A trip down the Canje Road

I have written a lot on my Peace Corps experience and my changing normalcy. With the arrival to Guyana of my best friend Brittany in a little over a month, and my “little” brother Steve and our friend Saba this summer, I found myself wondering what they would think about as they entered Guyana for the first time; what would stand out to them? Today as I rode in a taxi (also known as a hired cyar), I tried to erase my memory and pretend that I had been taking the trip from New Amsterdam (the major town in the Region known as #6, Berbice) down through Canje for the first time. It was a lot harder than you would think. I had to “see” a lot of things that over my year in Guyana had blurred into the background. I don't seem to remember the exact moment that everything just became “normal”.

So as we drive along in the cyar (not a typo) and I start my little experiment, the first thing that hit me was how green Guyana is; the palm and banana trees, huge bushes and overgrown grasses. Everything seemed very bright and clear. As we crossed the Canje Bridge leaving New Amsterdam, I looked out over the brown river to the opposite bank; dotted between palm trees were brightly colored houses with zinc roofs. I suppose in my initial observation, but now looking back, I missed the obvious... the water was BROWN. In Guyana, all the water is brown or black from soil run-off and tannins - living outside of Boston for so many years near the Charles River, and growing up on Cape Cod with the ocean as my playground for 31 years, it is astounding that I could get used to a brown milk chocolate colored river. As we race further along the road, the driver slams on the brakes of the car. A herd of goats has decided to take that moment to cross the street. I hear the “click-click” as the driver turns on the hazard lights; all Guyanese drivers are excellent with the hazard button, horn and brakes. You may think I am stereotyping... but ask any Guyanese... these taxi drivers know their cars and the road. The goats make their way across the street and no one in the car seems to bat an eye at the “strangeness” of a herd of goats stopping traffic on the only road into New Amsterdam. The driver continues carrying us on our journey to home or wherever the rest of the passengers are going. Yet again as I sit here remembering the car ride and writing this, I have overlooked a major point – I am not alone in the car with the driver. At home in Boston when you request a taxi or call up Uber (or however you do it... I honestly forget whether you call them or press a magic button on your phone, then BAM! a car shows up – this seems foreign to me here), you don't share your taxi with three other strangers. Here, if you are getting a car that follows a route, you either flag down the car along the route, or go to a designated spot. With confidence (because for about 100 reasons you NEVER look like you don't know what you are doing) you look at the drivers standing around and say, “Canje.” They point to a car lined up, you get in and you wait for it to fill. Normally, I take the front seat because besides the driver seat, that is the only spot that has a seat-belt. The seat belts in the backseat tend to conveniently be sliced right out of their safe little homes. Sometimes you get squished between two “aunties” who have just been to the market, lugging bags of fresh vegetables into the back seat with them. On this car ride, I was squished in the middle between an older gentleman carrying a backpack and an old auntie with three bags of groceries...not to forget mentioning, I also had a huge bag of vegetables and groceries- quite comfortable. You get over caring about your personal space very quickly traveling in Guyana.

Let me get back to our journey. Traveling down the road, we pass by some roads that snake off of the main road that are dirt, some are half-dirt-half-tar, and some are jankily paved; all are a hazard to your ankles, particularly in the rainy season which has just fallen upon us here in Guyana. Among the beautiful green trees and grasses, I see dots of colors littering the ground – literally littering; water, beer and soda bottles, plastic bags, styrofoam meal boxes (note that as of January, it is now against the law for a restaurant to serve food in styrofoam containers – go Guyana! However from the looks of the fields, trenches and streets, this wonderful and amazing environmental law does not seem to be enforced quite yet... perhaps just now.). The houses are close together and there is no rhyme or reason to how they are clustered. You have a beautiful, two story, elegantly painted cement house, complete with air conditioning units sticking out of windows, next to a barely standing, rundown wooden shack with an outdoor toilet. There are more churches or places of worship on this one road than I have ever seen in Falmouth (where I am from in Massachusetts). There are Mandir's for Hindus, Mosques for Muslims and every kind of church for Christians you can imagine – Seventh Day Adventist, Jehovah's Witness, Evangelical, Baptist, Methodist, Congregationalist – the list goes on and on – the only “kind” I haven't come across is Catholic.

Ever so often, I see a broken down car, picked apart, abandoned and overrun with grass and wild flowers. There is one red car along the journey, perhaps some relative to a Volkswagen Beetle, in a field that looks like it has been there since the 1970's... I honestly suspect it has been.

The Canje Road is wedged between miles and miles of sugar cane fields on one side, and the Canje River on the other. The houses go about four roads deep on either side, Sometimes if I look in the right places, I can see the cane or river. Sugarcane is quite beautiful blowing in the breeze. Once we have traveled for about fifteen minutes, I see the tall smoke stacks of the sugar factory sticking out over the palm trees. Depending on the wind, the day and the time, sometimes you smell the factory before you see it. I have no explanation as to how sugarcane smells as it is being turned into sugar, other than pungent. Sometimes I want to hold my nose, but I resist – I won't smell this smell after my 27 months is over.

On we drive, dodging cows, dogs, goats, pigs, sheep, horses, roadkill, bicyclists, pedestrians and slower vehicles. As we get closer to my street, I yell out, “Driver, stop at the sign by the purple church up ahead.” The driver asks me if I am enjoying my stay in Guyana and assumes I am a missionary – it is pointed out that no one seemed to have arrived to the church yet so I would probably have to wait. For some reason, perhaps a yearning to distinguish myself from the rest of the “white people” in Guyana, I correct him and I tell him that I am going to the street across from the church, not to the church itself. I want it to be very clear that I am a Peace Corps Volunteer. Not that there is anything wrong with the missionaries... but that is not me. I am constantly correcting people who assume I am a missionary because I am white... “I am not a missionary, I am a volunteer teacher with the Peace Corps. I teach kids how to read and write, and that reading can be fun.” Let it be known that I am a Peace Corps Volunteer.

The Ugly, The Bad, The Good and the More Better.

In our first month of training, Peace Corps Medical Officers (PCMOs) do a little lesson with us on the “Cycle of Adjustment”. This is to show us when to expect the “ups and downs” during our Peace Corps service. I just celebrated a year of being in Guyana; so far, “the cycle” has been dead accurate. I knew that going into this my mental health would be challenged, broken down and torn apart at some points. I hadn't written in a while because I had been in the down part of “the cycle”; the part where you are done with training, get to your permanent site, adjust, and then hit a lull and must face reality. You begin to see things for what they are and your optimistic plans tend to hit a wall of actuality. Your goals never go as planned, you hit dead ends or walls that you didn't see coming; and things are never as easy as you think they should be. A lot of walls were completely out of my control; injury and sickness; other peoples' actions or behaviors; deaths or illnesses of friends or family at home... and then dealing with death so far from loved ones; just being a “white gyal” from America living in a developing country. I can't write about some of the specifics until after my service for safety reasons, but you know the saying when it rains, it pours? It poured. There were chunks of days that went by during my “down” part of the cycle where I couldn't remember what I had done the day before. I didn't want to get out of my hammock, I didn't want to do anything and I didn't want to see anyone. I felt like I was constantly being watched and judged. My life (mostly my situation) was an overwhelming blur and to top it off, one thing after another kept piling up.

Over this last year I have learned to do a lot of self-talk, self-motivation and to give myself daily or hourly pep-talks. If I hit a wall at school or at home, I try to take a step back and look for something good that happened during the day: getting a student with a behavior problem to laugh or behave appropriately; having a new student come to the library; having one student get the point of a lesson; or as simple as one little girl running up to me and giving me a big hug because she was happy to see me – because I made the effort to show up. Getting through a load of laundry; emptying the trash; going to the market, or sweeping the floor all became accomplishments that I would recognize as positive. It sounds silly but holding onto one good thing has amazing powers over your mind. The good is always better and holds more power than focusing on the bad.

I learned that I am a lot stronger than I thought I was... but not by myself. I find comfort, motivation and strength talking to a few of my fellow Peace Corps friends, fighting the desire to be isolated. Sometimes you have to know when to reach out and ask for help. There is no shame in this. I am a huge advocate of sharing and being open about ones mental health, experiences and stories, because chances are, someone else may find at least one small part of this story similar to what is going on in their lives.

There comes a point where you just have to know your limit and call it a day. But when asked by someone who knew everything that happened why I have stayed instead of giving up and going home, my answer was simple: everything that happened thus far could be explained. Everything that happened was completely out of my control and wasn't a reflection of me, they were just things that happened to me. When you go into something like this, you need to know your limit. My limit, my point of return (home) would be: rather than feeling bad about the things that happened to me... I started to feel bad about myself. If I started to feel worthless, hopeless or helpless, these feelings would be my white flag.

But don't get me wrong, it hasn't been all ugly and bad things – I would be remiss not to finish this blog with happy memories. There have been some amazing days and amazing people in my life that have made this last year worth it despite the “ugly and bad” also known as my personal challenges. Some highlights include: having an awesome and supportive host family in Soesdyke; Fourth of July at the Ambassador's house; adopting my fur-babies Bora and Phoenix; having my students ask about my fur-babies; experiencing Diwali in the capitol with Kelly, Liza, Allee and some PC Response Volunteers; celebrating Christmas with Suzy, Cassie and Phoenix at the beach; cooking and playing Pahgwah (has to be my all time favorite holiday EVER); having cooking dates with Lori where we attempt to cook something from home with ingredients from Guyana (breadfruit taco's was a fail... but Pizza was a success); moving to Adelphi and meeting awesome neighbors – Seeta, Vannie and Rasheed – and being able to now ride my bike to school everyday; receiving boxes and a barrel all full of books and school supplies to help get the library up and running at school; watching the kids peruse through the shelves looking for the perfect book to take home for the night, knowing that the majority of them are voluntarily reading outside of school for the first time in their lives; spending a relaxing and delightful birthday at Pandama Winery with Kelly, Suzy, Liza, Latricia and Cassie; teaching the grade 6 students about puberty (certainly an awkward subject but their innocence and curiosity was refreshing); hiking/biking to New Forest with Marcella, Sarah, Lindsy and Lori...and falling in a ditch attempting to ride Guyanese (double on a bike) with Lindsy; discovering I can still do a cartwheel on the beach at the age of 32; taking time to swing in a hammock; reading over 30 books – including the entire Harry Potter series (finally – I don't know what I was waiting for! ) and some other books that have been on my list forever (Uncle Tom's Cabin, A Long Walk to Freedom); discovering that hand-washing your clothes is actually therapeutic and relaxing; and the moment you walk outside, pick up your pointy broom to sweep the concrete outside your house and see your neighbor doing the same thing at the same time – talk about being integrated - I think I am turning Guyanese.

 Pahgwah, Diwali, and me being weird

 

Playing in the pool on Lori's Birthday

In December I went on a trip with a volunteer group in East Canje (where I live) to a village called Mara. I wrote a blog about it but never posted it (again, that was when I started into my downward spiral) I am going to share it with you now because it is fitting to look back on more in depth at one of my happier memories here:

My day started with my arrival to a house to pack up the donation items and roll out. There were bags and bags, some marked with names of recipients, some full of balls, dolls, cars, sweeties, biscuits and some full of clothes. I watched the organized chaos as the bags were filled with food items, pampers, towels, and staples. As I looked around, at the bags and bags of items, I couldn't help reflecting on another similar event I partook in often with my mom and her friends... the filling of care packages to our American Soldiers overseas. It made me homesick but it was bittersweet to see and be a part of something similar (creating care packages) happening thousands of miles away from home. Onward and outward we went. Loaded into the back of a pickup truck, decorated in Christmas gear and the logo for the East Canje Humanitarian Society (ECHS), we headed out. Santa was picked up in New Amsterdam and as we rode through the streets people whistled and screamed out happily at us. We continued further down the road, beyond Stanleytown, where I have a few friends living, beyond where I have ever traveled before. On we went. The roads went from bumpy to smooth, to bumpy and finally, to dirt roads. The houses became further and further apart until finally, we went several minutes without seeing another soul. At one point, I interrupted the merriment to scream out, “A MONKEY! A MONKEY!” I had finally seen my first wild monkey! He was up high in a tree a great distance away, but I had seen him. Everyone laughed at me and I was the butt of monkey jokes for the remainder of the day. On we went. We passed the oldest Mandir (Hindu Temple) in the Caribbean, founded in 1846 . We passed the landing site where the first East Indians came to shore in Guyana, 128 of them on May 5, 1835A little beyond, and it was hard to believe that there were still people this far out, but the speckling of houses here and there proved me wrong. I asked my fellow companions the obvious question... “how do these people get water all the way out here?”. My friends had no idea...Perhaps from the river a long walk on the other side of the road? We passed the “Bamboo Jungle” where bamboo was planted over a hundred years ago, and took over. We meandered under arches of trees and bamboo, calling out “Duck!” when a low branch was headed our way. If we saw children we stopped and gave them sweeties (lollipops and hard candies). After an hour trip down a lonely but beautiful road we reached our final destination. The remote village of Mara! Mara has a very small but well structured community center, looking out onto a flooded field. Rows and rows of children were seated on the bleachers. There were so few houses near the community center, it was stunning to realize that these children had walked so far to see us, miles and miles some of them! Santa got out of the truck and made “his” way to the children. This may have been the first time some or most of these children had ever seen Santa. And I also couldn't help but thinking... this is also probably the first time some of these children have seen a white person. I was as nervous as these kids. I didn't know what to expect or how they would react. My task was to do the face painting so the first girl tentatively, with persuasion, came towards me and silently tilted her face as I painted a star on. She was silent and clearly didn't know what I was doing to her. I took out my camera and told her, “I am going to show you a picture of yourself”. Click. I brought the camera (phone) towards her and a slow almost imperceptible smile tweaked at the corner of her lips. It wasn't the biggest smile I have ever seen, but it was enough to make me tear up a little. So the line grew and on I painted. Finally, a little boy sits down and I paint a star on his face. When I finish he looks at me and says “tinks” . “you are welcome” I say. “tinks” he says again and again. I look to my friend for translation and she said, he said “thanks” and I said “you are welcome”. Same language but not the same! I don't think he understood a word I was saying. Sometimes I forget that as much trouble as I have understanding the Guyanese accent and Creolese... they must have just as hard a time understanding me!

It was time to give out gifts. The kids sat patiently as balls, dolls, cars, pencils, crayons, sharpeners and books were given out. I was in charge of the books. Most of the books brought were much too advanced for these kids, but we gave them out anyways – it may be the first book some of these kids have ever had. I did pass over a few of the books – Harlequin Romance novels... even if they can't read, I didn't think it was a good gift to give a 10 year old. So instead, I turned to the parents and said, hey, this is a romance, but it is a gook to read! They gratefully took them. I even spied one of them a few minutes later flipping through the pages.

When it got time to give out the clothes it did become a little chaotic. But it all worked out in the end. One old man, barefoot, rotted teeth and clothes hanging off of him came up to me and shook my hand, and then stepped closer and gave me the biggest hug. I could smell the alcohol and sweat coming off of him. I found him a shirt, but he really wanted pants or slippers (flip flops). Unfortunately, they all seemed to be ladies or kids pants, and there were no shoes, so he didn't get either. I felt really bad that I couldn't find him any pants or shoes. After most people left he stuck around. He told my fellow volunteers (ECHS) that he really loved this white gyal. They all giggled and I shook their heads.

As we were getting ready to leave the community center, I asked to use the bathroom. One woman sheepishly said okay, but it is outside, are you sure that you are okay with that? I said absolutely, I appreciate it. Inside I laughed and said, yes, I have been here for nine months... PLEASE I GOT THIS! So in I went... except this wasn't like any of the latrines I had ever been in. Yes reader. I am not going to lie to you. Some of you may never experience this so I need to tell you what happened. The toilet seat was dug into a slab of wood, but cut out far back, so squatting was difficult. The stench assaulted my nose and I considered walking out but I really had to pee. I closed myself into the chamber, with the bugs and smell and I gave it a shot... but I missed. We all know I am short, it is no secret, so I wasn't tall enough to squat far enough back. I ended up peeing all over my tights (shorts you wear under a dress). So that was fun! Quite the experience, peeing on yourself in the middle of nowhere. Luckily, the woman I was with was wonderful and when we got back to the community center she on the sly helped find me some leggings to wear under my dress in the pile of donated clothes, and stood guard as I changed in the bush. Talk about an experience in nature! I never would have thought that peeing takes practice, but it sure does! Sorry if this is too much information... but a lesson I learned quickly here was, hey, if you can't laugh at yourself, you will never survive here. So laugh away with me... just not at me.

So on we went on our adventure, me in my cool new white kitty leggings. We arrived at a home with a little girl who was disabled and the ECHS gave her family all kinds of supplies and toys for her. It is amazing to think that they live out here with no cell phone reception, no telephone, no electricity, no reliable water source and still manage to get by. My trip to Mara was definitely a highlight of the last 365 that have gone by. 

 So back to today: 

Guyanese have many phrases that they use over and over that are starting to rub off on me – “Just now” (see earlier blog), “me nah know” (I don't know), “you big up you-self” (you are trying to look impressive), “you skin you teeth” (everything is funny to you). One that I hear constantly that I find myself using, while grammatically incorrect, seems to be quite perfect and fitting: “more better”. This is more better than that. I like mango more better than papaya. I had a tough few months, but overall, my year in Guyana has been more better than I could have ever imagined. I have many things to look forward to in the next year: seeing results in the students reading; starting a new hygiene campaign at school; starting weekly "girls group chats" at school; visits from Brittany in June and my brother Steve and Saba in August; planning a hike to Kaiteur Falls with Cassie; and celebrating another Pahgwah in Guyana. This year will be more better than the last. 

 

 A Christmas card that I received from a student in the United States:

A thought on normalcy

Sometimes I forget that I am here, here in Guyana. My routine and my life has mutated so far from what it was 9 months ago, but despite this, my life here now seems normal to me. I wake up and go about my morning: rolling out of my mosquito net, greeting my cat with a morning hug, pouring water out of my filter into a pot to boil for coffee. I timidly step into my cold shower, sometimes brown murky water pouring out of the PVC pipe, but I step under anyways. My feet trample through the cane dust that gathered onto my floor, the pads of my feet eternally black. I cover my body in bug spray and baby powder, ready to face the heat, sweat and mosquitos. Most days after work, I swing in my hammock just staring into the sky, watching the palms of a coconut tree blowing. I see yellow kiskadees in the breadfruit tree and goats hopping my fence to eat my grass and drink out of my dogs water bowl, and this has become my normal. Lizards and beetles crawling on my walls, frogs coming out of my water tank, and trash burning on the side of the road, it does not phase me as exceptional or unbelievable anymore, it just is what it is. I literally have to remind myself that I am living in Guyana in a developing country, and that this wasn't my normal for 30 years.

But in the grand scheme of life, my perceived normal in Guyana will never be my Guyanese friends normal, just as American culture, acceptances or prejudices, ethics, laws, morals & norms are not the normal of the rest of the world. It is so easy to forget this. After nine months I got comfortable and complacent and settled into a new normal. Talking to my neighbor tonight, about how her employer didn't give out BACK pay as they usually do at the end of the year, because there simply isn't any money to go round, she said to me... "What can you do... You just go to work and hope for the best". I almost said to her, "well in America, this would never happen... There are laws protecting workers... " But my brain put on the brakes and shut off thankfully. Guyana is not America. What good would it do to compare the two and tell her about these laws? She won't get her money or change the laws overnight, and it won't make anything better. I can't get her a plane to America to get her a new American normal. Her normal is living day to day and all I can do is listen and be there for her.

One quirck in the universe that really brings this idea home is that I have a "luxury" that most of my new friends and neighbors do not have. If I suddenly grow to hate the blackouts and loathe the cold showers, or if I catch Malaria or have some injury or other illness, there is always a plane, advanced medical care and endless hot showers just a phone call away just for me. I have an out. I can go back to my café mocha from Starbucks, driving on the right hand side of the road, enjoying a craft beer on trivia Thursday, and waking up to 800 channels on the television. But when I go home, my new Guyanese friends will still be here, with the blackouts, cold showers and lizards. When I go home, my friend will still be working 8 hour days for $2000 Guyanese per day... Translation, TEN US dollars a day, or let me break it down some more...$1.25 per hour. Remind me the minimum wage in the US? This is her normal, this is her reality... There is no plane that will take her to the land of chain restaurants, Amendments and hot water at the drop of a hat.

This conversation reminded me that my little Peace Corps Volunteer bubble is far from reality. No matter how comfortable or integrated I feel or become here, in 18 months, or tomorrow if I crack, there is a plane waiting for me. I hope that when I go back to America at the end of this journey that I take with me the reminder that the majority of the world doesn't sip lattes in a quaint little coffee shop. Taking it a step further, it would be negligent to not point out that many in America don't live this way either. I will surely come home and over time will think that my normal is unexceptional and mundane , but for some in the world, my normal, or your normal, could be their dream. Normal is all relative.

reminder: the content of this web site are personal and do not reflect any position of the U.S. Government or the Peace Corps.

If you can take it...

I may have just gone temporarily insane. I've had a rough go of it lately, from things just seeming to go wrong, feeling overwhelmed, and homesick for the holidays (I will admit I have let some tears out when the cabbies are playing Christmas music on my way to the school). I decided I couldn't wait any longer, so I finally busted out the book, "Unbroken". I've Had it in my kindle for a while, but I have been holding off reading it until I felt like I needed it. I am only a little way in, but things just kept piling up, so I decided to fast forward and watch the movie (I will finish the book just now). It is the TRUE story of Louie Zamperini, the US Olympian who joined WWll, floated adrift for 47 days in the pacific after his plane crashed, was rescued only to fall into a greater living hell, becoming a prisoner of war in Japan, where he was tortured, beaten and made to work in a coal mine with other POWs. After watching his story unfold, Louie's life kind of puts your life into perspective. My problems don't seem so significant anymore. I don't know if that is weird, but sometimes you just want to call it a day, and his struggles, grit and fight are an inspiration to fight another day. "If you can take it, you can make it," said Louie's brother when they were younger. This was his mantra. I like it. Not to say my Peace Corps experience is anything like his situation, but at times it can be emotionally draining, and sometimes you see and hear things that make you feel utterly helpless. It can also be overwhelming and grinding being stared at, watched and judged 24/7. Despite feeling as if you are never alone, you get to be pretty lonely... Thank god for Bora and Phoenix!

So back to the temporary insanity... After spending a few solid minutes bawling my eyes out after the movie, I let my dog in the house (shhhhh remember she isn't allowed inside), lay on the floor and let her lick the tears off my face for five minutes. Now those of you who read my blog know what happened yesterday... Lets just say it was time for a shower, and quick. So in I go... I look up, and my bathroom is swarming with mosquitos. My brain seems to shut down and, maybe because they were hunting my blood, but I see red, and something snapped inside. I can't take them anymore! So I jump out of the shower, grab the broom and go Batman meets Joker's henchmen on them. I'm talking... POW! POP! BAM! WHAM! well, pieces are flying off the broom... Maybe dust bunnies too and my cat is booking it to the other side and out the door faster than that dinosaur in Jurassic park after that goat (what is up with all the movie references?). Anyway, I grab the FISH spray (cancer causing insecticide) and I spray that stuff like there is no tomorrow. Lock the door and giggle like the evil villain I am. Victory has never felt so good. So now I am in my mosquito net, quite sure that the brothers and sisters of the fallen comrades in the bathroom are plotting to get me. It's all I can think about. They are out there. Circling. Watching. Waiting. Funny thing is, I imagine if you have done Peace Corps, or any longtime living abroad that requires a mosquito net... You have probably experienced this and are laughing your a$$ off right now. God I hope so. Otherwise, I may be truly losing it! No joke, my eye has been twitching all day long.

My life is a comedy: Life with animals

I think it is about time for a new post. I told you all about my new dog Phoenix. Life with her has become rather comical. Phoenix and the cat, Bora, have yet to become best friends. The landlords rules are that the dog stay outside at all times. This creates animosity and jealousy between Bora and Phoenix. I have caught Bora lying at the front door sticking her little paws out, taunting Phoenix on the other side. I come home, and Phoenix follows me upstairs, waiting for me to unlock the door and barge through. Meanwhile, Bora is on the inside waiting for me to open the door to bust outside. This is our ritual everytime I need to open the door. Sometimes Phoenix wins and she gets to come in for a few minutes while I put my groceries inside and hunt for a treat to bribe her to go outside. Sometimes Bora wins and will race down the stairs and into the yard... With me scrambling after her. In or out, they want what the other has, which seems to be the story of life.

I recently went to town to have Bora spayed by the GSPCA. Me, three other peace corps volunteers and 5 cats made the trip to town. It was quite an adventure. End result, no babies for Bora. I read a fact while I was there: one pair of cats and their offspring can produce 420,000 cats in seven years. Now wonder there are so many strays in Guyana!

One time, I was walking Phoenix and she found herself a New York Yankees hat. Naturally, it isn't a Red Sox hat so I let her keep it as a toy. We continue on our walk and on to the store to get some groceries. I go to loop the leash around the fence. Phoenix thinks I'm taking her new toy as I lean to resecure the leash... And off she books it down the street. So here I am, chasing a dog carrying a Yankees hat in her mouth. An old toothless man is giggling behind me as I turned in shock racing down the street after her. Mind you, I am already a curiosity in my community, but add on this and it was quite a show. Good dog did run straight home though.

The other day, I had to go to town, so my friend watched my animals. She had to leave and put the keys in a hiding place. Well fast forward a few hours, I get home and the keys are gone! 50/50 we picked a bad hiding spot and someone swiped them... Or my dog found a new toy! As me, and my neighbors are looking in the yard, the biggest pig I have ever seen pushes her way through the fence in the back yard. This now poses another problem... My dog has an escape route. Note there are holes all over the fence and I am constantly blocking them with wood, bottles and even coconuts to keep her from escaping. Sometimes she does and she ends up running to my neighbors to play. So we are looking for the keys, and Bora jumps out the window onto the overhang place, and down to the ground. My other neighbors dog decides he doesn't like cats and decides to try to take a big bite. Up the tree the cat goes. Did I mention she just got spayed? Anyway, landlord had a spare and my locks are now fully changed and I am safe.

Yesterday, I come outside and my dog is GONE! I freak out because she is no where. My coconut fence blocking didn't hold up. I walk up and down the street and nothing! No Phoenix. So I go to get my bike to expand my search, and out goes the cat. NOW BOTH MY ANIMALS ARE GONE. I heard all this yelping and barking down the street. I look out, and there is Phoenix, covered in mud, racing down the street with dogs barking after her trailing behind. Oye dog. As a side note, I had given her a bath three hours before. Payback?

Fast forward 24 hours... PHOENIX and I are peacefully swinging in the hammock to the sounds of Bora meowing inside, begging to cone out. Phoenix gets up and there are these little white things all over the hammock. WORMS! She ran away and got herself infested with worms! I call the vet and she comes right over and shoots her up with all kinds of good things! Let me tell you, worms are nasty little things. Poor Phoenix was licking her butt and they just kept popping out. Enough of that. Just Deworm your pets. Side note, the vet said Phoenix is probably 7-8 months... I pegged her for 5 based on her size from when I found her. The vet reminded me she was living on her own and starving so she would be undersized. The vet looked at her teeth and said yup, 7-8 months. So based on her age, all those dogs chasing after Phoenix... We shall see what happens in a few months. Anyone reading this in Guyana potentially want a guard puppy in a few months? Note I am planning to have Phoenix spayed when GSPCA does their next round of spaying in February. Assuming she isn't already knocked up.

So it has been an eventful couple of weeks with my critters! Despite the chaos, frustrations and even nastiness of being a pet mom in Guyana, it is worth it. My cat loves to cuddle when I watch movies or read at night. She hunts for bugs and keeps them out of my life. And my dog is just hilarious and full of love. Through Bora and Phoenix, I am trying to teach and show my neighbors, community and students that these animals are good and need to be cared for and loved. I have my students constantly asking after my pets. I ask them if they have pets and they say, "yes, but yours are different". Fact is, they aren't. I picked Phoenix up as a stray, starving and covered in ticks on the side of the road in a trash heap, and Bora was a stray too. They are no different than any other animal in Guyana, except I have them vaccinated, and fed, play with them, and show them love and kindness. Their pets can be just like mine.

A snapshot of photos

Celebrating Diwali aka Deepvali: the Festival of Lights: