I am sitting tonight in the dark, reading Macbeth by the light of a headlamp. The power has been out for some time now, but I need to keep reading. On Tuesday I found out that I would be giving an introductory lecture on Shakespeare and specifically Macbeth to a class of 16 year olds on Thursday. They have never read Shakespeare nor will they have the book in front of them. The classrooms are so extremely loud, due to the open nature of the rooms (ten classes of 30+ Children on one floor only broken up by movable blackboards and half walls, plus I'm down stairs so the noise from the floor above) So loud that when children were reading aloud, in the reading classes for 11 years olds that I also am helping with, that unless I was right next to them I could not hear them at all, sometimes not even then. So I have no long essay today, you can rest your eyes. Instead I have to read Macbeth rather quickly and figure out how to fill Thirty five minutes of time. I had a nice download of historical background on the play on a flash drive, but the power went out before I could read it. Wish me luck.


So I did the first lecture today.
At ten the teacher told me she was going to have to leave school on some school business so that I now got to be alone and give a lecture of 70 minutes not 35.
I had a few moments at lunch to myself to prepair further.

It turned out quite well. At one point I was singing A Bob Marley tune aloud in full force after reading it with no intonation. "Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our minds. Have no fear for atomic energy, none of them can A stop A the time." In an attempt to show that words in verse have more power than words on the page. This got their attention fairly well as they only reconized that the words and the song where the same after I had sung a number of lines.
Threw in some general history of Shakespeare and Plays and Acting and Language.
A historical Background for Macbeth, then a five minute breakdown of the play.

(almost lost them here)

Then recited the Porter Scene aloud. To which they almost yawned and could only recall one or two words of when I asked if they had any idea what I was talking about. Then I proceeded to Act out the scene using a translation that I made during the Blackout the other night. They could not believe what I was doing and saying.
Got a few more minutes of thematic work in.
Recited a few of the more famous speaches. (which they almost tolerated)
And that was that.

Except now I can hardly speak and my throat hurts as if I sang an Aria at the Met.

But they heard me and were pretty interested. Sure I guess I cheated a little by disheaveling my clothing, pouring water over my head, pretending like I was A drunk, and swearing on the devil, all the while talking about; Urine, What provokes and Unprovokes, what makes a man stand upright and yet makes him fall down, what stirs the desires yet leaves the performance lacking. You get the point, they certainly did.
So just remember if you leave me all alone with a classroom of highschoolers I can not be blamed for what comes out. Especially when you tell me to teach Shakespeare.

Tommorrow I only have to do the same thing all alone twice.

I have no idea how teachers keep up their strenght.

The exterior of the Tutorial Academy just down the road from our house. The Picture was taken at sunrise on the morning of a solar eclipse. The school is two floors, with each floor being one large open space, save an office or two. The classrooms are made by dividing the room up with blackboards and half walls.

A long view of the second floor of the Tutorial Academy. I had just finished leading this classroom on the left when I took this picture. Up on the board it says Sir Arthur Blyth, which is my teaching name. Mostly the students just say sir. All the time in fact they say sir and miss.

A view in the middle of the upper floors of the Tutorial Academy where I am giving lectures on Shakespeare and teaching reading. The far two "rooms" are two of the classrooms where the 1st form classes take place. It is the first grade in Secondary school, the children are about 11 or so depending on a lot of factors. This picture was taken inbetween classes

Self-Portrait on the Morning of my 35th Birthday

A view down the Main Street of New Amsterdam towards the Main Mosque. The street is not a one way street and the picture was taken during a relatively quite hour. It would not be a typical for there to be cars coming in the opposite direction as well as two or three layers of bicycles is each direction and a large number of pedistrian.

Me on the old bike(give to us by Pastor Roy)

Miriam on our new bike( give to us by a congregation Member for the year). In the yard of the compound of the Lutheran Church of Guyana Main office. This is where Miriam has her office and where she comes most days to start her workday.

Interior of Bethel Church before Sunday service. Note the open walls to allow air to flow into the building and the pattern of the concrete forms.

Pastor Roy addressing the congregation of Transfiguration after Sunday Service. This is the smallest church, with maybe 10 people on any given sunday, yet it also was the first church in the Parish.

Miriam and the Holy Cross Womens Group re-finishing the churches tables as part of their weekly meeting.

Standing in lines; how I learned to love the queue.

In it's wonderfully reassuring and seemingly universal way school started two weeks ago, in the first week of september. I figured that I had settled in well enough and that it was time to start searching for opportunites to get myself involved, in an organized fashion, in the life of New Amsterdam. Volunteering at a Public School felt timely. I had been cutting bait for some time why not try fishing.
My first inclination was to simply go to a few schools and inquire if I could be of any use to anyone. But when I told a few members of the congregations about this plan of mine they all recommended that I first go to the Office of the Minister of Education. This sounded rather formal to me and perhaps on a larger scale than I felt necessary. I mean go to the minister of Education to ask about volunteering in a school? I specifically am not looking for a full-time job. I'm not even sure if it is technically possible for me to have one as I have no work visa. Further more I am not about to suggest that I am qualified for a teaching job, much less profess this to the Minister of Education. Being in a room of 30-40 children makes me nervous the way standing in a large herd of cattle makes me watchfull; you know if you trip and fall down they might just walk all over you.
Like everywhere being a school teacher means you are vastly underpaid for the work you do as well as under appreciated by society. In Guyana the teachers make 20,000 Guyanese a month or about 100$US. It is, however, a good important job and a steady one at that. People work hard, and really need conections, just to get these jobs. The last thing the teachers need is some American with time on his hands coming in with grand plans. But I headed over to the Office to offer my services. I figure I can read and write (both fairly well I like to think, though not spell obviously) and I have some experience with theatrical productions, so maybe there is a school play or something I can help out with, or some literature class, as long as it's not math based I can probably be of some value to a teacher.
The Grand sounding Ministry of Education turned out to be the regional Department of Education. The building is pretty small. It looks more like a house than an office. There is a driveway and a few cars parked in the carport. There are a number of dogs in the yard which look like they belong, and a number of school children on the side wearing uniforms. (All schools in Guyana have uniforms. They are differentiated by color. I have seen green, blue, brown, grey and a great bright pink for a nearby elementary school. Boys wear colored shirts and darker pants, girls wear skirts and vests or jumpers. All the uniforms are hand tailored in the last few weeks leading up to school opening. All the tailors in town are kept pretty busy.) The only entrance to the building is at the top of a set of two staircases. One goes up on the left and the other on the right and they meet at the top on a small landing before going in the door. As I parked my bike I noticed a large sign on the left side staircase which said in very large letters that the office is open to the general public on Wednsday. Since it is tuesday and I am not even really qualified to be called a member of the general public I hesitated before going up. There was a man on the landing who had a shirt and tie on and who looked generally like he knew what was going on. He has seen me notice the sign, so I shouted up to him something on the order of "That leads me to belive that the office is not open today." To which he reponded simply "Well people are here why don't you give it a try." Sounds resonable to me so up I mount.
A few feet inside the door there is a half wall, the door itself opens in to the right and on the left there is also a wall. All of which gives you the sense of being in a cattle shoot, unable to see where you are going, but forced in a direction which you are not completely convinced you want to be headed. The space is lined with chairs and all are taken by middle aged women sitting listlessly, as if they have been there for some time in the heat and expect to be there for some time longer. Behind the door are a few more chairs, also occupied, which end at a desk looking to be reception, except no one is sitting at it. In fact in the interior of the office there is very little activity at all. There are cabinets, desks, chairs, and three doors that lead to back offices, as well as a back spce whcih I can not see into. I stand for a little while in the middle of everyone not sure if I should go forward farther into the room.
It is my general habit upon entering a place, where there is a line of people and a desk or a window, for me to try to be a patient as possible and to smile at whoever makes eye contact with me while I look around. Also I generally don't speak or ask a question until someone signals me- excepting to perhaps figure out if thee is an end to the line. And always I attempt to place myself into a position of serene repose. I feel this is really the only way to be in a room of people who are waiting for something to be done for them and yet still manage to have a good time. It gives me a chance to study faces if I think about it, as well as practise sitting still. In a room of seven people I don't know, I figure I should be set for at least 45 minutes. Plus it makes me appear tranquil as well as helps me remember that I've really got nothing but time on my hands and this is in fact fairly interesting and new for me. Generally I find that people are more apt to really help you in the long run if you don't insist upon their help immediately. But then I generally have a lot of time myself and can spend it how I will.
Eventually a woman, who I think maybe the secretary, comes into the main room. She has that practiced ability to be in a room with people who are waiting for her attention, yet still get what she needs to get done, all the while avoiding eye contact until she is ready to give you her attention. So I remain there looking up in here direction with a smile on my face whenever she passes by me. I feel a little foolish after a number of passes, a little like a puppy in fact, but there are other people who have been there longer than me and they are also looing at her expectantly so I figure I should not be the insistent foreigner and just hold tight. Indeed fairly quickly, after she has dealt with one or two other people, she turns to me and asks how she can help. Or rather she asks if I am from a certain organization. To which I have to respond negatively since I've no idea what the organization is that she is speaking about. This is almost always how conversations begin for me. It is a fairly good assumption of anyone's part here that I am part of some organization or another, and of course I am, but I am neither entirely comfortable claiming myself a missionary, nor truthfully working with anyone. So I always have to say no and then explain what Miriam is up to and thus my presence in front of them. She asks what I am there for and I tell her my vague desire to volunteer in the schools and how should I go about it. It is strange that I don't want a money or a job. In fact she asks me just that. You don't want to get paid? But besides the potential problems I have already mentioned with me being employed. The truth is that I am in the ridiculous position to be able to not need to make money this year, I mean we could always use money, next year our financial situation is completely up in the air, but while we are here Miriam's stipend covers our expenses if we use some thought in our monthly budgeting. I don't tell her all this but I'm behaving strangely none the less. She tells me that the regional director will be available tommorrow. IF I can come back then maybe she could help me. Alright, that's kinda what I thought, thank you. And I make my way back through the catttle shoot and back outside. Just a short nice trip through purgatory. I feel a little bad for the people I leave behind still waiting in their chairs.
When I pull up the next morning there are people everywhere. The yard is buzzing with people, both staircases leading to the entrance are stacked with people. There are 100 plus people standing in line or at least waiting on something. The problem I instantly have is where does the line end? Or are there multiple lines, I mean there are two stair cases. I truthfully feel just like leaving and coming back some other time. It is after all just the 2nd week of school. All these parents and teachers have infinitly more immediate and important concerns that I do. The regional director is overly busy I am sure and doesn't need to deal with me as well.
But I remember that I am in no hurry, have in fact nothing to do for the rest of the day. SO why not put my toes in the interesting looking water? See what I see. I pick the left staircase at random and ask the person on the bottom stair if this is the end of the line. "No, I don't think so" he responds "just push up and ask." Now I am not particularly timid and I have no problem with close quarters or physical contact with other people. But walking up the stairs through the people feels wierdly wrong. Like exiting the subway by the stairs at Time Square during rush hour except, instead of swimming with the tide of people all moving in one direction, everyone is moving extremely slowly and even though you know that they all want to go forward, only you can crawl over and through them to the exit. Add to this that I am obviously a stranger and I feel the double edged sword that is ignorance on the one side and privaledge on the other. I hope I am not offending anyone. Through the cattle shoot, which is now teaming with people sitting and standing, so that there really is nothing to do besdies keep going, with a polite smile. Nobody seems to mind. There is no where to stop until I'm spit out near the secretaries desk. The interior of the office is like something out of a Kafka novel. There are clerks literally running form one room to the next; efficent, hardy, yet meek looking men. There are two lines going into two back rooms. There is even a special door which remains always closed except when one of the clerks rushes in and dissapears inside. This I gather is the regional directors office. People are standing in some semblence of order in the middle of the office, all facing this door and sitting up or leaning towards it when ever it opens even slightly. There are teachers looking for paperwork for transfers, parents with registration papers, young women trying to apply for jobs. All of it much more important than me.
The woman at the very front of the line gets confused for the secretary as more people come in behind me. It does seem like you just head for the front and hope to get some answer. The woman starts answering questions, even telling a young girl and her mother that the girl doesn't have the right materials for application and that is she gives them what she has it will just get filed and forgotten. I talk to a few people, ask about where I should go, is the office always this busy, etc. etc. Nobody really knows much. One man simply says "Pick a line and then don't get out of it or you'll never get anywhere." I have been standing in the middle of the room for about an hour. No one has gone in to be seen by the regional Director, the clerks are still rushing about like mad. But I've seen the Secretary that I spoke to yesterday so I sense progress.
Pastor Roy, Miriam's supervisor, comes up the stairs and enters the room. He has a package for the Director. We spend about 20 minutes talking and standing around. At one point he boldly interupts the Secretary and asks her to take a package into the Director. And she does! People are a little jealous of him. But it's also obvious that he is important somehow. Eventually the Secretary mistakenly makes eye contact with me and emboldened by Pastor Roy I seize the moment. All I can get out is excuse me. And she says "Yes, I'll tell the Director you are here and that you were her yesterday." Real progress there. And it makes me glad I was here yesterday--like I've been waiting all night and today to see the Director, unlike these other poor retches who have just been waiting for a few hours now. Pastor Roy can't wait any longer as he has another appointment so he leaves.
I start to notice the Heat. Because it is really, really, really hot. And there are alot of people in a fairly small space. At about the same moment it seems there is a subtle surge forward by everyone. The lines become double wide. I get the feeling that everyone from outside has now come inside. A clerk, who is trying to get through people, senses that order has been lost and before chaos sets in he starts to leacture/berate the people blocking one of the doors to an office. He is patently disgusted by our becoming unglued and tells everyone to pull it together (more or less). Again, not just subtlely, but almost magically, there are less people in the room; like the tide has gone out.
One or two of the teachers has been let into see the Director. But the heat is starting to get to break me down. I start to remember that I have no reason to be here and the fun is about up. I decide to go out and stand oon the shaded stairs to get some air- with the intention of leaving shortly. Somehow the stairs are completley empty. I really can't say that I saw more than 3 or 4 people get something done, but maybe the clerks were shuttling information outside, or maybe they were all in a group, or maybe it's getting close to luch and they simply gave up. Whatever the case, it kindles the hope that maybe I will be seen, which again suddenly seems overly important. I decide not to leave just yet and go back inside.
As soon as I put my head in the door, the Secretary calls for me, as if she has been looking for me. I get ushered into the room and taken through the special door. I feel almost giddy. The Director is behind a desk talking on the phone, there are a few teachers standing before her at the desk. There is a large circular red velvet couch which dominates the room. The secretary and some clerks are at the back of the room confering about some matter. No one pays any attention to me except the teachers who exchange what I take to be conspritorial smiles with me, we are the choosen few who have made it; it is a bonding over our mutual triump. As if all this weren't enough the room is air conditioned! I stand for a few minutes, then think to sit down on the couch. It is a big couch and it feels good to sit down after standing for so long. I scoot over to the far backside incase anyone else wants to sit down(no one ever does) and also to get further out of the way. I take out my notebook and start randomly leafing through pages, reading bits and pieces of my writing. Another teacher enters the room and stands near the couch. She is also now smiling at her success in gaining the hallowed ground. After a few minutes I lean over and whisper " And it's even air-conditioned in here." To which she beams a wide smile.
The other two teachers have left and the Director suddenly call me over to the desk. She is an indian woman with a stern face which also smiles invitingly. I stand up in a hurry and start to introduce myself and explain my presence. She cuts me off nicely by saying that the Secretary told her and she asks me again if she is right in thinking that I don't want any pay. Pastor Roy has mentioned earlier that he know the Director well and I should use his name if I get the chance. I tell her about Miriam and the Lutheran Church and the stipend. I tell her that besides my own writing and a few other commitments I have time to give and I thought to give it to the schools. I mention that I am not available full time, sensing that to suggest I would work full time with no pay would be insulting somehow, too unimaginably immpossible to be true. We talk about what I do, what I could do with the school. She says she wants to send me to a good school, not one with underacheivers, so that they will appreciate what I have to offer. She says she will call the principal. I think I am done and start to thank her and then leave. But she tells me to sit down; she'll call the principal now. She gets interupted by a phone call herself and af ew tasks which are brought to her. But eventually she gets the Secretary to call the school and then gets on the phone. She starts to tell the principal about me, Says I have written seven plays, hangs up and tells me the principals phone number as she looks for something to write it down on. I open my book and she is impressed that I have a nice book to write in. Paper supplies are prety meger here adn my book is truthfully very unusually nice. Something I have until this moment taken completely for granted. She finishes the exchange with a few instructions and then proclaims loudly as I am about to leave and the door is opened tha I am a fantastic person and that the world needs more people in it like me. I am startled by her sudden praise and can only manage a thank you and profuse thanks for her help. I sneak a raised eyebrow glance of surprise and amusement over to the teacher I whispered to earlier, thinking that she too must be appreciating the strange machinations of the Director, trying to capture some of the earlier comradery. The teacher is looking at me with wide eyes and smiles back at me like I am somebody important. It's all a trifle ridiculous and I'm kind of laughing to myself as I go down the stairs, past the people who are still waiting in the chairs. I can almost imagine at this point that they are the same people as yesterday and they have never left. Of course I manage to remember to thank the Secretary.
Thinking that I was supposed to return the next day with a resume to give to the Secretary I came back to the office. The yard is extremely quiet, but it is the afternoon so I think that may just be how it is in the afternoon. As I start to head up the stairs I notice that each step has at least one dog stretched out asleep on it. I have to in fact step over them and around them to get in the door. The chairs are empty. Nobody is around except for a Principal, who is behind the Secretary's desk and with whom I have a good talk. I wait for half an hour or longer. All I wanted to do was drop off the resume and truthfully I was begining to think it a trifle annoying that this was taking so long. I didn't want to waste my time that afternoon, I was tired and I still had other things to do. Abruptly the Director came out of her office surprised to see me. As I handed her the reume she asked if I had visited the school. I had misunderstood I guess, though the instructions were pretty clear I had thought. She briefly looked at my resume and declaired it quite impressive. I have always liked my resume but I have also had prospective employeers tell me things more to the tune of looks like you've wandered around quite a bit or seems pretty inconsistant. Or course she wasn't going to employ me, but I got the feeling she meant it. I said I would visit the school, then I left.
The whole process has left me feeling that I can not overestimate the value of my educational background, cant under appreciate how much more education that I have than so many others, how much opportunity I have hadto experience the world and foolow my dreams.
The other day at the grocery store, I was standing in line, sweaty after a football game and dressed in simply shorts and a t-shirt. I was waiting to buy two cars of juice and I had tucked a five hundred dollar bill (guyanese) in my waist ban. I was feeling like I knew what was going on. I understood how the line worked, that people came to it from both directions, that a woman would take my juices and another would call out the price. I was even feeling like I was glad I only had a five hundred on me,like it somehow made me more of a regular guyanese,instead of using the big 1,000 guyanese bill. In general I was feeling I knew my place in the scheme of thins.
The boy in front of me was about 14 or so. His basket was full of hand pakced pags of dried chickpeas and some spices. His total was 2,300 guyanese dollars. He proceeded to pull out two large wads of 20 guyanese bills. And the Cashier counted them not like they were worth a nickle apiece, but as if she had done it a million times and was only interested in the total. The boy was not self conciousof the demarkation of his money. I still am but I am working on it.

Miriam getting instruction in how to make roti ( an indian flatbread) by a member of her congregation and her son.

Miriam "clapping" the hot roti as it comes off the skillet. By throwing the roti in the air and hitting it between your palms it becomes flaky and delicious. It is also a task which involves hot oil and getting your hands slightly burnt.

The Joker of Seville.
What poet would triangulate their location instead of their fate? But I, I asked that shameless question where am I rather than what I should ask upon wakin to the wonders of the world. Who are You? And what is it you call yourself?
--Derek Walcott

My first instinct upon finding myself in a new place, be it the next neighborhood over or a country across the globe, is to link myself to the geography of that place. First sitting still where I find myself planted, then walking the streets in ever expanding circles around the location of my home, finally then go ride farther out by bicycle and map that new found ground. It is only by the physical self-propelled contact with the landscape of a place that I start to feel a part of it. Personally it is something which I can not do with-in the confines of an automobile. For invariably this daily sojourn down the dirt paths or concrete bi-ways leads to contact with the people, the fellow travelers who share the plane upon which I wander and who have so much ready knowledge of this new wonder of the world.

Then perhaps the question becomes Who are you? What do you call yourself?
But, how does one ask this intimate question of those you know nothing about?
It is tempting to me to simply approach everyone and stick out my hand and ask What's your name?
Unfortunately the way this gets done usually starts with- Hello I'm Jeremy. Only then getting to the- Who are You. In other words- Hi, I am here weither you are interested in the slightest bit or not and I expect that you will now open yourself up to me. Using this approach at best occassionally leads to a lengthy conversation, mostly about myself, in which occassionally I can glean some information about the other. I walk away proud that I have reached out, and glad to have explained the reason for my existence in the strange landscape. But, generally I remain ignorant about the other person and, unless chance brings out some coincidental mutual occupation or dream, there is little to no personal connection. At worst the cold call causes the other to have serious concerns about why I am asking them so many questions in the first place. What gives me the right? Who do I work for? For there is no context to the exchange, no reason for it to happen at all in fact, and without contextual knowledge of those who are around us we all tend to assume the worst. There are afterall alot of reason that I could be searching out information, not all of the good ones, and alot of reasons that you wouldn't want ot tell me anything about yourself or your business, not all of them bad. Not to mention that not everyone shakes hands the same way you do, they might not even shake hands at all. Nor does naming have a set of universal guidelines. Are you asking for the familiar name, the christian name, the street name, the name your mother call you, etc. etc... In Guyana people often consider what I would call their first name to be a highly powerful secret, known by only a trusted few. Is that the name I am asking for them to tell me? In short to walk up to someone and ask them their name is a dubious way to learn anything about anybody. Discounting the fact that is is exhausting, especially on days when I don't even feel like smiling as I ride by on the bicycle.
Instead maybe the pro-offered question- Who are You? can be usefully tied to the internal question of where am I?
I have been planted in this house and this yard for one month. Everyday finds me in these confines for some significant portion of the day. Always the doors and windows are open. I spend hours outdoors weither working or simply sitting still on one of the stoops(which ever one isn't currently in the direct sunlight). From the dinning room table, where I sit to write or from the hammock where I read, I can see out all three doors; Can watch a person as they walk towards me down the street, as they cross in front of the house, and as they continue to stroll away out of view.
I know that the elderly woman who lives across the street is named Clarice. I know this partly because I went over to her the first day the sun came up on our arrival in Stanleytown and introduced myself. But I know more: that she has a damaged arm, that she wears beautiful hats and fancy dresses when she goes out On the Road yet sometimes just a bra and shorts while on the porch on a particularly hot afternoon, that they just finished building this her new house( and the plumbing should be done soon) so that she could move back next door to her sister Eleanor back into the place she grew up in instead of being so far away (about 1/4 mile away), that she is helping to raise an 11 year old girl named Faith, and that one afternoon, unannounced and unpromted, Faith came calling on Miriam and I and proceeded to tell us her life's History and her future dreams, as well as singing us her favorite song after asking us to sing a few of ours. I know all of this because everyday Clarice sits on her porch and I sit on mine and we wave hello acress the street, sometimes prompted by whatever comes our way into a conversation. She has already told me the names of many plants and animals( not to mention people walking by). Sometimes she reminds me to stop working in the heat. Just today she informed me when the garbage collector comes by and how much he charges. Valuable information all.
Then there is Christopher. Or should I say one of his names, the name he gave me. He is a twenty five year old man I met one morning while I was outside weeding and untangling the vines from around the Papaya tree. He was working on clearing the brush off the overgrown lot next to Clarice's House ( Vlarice was particularly watchful that day). He was with three other men and he approached me unbidden and asked me my name. We talked awhile; this was his business, one of the men was his brother, the rumpled card he showed me and off which I took his phone # said his name was Suren M. But he told me his christian name was Christofer. He loaned me some tolls while they went on luch break and I gave them cold water and let them keep the larger equipment in my yard when they left for the night as they were coming back the next day. That night he took me to his friend's pool hall or gathering place and I realized that I was not twenty five and that I didn't need to go there often. Didn't quite desire to be around the posturing of young peacocks. But the people were interesting ( especially the one named Cocaine who held himself well, seemed a little more mature, didn't rise to the needling of his cohorts unnesicarilly, and shook my hand with intentionality- so much for a name). Besides it was my first time out of the neighborhood at night in a strange land. We stayed out till what seemed a very late 9:00. He insisted on buying some ice cream for Miriam, feeling bad that she didn't get to go out as well. We talked in the front yard for a little while and I tried to tell him what I could respect from the evening and yet also what I was not interested in being around. He seemed areeable enough and was thoughtfull and I saw him the next dayagain at his work. It occured to me that he might come aroudn alot, which was good as I like to learn about people, but that also I needed to draw some lines about availability. So I told him I would call him sometime soon.
That next weekend he called and I told him that I was unavailable to go out with him, but I would call him on Wed. When I called the number from the card and asked for Christofer, I proceeded to have a very confusing conversation with a Suren M., who was not Christofer, and I was a Jeremy, but not his Canadian accounts keeper. Eventually we figured it all out and he said that he might know who Christofer was and he would pass on the information that I called. So much for names, let alone knowledge or trust. Then I saw his brother and asked him about Christofer- to which he confusedly replied- You mean David- and gave me his cel phone number, which didnt'e work. More of the same confusion and diminishment of knowledge. I saw him 1 week later two seperate times. Once I waved as I passed by, once I pulled the bike over and had a soda with him. He vaguely answered my queries about Suren and the phone number. Today he called and asked if he could come over immediately- some trouble at the bank I think he said. So over he comes and proceeds with a fairly somber story of money and loans and asks for 5,000 guyanese, which becomes then 2,000, then a ring he might have to sell. We have a long talk where in I do the best I can to explain that I can not loan him the money, and not only because I don't have it to give to him. I am glad to help him by working if he needs it in anyway I can help, for his busines perhaps, or with paperwork at the bank. And we talk generally about his financial difficulties. He is serious and listening and aking questions and thinking aloud about how he shall proceed. It is a good conversation and when we part I tell him that I have been unable to call him but he should call me next week. I have learned very little about the man who calls himself to me Christofer, but in the process of just being in my house I have started to answer some part of the question- Who am I.
But stopping at the home is a limiting way to get to know people, and despite my contacts with the lutheran church here; the good man who is the pastor, his wonderful wife who teaches us to cook Guyanese style, the three congregations every sunday, the men's group, the boys who teach me to play cricket- I feel the need to explore this my neighborhood and make contacts with my own feet. To do this I take guidance, and have for some time now, from a book by Heinrich Boll entitled Billards at Half past Nine O'clock. As the title suggest the protaganitst picks a few activities upon entering a new town adn then performs them with regularity- thereby habituating himself and others to his presence in the place.
So with my feet twice a wek, on wed and sat in fact, I walk to the internet cafe where I am typing up this very text. And by having done so for three weeks I have myself an office. I am getting to know Joline, the woman who runs this place, as well as her son Brian. Getting to know that they run the grocery next door, and that they rent pirated chinese DVDs, and providing myself with regular contact with the streams of people who come in and out of the two shops. Last week I typed up a medical document for one of her clients as I am the fastest typer in the place. The other day I spoke with two guys who used to live in Philadelphia. I slowly get to know them and they slowly get to know me.
A few times a week I walk to the cafe nearby and get a beer or two for dinner for Miriam and I. Or have them refil a little flask of a bottle with a funnel from their barrel of rum, which we keep in the freezer to make daquaris and Pina Colads using only fresh fruit. After two weeks I learned the names of the proprietors son-Justin, and John, a young man who play alot of nintendo. After three weeks Justin and I sat and talked for a few hours one sunday Afternoon. Suddenly I was across fthe table from a man who has traveled more estensively in the world than I, who is an advisor to the Miss Guyana pagent, who has a degree in finance and who is applying to master programs in the United States for next year. I had thought, erroneously, that he simply kept a cafe which also sells clothing. I a glad I let him speak when he was ready and didn't simply ask him to tell me who he was. He also knows the best beach to go to nearby.
And keep going further afield by bicycyle to learn about the town I live with in and which also adds to my definition. The market on Tuesday and Sat. morning. Where early on I had a friendly exchange with a vendor of roots and fruits( the vegetables are in another area). His name is Joseph and, after learning that his son was named Jeremy, I settled on the habit of always visiting him first. On Sat everything is bustling and we exchange quick talk while I pick out the days goods between the crush of other shoppers. On tuesday things are quieter. Plenty of time to talk if I make the time available and don't simply rush in and then again. In the next month, hopefully he will take me on his friday night buying run, from 8pm till 6 am, to the fields to prepair for the big Sat market.
And then occassionally timing and personality and ritual mesh together so well that things unfold with a quality of ease and rightness which is too smooth to translate. For by chance one friday, when I was pedaling around looking for a game of football, I found nothing at the three main feilds. And where on another day I may have called it and returned home, on this friday I asked one person on the side of the road, who kind of directed me to aneighborhood father back, where another person showed me roughly where to look, which lead me to a small field of half dirt/half swamp, about the size of half a regular pitch. And slowly people came out of their houses, and a ball appeared, and then two small square goals, and before I knew it I was in the middle of a regular pick up game which happens every friday because all the local clubs don't hold practise on Friday. And again through feeling, I introduced myself to one person out fo the fourty who by the end had gathered to play and watch. Roland is his name. A dreadlocked man of thirty who has more skill on a ball than I've seen in awhile and who simply had a good demeanour.
Now I missed a Friday, I'll admit, and as any who know me should realize, I'm not as habitual as I may make myself out to be. But the following friday I returned and there again was Roland first to the field after I showed up and sat in the empty lot for half an hour. Yet I didn't exchange more than a few words with him beofre the game, simply a greeting, as he knew why I had come- to play football. Then one of those games where the feet work without the heads interference. Playing on the opposite squad to Roland. Hard tackles with him, fighting for the ball shoulder against shoulder. My teammates faces a little more familiar from the first weeks game. Afterwards as I was leaving, on the bike in fact, I simply said take it easy to Roland, who was bent over stetching at the waist. He had been sullen near the end of the game, frustrated by hi teammates. He even put an end to the game when someone fouled him in the fading light- simply saying "I can't tell what's going on" and walking off the field. Everyone else followed. So I was not going to strike up a conversation, but simply say see you next week. But when I spoke he bounced up full of graciousness and we spoke at lenght about the game and his neighborhood. He lived nearby and in fact told me that Sunday morning he was having people ou for something I should come. I explained my reason for being in the country and my ties to the church all morning sunday. Well come by in the late afternoon then, he casually suggested and i left for the night to pedal home in the now dark. On sunday after our three services and after our afternoon nap, Miriam went back to lead confirmation class. I read for awhile, then toured arund the neighborhood as is my sunday afternoon habit. Nobody about to speak of, so I pedaled to the oterside of town heading back to one of the churches because I wanted to help them move some dirt and generally make myself available to them as well. Swung by the neighborhood where Roland lives. On one corner a speaker was set up and some benches, and about fifty people were milling about but I didn't see Roland amoung the faces and I wasn't really sure I was in the right place even so I kept pedaling on to church. After shoveling and wheelbarrow hauling dirt for an hour or two, I pedaled back home as Miriam took a ride with pastor Roy. I said I would stop by to see if I saw Roland and in any case wouldn't be home late, maybe in fact before her.
On rounding the corner back into the neighborhood, I noticed that the crowd was larger. And decided that I would simply ask someone if they had seen Roland. No one seemed to recognize me in the crowd of 100 people, but when I mentioned this name to two younger boys, they jumped up and went to look for him. But they didn't see him so I started off. Only to hear my name called out above the music and see Roland pedaling up on a bike. What followed was a rush of being ushered through the people, back to the large Cook Up pots behind the stands (huge woks really. Plate of food handed to me by someone, a cold drink given from out of the old Ice Cream cooler they used for a Ice Chest. People introducing themselves and loud talk over louder music, where for once I could pretend it was the music and not the creole that made me unableto understand. I stayed for three hours again getting home at the now extremely late seeming hour of 9. The crowd had increased, the DJ gave way to live music. Slowly all the peoples faces started becoming clear as people who I had played football with earlier; the rapper, the cook, all gathered with Roland who carried alot of respect in the gathering. Unbenownst to me, and without asking- who are you- I found myself welcomed into an old fashion block party. And then when I left a guy named Andrea made sure to guide me out of the unfamilliar night streets till I got to a road I knew the potholes on and after I insisted I could find my way he left me again a stanger in a stange land. But the music followed me all the way home and Eventually at my doorstep I could hear it's deep bass, the same deep bass that had bounced around the air on other nights, except this night I had been at it's point of origion instead of longing to know what was going on, and who was there.
I played football on the next monday at Roland's invitation, played poorly in fact, but will get to play again on friday.
And now I know something of a neighborhood not my own even in Guyana. And I worry less about asking who people are and simply hope to live more among them so that I may continue to shape my integrity which depends neither on who I am nor where.
All names of course have been changed to protect their owners.

Our road 46 Stanleytown. Our house is the yellow one on the right behind the church which is Lutheran but not in the parish that Miriam is serving.

One of the Carts for Hire for hauling. Past the Graveyard

One the Road past the Graveyard towards our road in Stanley town.

Interior of the Main Market. This is one of three buildings. One building is for fish and poultry. The other for Household goods. The market is open every day but closes on wed and sunday afternoon.

On Water.
Having spent time in the American West and many of it's desert environs, I have felt how water, or lack there of, informs everything around it. There the green of a river valley or even the collected pools of springs are welcome enlivening sights and human settlement is grouped around them. In Guyana, where water is everywhere, the principle still holds as the rivers here are also the pathways of life. Of course the rivers are immense in Guyana, coming from deep in the tropical rainforest, winding their way through the interior and exiting into the Atlantic ocean. I have only seen two of the rivers, the Berbice and the Demerara. While it takes a ferry half an hour to cross the Berbice, this river I'm told, is a shadow of the size of the Essiquibo which is at some points over 20 miles wide.
There is no shortage of water here. Instead the problem is getting it to flow. The Dutch are responsible for the sea wall system that holds back the ocean from the coastal lowlands where over 90% of the population lives and which would be, and sometimes still is, underwater were it not for the dikes.
While walking in Georgetown, the capital city, the remnents of the aquaduct system line the streets, and it is possible to see how it once channeled rainwater through cement and wood efficently and cleanly. Unfortunately this system has been neglected for decades and now represents a fairly fetid collection of semi-stagnate, vegetated causeways which gather refuse and nessitate watching where you step so that you don't plunge through a rotten wooden manhole cover and into what lies below.
In New Amsterdam, the system is much simpler, mostly just dirt cut ditches meant to flow in a grid and out to the river. Depending on the street you are walking on this system still performs fairly well, although it is the dry season currently so I can't really say much for sure. On many of the side streets though, large sections of the system are filled with overgrowth and the detritus of a society where plastic is used in everything, but no one comes around to collect it and landfill it, let alone recycle. When it rains, as it has for the last three days in hour to three hour bursts even in this the dry season, standing pools of water collect everywhere. For example the entrance to the Post Office in New Amsterdam is currently covered by a large pond around four feet deep which simply is there and avoided by planks until the sun drys it out.
Our yard is a good example of the terrain. It alternates between dry highground and ponds where it is low. While this is a good excuse for owning some good muck boots to get around in, it also allows for a wide variety of flora to flourish. Origionally I had gotten ambitious and started cleaning out the ditch in our front yard, with the idea that I would reconnect the channels coming from our backyard into the main ditch. Keep the water flowing and thereby drain at least some of the swamp in the middle of the yard, leaving the pond in the back for the Queen Anne's Lilies. Before I started I took a few minutes to inspect the street drainage and realized that if I opened up our yard to it that it was more than likely that the main drainage would flow back into the yard not the other way around. So I did what I thought was prudent and left well enough alone. I kind of like wearing muck boots anyways.
For the last two hours it has been raining, though raining is too mild a word. I would choose deluge where it not for wanting to keep some adjectives in reserve for when the real rains come down. It had been dry for about 6 days and the channels were starting to shrink, the tadpoles begining to feel desperate, and me starting to get ideas again about my ability to cause the yard to be dry. In the course of this last rain there is now up to 3 ft of standing water in the low spots and the channels are overflowing. And it keeps raining. So I think I will take the lesson to heart this time that water takes care of itself here, and goes where it wants to, and it is simply best to get out of the way.
Drinking water is another matter altogether.
Seperate even from water inside the house.
We have a tank on a platform built above the height of the house in the back yard. When the municipal water supply comes on, either at 6-8 am, 12-1 pm, or 6-8 pm (roughly of course, somedays it is more like 5-7 or 7-9 or really any variation that you can think of), we turn on a pump and push the supply up to the tank and then let gravity bring it into the house with decent pressure. I would hazzard to guess that three quarters of the population doesn't have a storage system and gets water only when the municipal supply flows. If one could call it that, maybe ebbs and flows is more to the point as more often than not the supply is a trickle which pulses and glue for the pipes isn't remotely necessary to keep the pipes together, which is good for many of them are not glued together in the first place.
The system has no integrity which presents just one of the problems with drinking the municipal supply. It has no backflow checks to prevent waste from entering it, more leaks than possible to imagine and this couple with the fact that the supply lines criss-cross and sometimes run through the middle of the drainage channels one can only guess what is in the piped water. I'd guess some parasites at the least- occasional bursts of cholera perhaps. So everyone who can afford it buys drinking water in the form of five gallon jugs.
Of course these cost anywhere from 300-600 Guyanese dollars (roughly 2.50-5$ U.S.) and the average worker, when they can find work, makes between 1,000- 3,000 Guyanese dollars a day (between 5-15$ US). I'm guessing that many people drink the water, most definately the rain water, though they tend to take in water in the form of tea(boiling kills most things) or bottled beverages. We have been going through an average of 15 gallons of drinking water a week. The rough math on that works out to say 6,000 guyanese dollars a month. The average teachers salary is 20,000 Guyanese a month. Our drinking water intake is fairly odd for people around here, most don't believe me when I say the amount. But, it is hard to imagine not drinking that much when it's so consistantly warm and I have yet to get behind the drinking of a hot beverage to cool off, though many swear by it.
To get the water I ride to the store on the bike, about 1 mile away, with the empty bottle upsidedown in the front basket. Then Strap the full bottle onto the back stand and slowly navigate with it home, always one hand on the handlebars and one behind me steading the bottle through the bumps.
I did this once at night and found it quite amusing, as there are no street lights, the roads are filled with potholes and people, bikes, cars and animals are going everywhich way. I found it best to get a car behind me and pedal like mad hoping to see enough of the road ahead, before the car passed, to attempt to memorize the patterns of the potholes and pedestrians. It was fun once, and as long as I don't go down side streets again that I did not know in the daytime, even fairly managable. But the next time I'll take a headlamp.
Since the rains have come for the last few days two things have changed. First the bike riding in getting more interesting, really becoming kind of a navigational challenge. Riding on ridges the width of the bike tire between deep potholes filled with water, with a five gallon bottle of water slushing back and forth behind you, and one hand on the handle bar is easy for even small children here. I foolishly decided once, or should I say lost control of the bike once, and headed straight into a pothole. It was on our very own street and I thought OH that one isn't that bad everything will be fine. Only to find my front tire submerged in mud up to the handlebars. I just managed to jump off in time to prevent the whole bike and the waterbottle from disappearing all together.
It also seems that with just about every heavy rain the power goes out for at least a few hours afterwards. Not really a problem and candle light is very nice to live by, but the pump which moves water up to the tank is electric and the outages have very convienetly happened during the municiple water supply hours. Luckily there is a tap outside which we still can get water out of even when the tank is empty, but it makes me much more vigilant about filling the tank up when we can.
It's all a far cry from our apartment in Philadelphia, where unthinkingly I could turn on the tap on the third floor and instantly get pressurized, pasturized, hot and cold, clean water. But not unlike when I lived at Holden Village, I am thinking again about the importance of water for existence and remembering that it has to come from somewhere and with someones help. I can not simply expect it to be there for me; for by taking water for granted I take life for granted. It also makes me laugh to realize that less than one month ago I was reconsidering using my plastic nalgene bottle to store my drinking water in, because studies are starting to show that the plastic leeches into the water and this is not good for you to some degree. This is not an issue that the Guyanese have the luxury to worry about.

The House We Live In.
Miriam Adelaide and I have been give a house on lot 46 Stanleytown. Which is basically to say on a side street that is know as 46, among about 10-15 other houses also on that side street. There are no house numbers and there are no street signs. There are signs which demark the boarders of each neighborhood, so if you were driving through New Amsterdam you could find our neighborhood. Good Luck on finding the house. Though if you were to ask around in Stanleytown where the white couple lived you would most likely find us.
We are in a space behind a church, though not one of the churches that Miriam is interning at, and both our house as well as the house behindus are owned by the Lutheran Church of Guyana. Ours is a two storey Yellow House with both stories constructed of cinder blocks and thus enclosed. Many of the houses in Guyana have the ground floor open and then upper level therefore stilted. There are very few houses that I have seen, in fact I can not recall one, which has more than two levels.
To get to the house you go down a little dirt road for say 150 yards. I would recomment that you drive slowly and especially carefully after a rain storm, as the depth of the roads holes is impossible to fathom when they are filled with water. Better yet just walk.
On both sides of the dirt road are drianage ditches. These are filled with tad poles, Frogs, and a type of small fish which I belive is called a Cori. People occassionally fish for them using a line and a pole, and I am told that they have a very strong bite that locks on to things and doesn't let go. Each yard drains into these ditches and it is best to wash your hands after clearing them out for I imagine they are fairly contaminated based on what is coming out of my own back yard. But, as I say there are too many tad poles to count so houw bad can it be right?
A little wooden bridge takes you accross the moat and there is a gate through a wooden framed chainlink fence about chest high. The gate is often latched with a chain to insure that the cattle, sheep, goats, dogs, or horses that eye the plant life don't come in as they amble down the street searching, always searching, for greener pastures. These animals all have fre range everywhere and are generally treated well by those who pass them, excepting the feral dogs and the lowly burros, who even the dogs pick on. Were you to come by around dawn or dusk, you would see a number of beautiful mongoose slinking through the undergrown, sometimes with snakes in their clutches. Or maybe an elusive rodent which I can not bring myself to believe could possibly be a rat so I have called it an incredibly large possum, with a 2-3 foot long white tail. Still searching for the name of that particular beastie.
Our front door is a few feet in past a number of flowering trees, including an oleander and a small papaya tree, which is just now begining to fruit. I have been weeding and triming up the trees much to the amusement of the neighbors. It is about as funny to them as when I come home from the market laden with bags of roots and fruits and tell them that I, not Miriam, will be cooking dinner. A white man who carries bags, walks from the market instead of driving, cooks and puts his hands in the dirt is an uncommon sight.
If we are not at home you will notice that everything is shut up pretty tight and that there are grates at every window. This is pretty standard, but like everywhere the nicer the house the more elaborate the security and vice versa. You might note the nice new grates on the front door and side doors. These were installed soon after our arrival by one of the churches carpenters a Hindu man named Chowah. He and I got along well and around lunch I prepaired a little bit for the table and asked him to join Miriam and I. By coincedience we had little in the house to eat. I put out some olives, crackers, a pitiful huck of cheese, some orange slices, peanuts, and a can of anchovies. I felt that it was rather meager and that this was a pity for I would have liked to offer more, yet also I was glad at avoiding being ostentatious. We were eating and talking about gardening and raising chickens, both projects Chowah was interested to hear that I wanted to do, as well as very keen on helping me start up. In fact the next time I saw him one week later he had some seeds for me for Bora beens which are in someplaces known as yard beens due to the fact that they are about a yard long. Unexpectedly, Chowah asked what the olives were as he had never had them before and this along with a few other revelations from him, such as what he normally ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, shoed me that even when I thought I was presenting a humble spread, I was in fact offering a banquet. After the meal he said that it was unusual for people to offer food and I replied that I found that strange to hear as I thought sharing food together to be one of the most important ways for people to come to learn about the other.
Yet after he had left for the day I reflected further. While I could say I had given food and refreshments to someone working on my house, I could not recall ever having invited them in to share a meal at my table. I thank Chowah for this gift of learning. I will look forward to spending more time with him as the year goes on.
But I digress... Sufice it to say that we have a fairly secure house, though the size of the locks are perhaps not daunting enough to my american eyes and of course someone could get in if they really wanted to. I was to explain why we have these new grated doors before I became sidetracked.
We have felt very little hostility to our persons since entering the counry. I would be surprised if we were not robbed at somepoint in our stay her as we are such appealing marks- I'd rob me based on my whiteness alone. But, we feel very good in the neighborhood and have gotten already to know the neighbors. And since they keep everything open when they are in their houses (even after dark at least until they go to bed), it feels rather insulting to lock ourselves in when the sun goes down. Plus it makes it harder to see what's going on and since people are always passing by I'd like to be able to say hello. So we keep our doors open until we too go to sleep and then batten down the hatches so to speak. One night in the first few days of our arrival, we had just gone upstairs for a moment and had then gotten into a discussion at the top of the stairs. As luck would have it this was the exact moment that miriam's supervisor Pastor Roy and his wife Alice decided to stop by and check in on us. Instead of finding us they found the house wide open and us nowhere to be seen. The grates were constructed two days later and rest assured now we use them at night. Do we need them? Hard to say, but they look nice and make everyone happy so what could be the harm.
So shall unlock the door and step inside.
The ground lvel floor consistes of four spaces, though it is entirely open save the enclose staircse going up. The first quadrant is the entrance space/mudroom, as well as the home for our desk. We have put one of the parasols we used at our wedding hanging upsidedown over the bare bulb, which makes for nice lighting in the evening (which comes at 6:30 each and every night here near the equator.) There is a window on the left next to the desk. The desk is our only cabinet and as such for the time being holds our silverware as well as our office supplies such as they are. The bicycle, whicI have on loan from Pastor Roy, is parked near the door. And as it is much cooler in the daytime downstairs, we also hang our hammock in this space for our afternoon siesta.
Coming straight in is our dinning room, which has a window on the back wall of the house and a half door on the left. These doors are fantastic and we leave the top portion open almost all the time ( with the grate on at night of course) We have a nice table which made me very happy as it is the only piece of furniture, besides a place to sleep, that I consider essential to life in a home. We started with one nice wooden chair, but now we have two more plastic patio chairs and soon I'm sure we shall find a fourth. My chos wall/ mandala/ collage is starting on the back of the staircase, which faces into the dinning area.
Continuing to the right we enter the kitchen. Against the back wall of the house is a four burner stove and a small oven, whcih has a propane bottle hooked up next to it. Then the sink which is under a window. The sink, as well as every other faucet in the house is a simple hose bib. There is no hot water, and I can not imagine what you would want it for as cold water feels so good and is such a luxory. Pots hand from the crossbeam between the dinning area and the kitchen. Various baskets and bags hand also from the ceiling holding our various goods from the market: pineapple,cassava, plantains, guava, coconuts, yams, passion fruit, bannanas, mangos onions and garlic currently. The fridge is against the staircase about chest high and needs defrosting i'd guess about once a month. There is a five gallon office cooler water bottle on the floor next to the fridge. Most people use bottled water in this form. You can get a little hand pump to avoid having to pick it up all the time to pour it, but for the time being it is good exercise. We go through about five gallons of drinking water in 2 days. We drink alot of water and walk real slow. There is also a cabinet above the fridge which helps somewhat to keep the bugs out of the dried good.
Continuing around the house to the front an the living room we pass the stairs and another half door on the side of the house. In the living room we have two windows one on the side one on the front. And three matching pieces of red valoure flower patterned furniture- alove seat and two chairs- smashing really.
little space under the stairs for tools and such. Then upstairs.
At the top of the stairs on the left is a bedroom which currently has nothing in it excepting a telephone.
On the right is the bathroom. Three spaces really- a toilet room, a shower room(set in concrete, and a sink and ironing area.
Go straight from the top of the stairs and you enter yet another room which has a perhaps repairable bed frame and some perhaps repairable fans. Taking a left goes to our bedroom with a fairly decent bed and matching armoir with a mirror. Mosquito netting hanging down above the bed completes the picture.
The rooms are divided by wooden walls of siding, which are open on the top for about four feet before reaching the ceiling. There are two windows in each room. The floor is wooden and the roof is made of corrogated metal. There is a gap all around the house between the roof and the ceiling to allow for air and mosquitos to flow freely in and out.
The house is 25 ft by 25ft or so and obviously we have more rooms than we know what to do with. Come for a visit, I'll fix the bed before you arrive, I promise.
One last thing to note as I see it falling down from the sky as I write. This is the sugar cane harvesting time of year, or one of them at least, and one of the steps of harvesting sugar can is to burn the fields. Consiquently everyday, sometimes in visible pieces and sometimes in dust, the cane ash floats down from the sky and settles on every flat surface. Luckily Miriam is responsible for the sweeping.