The clock is ticking...

One month left for her, plus two weeks in the capitol for him. While she runs around the States, preparing to fly out to Chile and also laying groundwork for grad school to begin in 2010, he’ll be enjoying his last 14 days in-country. No work to do, no pressure to perform; just friends to see and memories to form. Plus massages and other spa treatment at developing-country prices. Who can complain about that?

In the meantime, her libraries are coming along beautifully. More books just came in; more shelves are being built, and the schools are starting to really look at what has been accomplished. The funny thing about some of these projects is that we have a vision of how it will turn out, but it’s a vision that is entirely uncommunicable to locals. We sell them on the idea, or they give us an idea that we run with, and we get support and approval at every stage based chiefly on their faith in us. If you’ve ever only seen two storybooks in your entire life, and a library is a place where old school textbooks go to die, how can you envision thousands upon thousands of books – all ready for you to take home, one per week, for the next twelve years of your school?

The first and second grade students at the school now live in a world that their older siblings and parents can’t even fathom: A world where books have always been taken for granted. A child that is read to regularly when young experiences 32 million words in a period of 5 years. How much richer is that world than one with no words to read; no stories to understand; no characters to empathize with; no triumphs but your own, no failures to survive but those impacting your immediate life? Suffice it to say, the woman I'm with is pretty amazing, notwitstanding her terrible taste in men.

True Story #4: Christmas Eve

The music, as always, slammed across the road like a 20-car pileup. The difference this time was that, with one wall of massive speakers only thirty feet away from the next, which was only thirty feet downwind of the one beyond that, and each and all playing different music, the pileup had no discernible form. Soca, Hindu wedding music, and the latest hip-hop anthems from overseas merged together into a pounding, throbbing presence that would not be ignored. Hours had gone by, and it was still the only thing either of the two could think about. How did the people here listen to this and not go deaf? And how were they talking in such low tones right now?

The table in front of them was covered with beer bottles. No room for hands to rest or food to sit; any excited hand gestures would surely cause a cataclysm. The woman was having a good time, talking with the locals around the table who as always were drawn to the two like flies to white rice. The man was alright, although his arm still ached from sawing through the cow leg earlier in the day: Two hours of his life given over to a Sisyphean task. His jaw still ached from trying to chew the cow leg. Also, the men kept shoving bottles of beer at him faster than he could drink them. How did the men here drink so fast and talk so much at the same time? The crowd of glass in front of him included three bottles, still full, condensation flowing freely down the sides in the 80-degree heat.

At least it was a cool night.

Counting the Weeks

Well… a month+ to go. Getting down to the wire. In typical form, He is just starting a project right now, with the remaining time here being measured in minutes, not hours. It keeps life interesting, to say the least. She, also true to form, is wrapping up a beautiful project which was enabled and empowered by support from home (namely, our two mothers – there’s some lesson there, but I’ve already forgotten it): 6000 books across 3 libraries. Books in hands that have never held one before. Kids being read stories by parents, kids reading to parents that can’t read. It’s awesome.

We gave away our animals yesterday. Our two girls, Riesling and Sumatra, have been a huge part of our life here. If we hadn’t set it in stone in our minds almost 2 years ago when we first got Riesling, the dog, that we would leave her here when we left, there would definitely be a plane ticket with her name on it right now. Yes, you have to buy a dog their own seat, at least here. And we would be doing it, if we hadn’t told ourselves (and each other), over and over, “They’re staying in Guyana”. We will definitely never leave a pet again. They do have a good home, though – in fact, a young woman from the same state in the Midwest. She seems great, and we think the girls will be very happy. And in a year, we’ll offer to help subsidize their trip home if she’s thinking about bringing them back, so that she doesn’t have to go through the same thing.

We’re getting quite excited about seeing home again – Home defined as family, good customer service, Chipotle, regular working hours, predictable travel times, water you can drink right out of the ta—well, can’t have everything, I guess. How will we travel to see all our friends and family? Beats me. We’ll figure something out. He’ll be back at the end of July; she’ll return from teaching English afterward (see previous post) in time for the holiday season.


I’ll give you a double-dip of True Caribbean Stories, since I skipped last week.

Tarantino #2: The Tapir (Wikipedia it)

There’s a bar, or perhaps a disco is a more appropriate title. A tapir, up on two legs, is dancing with a man. Both the tapir and the man have alcohol on their breath. The tapir isn’t a half-bad dancer.


Addendum to the story: It may not be in Wikipedia, but a male tapir’s… equipment… is the exact size and dimensions of its legs and feet. It literally looks like a 5th leg, and even appears to provide support and balance, when needed. Freaky.



Tarantino #3: White Man Walking

A white girl (“gyal”, here) looks out her window, for what feels like the thousandth time. This time, she’s rewarded: A car has pulled up, and she sees a white man inside it. Now that he’s here, two hours late, she’s freed from holding vigil for him in the apartment and they can go on to the wedding. She goes out to greet him.

When she goes outside, she realizes unequivocally that they will not be attending any wedding. Not today. Her husband is much whiter than when he left that morning, and is only walking with the aid of men propping him on each side. Although the crutches themselves appear to be quite drunk, the oreo-filling patient seems to be the worst by far. He’s lost control of his neck muscles, head flopping about like an infant. She foresees an afternoon of laughing at him and taking digital photographs while he lays in the hammock, deservedly ill. In between the vomiting, she will show him the pictures.

She thinks: So that’s what a Bharyat is.