Life here is raw and rugged

         Tim and I are almost four months into our service as Peace Corps Volunteers in Guyana. As we expected, we have been through some ups and downs along our service. We are so grateful to have been placed in Linden, our busy town with a fierce pride in its culture and history. Daily, we take joy in the company of our housemates and our little kitten Rasta, who is snuggled up on my lap as I write this post. We are slowly but surely finding how we can fit in at our work places and see much potential for development projects. However, we think of our friends and family at home every day with a twinge of sadness. We get especially nostalgic for the life we left in California when we hear news of both the monumental and inconsequential moments that our loved ones at home are experiencing without us. How we wished we could have been at Heather and Jeff’s wedding, for example (although they knew we were there in spirit). And when I hear about Stephan’s choir and improv performances, I especially miss being with my little brother as he continues to grow into an amazingly talented and handsome young man. On some days we think about all the things that await us back home; friends, family, law school and job prospects and wonder why we continue down this road in the Peace Corps. 

But on other days, we experience the most amazing things and realize that this is the only time in our life when we will have the chance to experience life in such a raw, rugged sense. Life in the U.S. is so orderly and regulated compared to life in a developing country. It is a comfort to know that our secure life is waiting back home for us but we needn’t be in a hurry to rush back to it when every day we get to take part in some miraculous moments in here Guyana. To give you a picture, let me share two of the most raw and rugged experiences that I have had in the last month or so: 

“No, Mom, I do not want to be a nurse,” I remember telling my mother when I was applying to Political Science programs for my undergrad study. “I respect you a lot for being in the health profession,” I said, “but blood and bodily fluids are really not my thing.” Well, it’s funny the way things work out. Here I am, with my Poli Sci degree, working in a health center. This does not mean that I am working as a nurse, but since I’ve been here I have witnessed an amazing birth and assisted with horrifying dental procedures. How my UCSD education qualified me for this is still a mystery to me. 

The Birth:

A young woman comes into the health center for a malaria test since she is not feeling well. She is obviously very pregnant, 8 months, she thinks. She mentions to me, and a Senior Nurse, that her stomach is paining her and she just passed blood when she urinated. The Senior Nurse sees this as a situation better handled at the nearby hospital and calls an ambulance and, in the meantime, gives her a quick examination to see if everything is alright. To our surprise, she is almost fully dilated. She won’t make it to the hospital. The baby is going to be born in our Health Center.

I watch as nurses hurry to get sterile equipment into our clinic room. They place a clean sheet on the examination table, help the mother up onto it, and place a steel basin between her legs. The nurses instruct the woman’s own mother to run across the street to purchase sanitary pads and 2 clean pairs of underwear as an emergency form of bandaging up the pregnant woman after delivery. She seems undaunted by the fact that she now has an audience; at least 4 nurses, two nurses in training, a dentist who is very pregnant and expecting her own first baby soon, and myself, the mysterious white girl. It all seems very surreal as the senior nurse tells the woman when to breathe and push, while the mother during this entire process makes little noise other than a grunt, maybe two. Within 7 minutes, with a loud sloshing sound and a rush of blood and fluid, a healthy baby girl slips into this world. I stand, awestruck.

Visits to the Dentist:

The dentist, Medex, HIV counselor/tester, Sara and I ride down the Demerara River in a speedboat to a small village about two hours away. As the boat passes houses and shacks nestled in the jungle we wave to people to let them know that the medical professionals are on their way to the Health Post. People who need medical attention clamber into canoes and paddle up the river to meet us. 

We set up in a Health Post with no running water or electricity. Sara is asked to record names and information for Medex and I do the same for the dentist. As people come into the small room where we have set up a folding chair, a basin of liquid disinfectant, syringes full of Lydocaine and a terrifying array of plier-type tools, I take down their names and ages. Our patients range in age from 7 to 70. The dentist asks them which tooth is hurting them and calls out the tooth number to me, “Chelsea, number 42. Chelsea, number 21.” As I write down these numbers, the dentist, without further explanation, sticks the patient with Lydocaine and sends them outside to wait for the anesthetic to take effect. 15 minutes later, the dentist calls his patient back in to yank the rotten teeth out with what look to me like pliers. With very little friendly bedside manner, the patients are given gauze and told to rinse with warm salt water the next day and sent on their way. 

In one instance, I am particularly surprised when the dentist calls out 5 different, consecutive tooth numbers to me, while looking into the mouth of a man in his forty-somethings. I know enough by now to realize that this man is about to have five of his upper front teeth extracted. When the dentist is doing his extractions I usually try not to look, unless the patient is a small child and is squirming, in which case I stand up and hold down the child’s flailing limbs, trying to be as soothing as I can while they suffer though the procedure. However, one point during the extraction with the 5-tooth-extraction-man, the dentist calls upon me to assist. “Chelsea,” he says, “can you glove up and hand me some gauze. I am having some trouble with this one.” What else can I do but what he says and shortly I find myself staring into a mouth full of bloody, gaping holes and into eyes full of excruciating pain. I proceed to hand the dentists tools, whose names I don’t know, and gauze to stop the bleeding, all the while thinking, WHAT AM I DONG HERE????

The dentist

But after I am able to wash my hands, and clear the images of blood and bodily fluids from my thoughts, I feel a sense of wonder that I know is rare and raw. I never would have crossed paths with these sorts of things in my ordinary life. These are the experiences that Peace Corps promised and I know will stick with me for the rest of my life. So, although daily I ask myself, “How did I get here and what the heck am I doing?” at the end of the day I am full of gratitude for the experiences I chance upon in this crazy Peace Corps adventure. 

Amazement and Loss

     This country will never cease to amaze me. There are times I just stare and feel way out my league. Today (May 18th, 2010) I went on a Truancy campaign with the School’s Welfare Officers (3 of them for the region), a nurse, a police officer, and our driver. Basically, we drove all around Linden looking for youths who should be in school. We’d pull over, then basically put them in the car to either a) go to the their houses to talk to the parents about the value of education, or b) take them back to the office and make their guardian come get them (usually in the case of parent who is not in Linden). It was an experience to say the least and I hope some the kids know that we’re just trying to help, rather than get them in trouble.

      Moreover, as we were driving around I saw a whole new side of the city. Before, I’d seen the poverty stricken streets and dilapidated houses of the less fortunate sections, but today I found a peaceful cove next to a creek. It is a mostly an Amer-Indian area with thatch roof houses and no current (electricity), even though it is fairly close to the highway. There were kids, no older than 6 or 7, who were paddling boats against a harsh creek current, while an older man sat upon a tiny dock and threw his fishing line into the depths (catching several fish I might add). I saw an old grandmother come to the opposite shore. She readied her boat and paddled across. When asked how old she was she replied, “90”, then continued to walk through sun baked streets beyond the shady creek bed. I could only smile and shake my head in disbelief. I hope I can be as vigorous when I’m 90.

     As we continued on in the department van (which they call a bus), we stopped near a young child walking down a nearly deserted side street (school was out at this point). “How far you gah, bai?” asked one of the welfare officers. “To the ward, Miss”, we looked on in disbelief since the Ward (Amelia’s Ward) was a good 3 miles away. We invited him into the car and asked what grade he was in. “Grade 1, Miss,” he replied. I was taken aback and realized how tough some of these children have it. We dropped the boy the off and continued on our rounds.

         There were other stories of note these last few weeks, one being a gigantic, fist-sized spider in my office here’s the picture. I was quite frightened even after we found out (thanks Alfred) that it was harmless.

We also have a lizard living in our bathroom (but I just saw him on the wall our bedroom, he’s moving on up) named Rhondella. It’s a little creepy, but we think he eats the mosquitoes so he can stay as long as he does his job.

Moreover, it was Sara’s birthday on Wednesday the 19th! We took her out to eat and for a few drink than came home, drank a little local wine and watched some Dexter. It was a pretty good night! Hope she had a good one! Happy Birthday!

On a not so light note, this was a tough week for other volunteers. We lost 4 volunteers in 4 days, 2 of which were a married couple. It was shocking because 3 of them were some that we pegged as “lifers” and that nothing would bring them down and out of the bush. Their loss is already felt but we know our friendships will carry on.   However, we were disturbed at these revelations because it brought to the fore some our own hesitancies and insecurities. We questioned our own motives for being here, and did our own cost/benefit analysis. But after much internal and external dialogue we realized that that couple isn’t us. Everyone has their own set of priorities and goals, and ours is to stay right here even if it is tough some times. But I wanted to write a little poem for our lost brethren and when I do I will put it up. Until then, Guy 22 mourns their loss and misses them all.

Here are some photos of 3 of the 4:

 Anyway, I’ve spoken enough. But one last note is that we now have Internet at our house! It is all very exciting. So my garrulous bum won’t write such wordy entries anymore. We’ll try to keep the updates short and sweet and up to date. We also have Skype so if you want to talk send us your Skype name via e-mail and we can send you ours! So until next time!
T & C

PS: Chelsea and I have attained leadership positions in our group. I am the VAC (Volunteer Advisory Council) Rep which means I am a liaison between Peace Corps Staff and my fellow volunteers. We meet every 3 months and discuss with Admin concerns raised by our colleagues.

Chelsea is peer support which means, in strict confidence, PCVs can come and talk to her if they’re having a tough time, while she can be a counseling and consoling ear for them. So it’s pretty neat. We will know more once we start meeting! Alright till later!

Linden Town Week And The Adventures That Follow

This last week and a half has been rife with adventures. Some of them have been quite enjoyable, minus a few bumps, some of them have been standard TIG moments, and some have just been too cute to pass up.

Last week was Linden Town week. Basically, it’s a week full of showcasing the business potential of this wonderful town. There are expos, events, pageants, and parties. As the week progressed more and more people and vendors came out from the woodworks. The Linden bus park became a haven for wandering merchants and local (Region 10) businesses. Likewise, in order to get from one side of the main drag to the other one had to weave through throngs and throngs of people.

Reminded me a little of home, actually.

We didn’t do much throughout the week, in terms of celebratory activities. Not only could we not afford to, as each event costs about $500-$1000 Guyanese, but also we just get so tired and a little lazy after we finish up work.  However, there were some highlights that I wanted to share.

First, on Saturday April 24^th we attended the finals of a football (soccer, there are no big guys with pads running around) tournament. It was called “The first annual 20/20 tournament.” At first, we had no idea what it was all about, but it was just down the street and didn’t cost too much to attend. We knew it was football, but that’s about it until we sat down at the beginning of the second half of the first game and within 15 minutes the game was over.

Dazed, and a little confused, Chels and I looked at each other and said, “Man, that is the shortest 45 minutes I’ve ever seen.” But through process of deduction I realized the 20/20 stood for 20-minute halves. So a game would only last about 50 minutes. Short, quick, and to the point. We watched two games, one of which was the final. All in all it was pretty fun.

We laid low until Wednesday when we decided to attend a pageant entitled, “Big, Bold, and Beautiful.” As the name suggests, there were big, big women competing in a pageant for the biggest, boldest, and most beautiful.  It was pretty amazing with the exception of a few hang ups. First off, the event was held on what we like to call GST or ‘Guyana Standard Time’ where the flyer says 8pm, but in reality it begins at 10pm (a quite common occurrence within the culture based upon conditioning and, of course, ticket sales). It was frustrating to sit on our butts for two hours wondering when the event would start. On the other hand, there was a band that opened up the event and played while the contestants changed into their separate wardrobes. Moreover, there were some local singers (more big women, of course), a hilarious skit done by a young adult dramatic troupe, a little ballroom dancing, and an astounding adolescent group who danced like Michael Jackson, may he live forever. (Sorry, I’ve been watching way too much Tudors). 

Just like a Miss America Pageant, there were several different categories in which the women competed. First, there was casual wear, where they created their own costumes from “local, sustainable” material. They strutted across the stage striking a pose every so often. Then, they had to demonstrate a performing art. Several of the women performed monologues that touted their appearance, empowering not only themselves, but also any who may fit into the category of what so many call “too large” (but is in fact a perfect size to be.)  Other contestants performed dances flaunting their skills, as an open challenge to any who say big women cannot dance. Quite extraordinary, really. Then came the culmination, but not the end of the pageant: the swimsuit competition. These ladies really went all out! I urge you use your imagination, and that is all I will say about that.

There was one more event of the night, but as it was the night did not go smoothly, things took longer than they had too, time flew by and at the end of the swimsuit section, it was nearing 1:15 in the morning. Our bottoms were numb and our somniferous eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. It was a Wednesday; we worked all day, and had to work in the morning. We took our leave after seeing the first cocktail dress.

On Thursday, Chelsea and I both did Linden Town Week activities that dealt with our jobs. I attended a teacher’s workshop put on by professors and consultants of education from both New York and Florida. I found it moving that these professors addressed things I’ve observed in the numerous classrooms I’ve been in. On the other hand, I also noticed how difficult it would be to institute a “behaviour change” without constant reinforcement and professional development. Likewise, Chelsea assisted in running an outreach booth for a group called “For Children’s Sake” an NGO that works hand in hand with the Ministry of Health’s Youth Friendly Services. This group attempts to target adolescents and educate them about safe sex practices, nutrition, and their overall health. Check out the picture of Chelsea challenging a young man to demonstrate the correct usage of a female condom in order to win a prize, good times.

Before I knew it, Saturday had dawned and I woke up early to drive for 5 hours into the interior. My administrative officer had invited me along on Ministry business. We had to go to an Amerindian village called Kwakwani, which is a largeish mining town on the border of Region 10. Since there was a secondary school as well as a primary school out there, we had to drop off some exams and then drive home.

I was really excited because, not only did I get to see the small villages along the way, but also it was a beautiful drive. Although, the road was bumpy, wasn’t paved, and the red clay was muddy at times (I thought I’d have to get out and help push the van out of a quagmire a few times) the drive was well worth it. I was able to visit the schools, even though they were not in session, and meet the Head Teachers one-on-one.  They invited me at some point to stay for a week to observe their teaching practices, and when I figure it out I think I’ll take them up on the offer. Usually, when the administrative officer goes out there, he over nights, but since it was still Linden Town week, he wanted to get back that night. So we headed back as soon as our errand was finished, and I saw the largest truck I’ve ever seen. The vehicle was the size of a 3-story building and the tires were almost twice the size as me (apparently 1 tire is $US 18,000.); it was pretty awe-inspiring.

That night we went out for the first time, listened to some live music and enjoyed each other’s company, as well as the craziness of Linden Town week.

The rest of the weekend passed without incident, but Sunday was what they call The Big Lime. In true Guyanese fashion, it’s an all-night party (on a Sunday, go figure) where they shut down the main avenue to vehicles and people just “lime.” (In Creolese “to lime” means to hang out, usually with drinks).  We didn’t attend, but when I woke up at 4:30 am to go to the gym, the music could still be heard in the distance.

The next adventure happened Monday afternoon. As we were all getting home we heard a loud crash followed by constant rattling. After a quick investigation we realized it was our fridge upstairs. The motor made the strangest noises, and as night fell we feared the fridge would catch fire. So we unplugged it, the noise stopped and then plugged it back in. It seemed to be working so we went to bed (however, with her wondrous foresight, Chelsea asked Sara to take the perishables down stairs before we unplugged it, but for some reason I didn’t think about the freezer...)

Tuesday broke bright and shiny, but a huge puddle of water had formed underneath our dying fridge. Realization dawned. All the ice that had collected in the freezer had melted and was not only all over our floor, but had caused such a s flood that it even dripped down into Tony’s downstairs apartment. Dammit. Well, I was in no mood for anything to go wrong, so I was pretty upset which led to Chelsea being upset, which descended into a downward spiral. To calm, center, and separate ourselves I went for my morning run, while she went for her daily walk with Sara.

I returned with a positive mindset because I remembered ‘TIG’, of course fridges won’t always work. Heck, half of the PCVs in our group don’t even have the luxury of running water, let alone a refrigerator. It helps to put things in perspective.

Standing upon my landing, and sweating the salts of my labours, I see Sara and Chelsea walking down our road. Chelsea holds something in her hand, but she is too far for me to see clearly. She comes closer and looks into my eyes with this “Look What I Found; O So Cute Face,” and nestled against her breast is a mini, calico, kitten.

Such a pitiful thing. It is so small, shaking, crying, but so cute. We give it some milk and water; she laps them both up. She’s tiny like she was weaned from her mother too early. But our touch she craves. She rubs against us, crying, meowing like she was so grateful to be in our care. We’re grateful for her too, she brightens our grumpy morning. Sara washes her down with a wet towel, and goes and gets a can of tuna fish. The kitten eats it quickly like it’s been days since she’s fed. She doesn’t stop meowing, but it’s not such a sad wail any more.

As Chelsea tells the tale, they were meant to find The Kitten on that exact day. First, Chelsea and Sara decided to go for a longer walk than usual (which Chelsea was even waffling on for a bit since the fridge incident had caused them to leave later then planned). Then, they were walking on a different side of the road then they usually walk, for no reason in particular.  Finally, they were animatedly talking and venting about kitchen faulty appliances, when they heard the baleful cry, as if all of the kitten’s energies were going into its vocalization. They looked down towards the noise and in a muddy, grassy patch on the side of the Linden Highway the little beast sat, peering up at them pathetically. Chelsea, with no hesitation, scooped up the baby and they turned to come home. 

They named her “Rasta” because as the girls were heading home, a Rasta Man walked by and said something about the kitten. Rasta, quiet and shivering until then, looked up and meowed at the Rasta Man. Chelsea laughed that the kitten must like the Rasta dude and thought that would be a cute name, “Rasta”. Her (at least we think she is a she) name stuck.

After we got Rasta set up in our bathroom with a makeshift litter box with sand from our garden, which she took to immediately (smart cat), a cardboard box

with a pillow in it and a plate of tuna, we headed to work. All day long it poured rain. At work, I thought about the kitten, safe and sound in our house, and knew that she might not have survived this day if all the fates hadn’t guided Chelsea and Sara to her. Such a little blessing.

It’s only been one day since she has been living in our upstairs apartment but she is looking stronger already. She is so loving, constantly snuggling against us when we’re watching TV, eating, reading, or even writing. She wanders our apartment, meowing her cute meow and learning how to leap onto our couch, which is significantly taller than she is. We all think she is a wonderful addition to our clan, and cannot wait to see her grow up.

Many people may be thinking, what are we going to do with Rasta when our two-year term of service is up. Well, the truth is, we don’t know yet. We are taking care of her the best we can in Guyana. There is a shop here that we found that sells flea powder, which has already almost cured Rasta of her fleas, and we will continue to use as needed. The shop also had a de-worming pill that we can give to her when she weighs at least five pounds. We plan to take her into Georgetown to get fixed when she gets bigger too. We will look into laws for bringing her back home and decide if that is the right thing to do. Otherwise, I know that PCVs often pass pets on to each other. Rasta might remain a perpetual Peace Corps pet, especially if another PCV moves into our house when we leave. Until then, we will enjoy watching this little one grow big and strong.




T & C
Below are some more pictures from our time here: