the president of Guyana of course. It turns out that the president, his Excellency, is quite active in Guyanese community life, and he was one of the speakers at the athletic award ceremony that we were crashing (for the record, Noel had been invited). When refreshments were being served after the ceremony, I could not help approaching him and asking for his photograph. Three weeks in country, I meet the president and I have proof. To wrap up the night, Noel treated us to a Hawaiian vegetarian large pizza at Pizza Hut. You judge for yourself if this was a dream.
It started with the minibus ride home. Typically, catching a minibus after training is a hassle. Because of the rush hour, the buses are packed pretty full. The bus I flagged down yesterday happened to only be filled with a group of 5 or 6 school girls. As we started our trip back home, I noticed that the driver was not taking any more passengers. “That’s odd,” I thought. Then after he dropped us off, he refused to take money, and wished us a great rest of the day. It turns out he was just a random man who decided to be gracious enough to give two foreigners a ride. What a gentlemen!
Chelsea had invited me to join her to attend an award ceremony in Georgetown that same night. Since getting out of the house does not happen all that often with the Peace Corps curfew, I could not pass up the opportunity. Noel was our driver and escort for the evening out. We stopped by a cultural center briefly, and during those ten minutes, we had the chance to see the Prime Minister from afar.
What could top seeing the Prime Minister you ask? Why, getting my picture taken with the president of Guyana of course. It turns out that the president, his Excellency, is quite active in Guyanese community life, and he was one of the speakers at the athletic award ceremony that we were crashing (for the record, Noel had been invited). When refreshments were being served after the ceremony, I could not help approaching him and asking for his photograph. Three weeks in country, I meet the president and I have proof. To wrap up the night, Noel treated us to a Hawaiian vegetarian large pizza at Pizza Hut. You judge for yourself if this was a dream.
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