A SEMITIC DIVERSION Mykel Board's Caribbean Blog, Chapter 9

by Mykel Board

ENTRY NINE

[A Semitic diversion.]

[For this entry I want to deviate from the trip chronology to focus on one particular adventure: in Suriname.]

“I'd like to see the synagogue,” I tell Jose. “There aren't too many in the Caribbean.”

“I've got to do a lot of work today,” he says, “but you can ask any cab driver to take you to the synagogue. They'll know.”

The next morning, I call a cab. The driver nods when I tell him I want to go to THE SYNAGOGUE. It's a $2 trip, and he drops me off in front of... a mosque.

Now, I may be a twice-a-year Jew, but I know the difference between a synagogue and a mosque. Synagogues have the Star of David SOMEPLACE. They do not have minarets.

Next to the mosque is a small empty lot... then a white shack... then another building, impressive, almost colonial looking. At the top of that building is... you guessed it... the Star of David.

Yes! Yes! Yes! I'm in love with this country. Is there anywhere else in the world where a mosque and a synagogue could be peaceful neighbors?

I walk up to the gate and turn the handle. It's locked. Padlocked. I walk around the outside of the gate to check out the property. On the non-mosque side of the synagogue is the Jewish cemetery.

Not a whole lot of graves, but the style and markers are really interesting. No tombstones,just one long slab directly on the ground.

There is a nice article about the synagogue on the internet. There's a picture too... carefully cropped to avoid the mosque.

At first, it looks like that's it. My Synagogue adventure: a locked gate and a few pictures. Not much more to tell.

I'm off to get something to eat. Right here comes THE SCARY LUNCH STORY, but I'll tell you about that in the next blog entry.

When I return to Jose's place that evening, Dad asks me how my day went. I tell THE SCARY LUNCH STORY first.

“And the synagogue?” he asks. “Did you get to see it?”

“I saw it,” I said, “but it was closed... locked up tight.”

He frowns.

“Wait,” he says, “I'll make a phonecall.”

I smile, shrug and go off to bed with the intention of writing, NOT of fucking around on Facebook. Yeah, right.

The next day is THURSDAY, I plan to take the family out for a meal. They've been feeding me, taking care of me, conversing with me, keeping me entertained this whole time.

Jose has been really busy... he made an effort... but it was clear he was one frazzled guy... with bad luck! (His car kept breaking down. He never finished his homework. He was bogged down with... me!) So it fell on mom and dad to take care of the ever-present guest.

“I'll take you and your family anywhere,” I tell Jose, “as long as they take the Visa card.”

We eat in a fine Indonesian restaurant. They don't take credit cards... but they do take US dollars. Whew!

“Thank you for that, Mykel,” says Jose's Dad. “And now I have some good news for you.”

I feel my eyebrows raise.

“I have a friend whose wife was Jewish,” he says. “He's still like Jewish. And he says there is a Mass at the synagogue tomorrow night.”

I doubt if it'll be a Friday night Mass at the synagogue, but I don't say anything.

“He'll take you so you can see for yourself what it's like.”

“That's... er... great,” I say.

“Shit,” I think, “do I have to get dressed up? I've got nothing to wear to a Friday night service. A clean pair of Levis... well a CLEANER pair... The closest shirt I have to presentable is a frayed black Country-Western shirt I got in Tennessee.

When the time comes, I wear that shirt. I pull my pants over my boot-tops and try to fix my face into a respectable pose. (Asking me to look RESPECTABLE is like asking Lady Gaga to look VIRTUOUS.)

Jose's father drops me off at a fairly nice house on the outskirts of town. The gate in front of the door is padlocked. I reach through the bars to knock on the wood. There is some shuffling inside.

A man who looks like Milton Berle answers the door. [Note: The picture is of Milton Berle... not the man in the story.] Because I forgot (or never knew) this guy's name. I'll call him Milton.

He slowly totters to the door, fumbles with the key, opens the padlock and the gate, then he motions to the doorpost. There is a mezuzah on it. (For the goyim: Here's a picture.) I touch it and then kiss my hand.

Milton smiles, nods and lets me in.

“Come in,” he says.

I start to take off my boots.

“No,” he says, “that's okay. Just come in and sit down.”

I sit down on the couch. The livingroom is decorated with a lot of pictures, some plaques, some wood furniture. The man walks into another room and returns with what looks like a sedar plate.

“This is a sedar plate,” he says, handing it to me. Made in Israel

“I'm not Jewish,” he continues. “But my wife was Jewish. She's dead now. We were married for 20 years. I'm a Christian, but I always went to synagogue with her. I felt closer to the Jews than to the Christians. I don't know. Better food maybe. My wife was the only Jew in her family. I used to go to the synagogue all the time.... with my wife.”

I can feel myself beginning to fidget.

“Ok,” he says. “we'll go now. I only need to find my car keys.”

Milton gets up and walks to the kitchen. I follow him. There is a key rack there. The car keys are not on the key rack.

“I know I had them,” he says.

Then he walks back into the livingroom and looks at the large table there. On the table are the car keys... nothing else.

“Here they are,” he says.

We walk through the gate. He closes it and reaches into his pocket.

“I need the padlock key,” he says. “I'll be right back. I just have to get the padlock key.”

He goes back into the house. I hear something fall with a heavy thump. Before long, he's back. He locks up. We go to his car and head for the synagogue.

I forgot to mention that Surinamese drivers are maniacs... daredevils... passing each other at high speed on one lane roads... plowing through unlit intersections with, at most, a beep of the horn. I have never practiced anal clenching as much as since I've been in Surinamese vehicles. Milton, however, does not drive like this. He drives like an old Jew.

Slowly, we creep along the road headed toward the synagogue. He stops at every crossing... sometimes in the middle of the street... then slowly proceeds, leaning over the steering wheel... staring at the road directly in front of the hood... as honking cars speed past... nearly avoiding head-on collisions.

Suddenly we stop. There's traffic. And cops. On the street ahead, there are lights. A streetful of candle-lights. It's a parade.

“There's a Hindu holiday,” Milton tells me. “It's today. It's a festival of lights... another festival of lights. Every year, they have this parade. I forgot about it. We'll have to go a different way. I hope I remember how to go.”

There is a break in the parade. The police let us pass.

Besides the fear of endlessly circling, I'm suddenly struck by another fear. What if I get an aliyah? If I'm called to the Torah and have to say the blessings? After all, I'm an honored guest? A New Yorker, after all... from the diaspora capital of the world. How could they NOT give me an aliyah?

I haven't said those blessings since my bar mitzvah. I know they start with Baruch atah... EVERYTHING starts with Baruch atah... But I don't think I can get further than that.

Eventually we leave the road and go into a parking lot. (Hmmm, a synagogue with a parking lot, I guess it's not orthodox.) We get out. Milton seems to be at a loss, looking for a passage to someplace. We get back in the car and follow someone who's leaving the lot.

Milton rolls down his window and hails the other driver. They speak in Dutch.

The other driver points vaguely to the street. Milton thanks her. (Dank U, is easy enough to recognize in Dutch.)

“I made a mistake,” says Milton. “This is NOT the synagogue parking lot.”

He gets out of the car, walks down the street, studying a few alleyways. Then he comes back, pulls the car onto the street, through an alley and onto a grassy piece of land. That IS the synagogue parking lot.

We get out of the car. In a nearby SUV, an old woman talks with someone who could be her nurse. The second woman is a lot younger and a lot blacker than the oldster. I am wrong. They're both just congregants.

How long will it take me to I soon learn that Suriname is not a country where you can judge these things. It's a place where ANYBODY CAN BE ANYTHING!

Milton says hi to the older woman. She holds up a finger in a hold-on-a-moment gesture, goes back to the car, does something, returns and hugs Milton. He introduces me.

“This is my Jewish friend from New York City,” he says.

I don't know what sect of Jews they have here, so I don't know if I'm supposed to offer my hand or what? I check to see if she's wearing a wig. She isn't. Anyway, she extends her hand. I shake it. We walk around to a side entrance and into the sanctuary.

The temple itself is weird inside. There are pews on either side. (Note: I'm not sure that synagogues call pews PEWS. My sister checked it out, though, and she says that's the name.) MOST of the women sit on one side and MOST of the men sit on the other.

There is a balcony, but it's empty. Oddest is the sand on the floor. It's like thousands of people just came back from the beach and tracked it in.

There's an official explanation for the sand. I reprint it here, though I HATE the expression very unique. Unique means ONLY ONE, for G-d's sake. How can something be VERY only one?

A very unique characteristic of the Neve Shalom Synagogue is its sandy floor. According to tradition, the sand is:

• a reminder of the Hebrews’ 40 years in the desert after the exodus from Egypt, and
  
• the days of the Inquisition when practicing Judaism was punishable by death. During those days, marranos met in cellars to practice their Judaism. They covered the floor with sand to muffle the sounds of their prayers.
  

The Rabbi seems very young, late 20s at most. Olive skin, he could be a Sephardic Jew anywhere. He's reading from a prayer book-- not from a Torah. That means NO ALIYA! Silently, I count the number of men in the congregation. There aren't many.

Milton is a mind-reader.

“A minion here is 7 men and three women,” he says.

Wow, the sexes are separate, unless they don't want to be. A minion isn't ONLY men... but it's mostly men. The synagogue is next to a mosque. Very unique indeed.

And the congregation? It's a Klansman's nightmare. Black guys in yarmulkes. Not only black, but the whole possible spectrum... like nothing I could imagine in New York:

The service is entirely in Hebrew. Several people in the congregation know the song-breaks and join in at key moments. A few songs are familiar, but with different music than I remember.

Throughout the service, mothers and fathers chase their errant kids around the pews, trying to bring them back into the fold... or at least SHUSH them. Finally, something that's NOT different here.

On the bima-- in the middle of the floor, like in Bay City... not in front-- like in reform/conservative synagogues-- is the Rabbi and an older man who I assume is there just to make sure there are no mistakes.

Milton doesn't pay much attention to what is going on Bima-wise. Instead, he takes me from person to person, saying hello, then introducing me as my Jewish friend from New York.

People are nice enough. Shake my hand. But I miss the interest. A New York Jew! Here in Suriname! Why? No one seems curious.

After the service, we head to the little shack next to the synagogue. It's a mini-chapel... a study space... Tonight, it's for the kiddush.

There are little plastic cups of wine for everyone. On the tables are some tonic water, and some locally made soda. I forget the name but it's something like GREEN GOODNESS. In any case, it's green.

First, we have to wash our hands. The blessing over the hand washing is written in Hebrew, with a transliteration... using Dutch pronunciation. I can get the baruch atah part, but not that part that changes with every blessing? I try it, but... let's say there was a bit of chuckling.

Then some homemade challah, some wine, both preceded by more blessings. Those I know.

“See that bottle of GREEN GOODNESS?” Milton asks, pointing to the soda. “That's from Suriname. The factory owner... he's dead now... but when he was alive... was a Jew. He was rich. Had the most popular drink in Suriname...”

“What about Parbo?” I ask, mentioning the local fermented favorite.

“Okay,” he corrects himself, “the most popular non-alcohol drink.”

Sitting around the kiddish table, I again notice that people are polite, but not friendly... not curious. I'm disappointed. There are questions I want to ask. Friends I want to make. I guess they get a lot of visitors... maybe anthropologists. In fact, there are two white girls in the crowd. They look to be in their early twenties. One of them takes a lot of pictures.

“Those two,” says Milton, “they are from some university. They're on their study term here.”

“Are they Jewish?” I don't ask.

The guy who was reading the prayers passes me. Well, if the mountain won't come to Mohammed...

“Excuse me, Rabbi,” I say to him.

“I'm not a Rabbi,” he says. “I'm just one who happens to know the prayers. We don't have a Rabbi now. We used to have a Rabbi, but...”

The sentence is never finished, but it leaves me feeling that there's some deep secret buried along with those graves on the side of the synagogue.

He quickly takes his leave and goes to talk with his friends.

Before long, we also take our leave.

“I hope I can find the way back to Jules' (Jose's father) house,” says Milton.

“So do I,” says I.

He cannot.

This is obvious from his hesitation at every corner. His pulling into a street, stopping suddenly, making a U-turn, heading to the next street and the next U-turn.

It was about 9 when we left the synagogue. It's now creeping toward 9:45. We're on our fifth U-turn.

“Wait,” says Milton. “I have an idea. I know where I live.”

“That's a relief,” I don't say.

“It's in the other direction,” he continues, “but I know how to get to Jules' from my house.”

Another U-turn. Then a slow but steady roll to Milton's house.

“There it is,” he says, pointing out the window. “You recognize it? That's my house.”

“Sure,” I lie.

“From here I know,” he tells me.

And street-by-street we inch closer to what Milton thinks is the way to Jules' house. I've taken the ride many times. This doesn't look like the right way at all.

I'm wrong.

At the house, Jose's father invites Milton in for a drink. They talk like old friends.

After their warm-up conversation, Dad turns to me. “Mykel,” he says, “was it what you expected.”

“Not exactly,” I say, “for one thing they didn't have a Rabbi.”

Jose's dad frowns.

“That's a Jewish priest,” explains Milton.

I do not (visibly) cringe.

“They used to have a Rabbi,” he further explains. “But you know what they say about Jews: If there are two Jews, there are two completely different opinions.”

“Three completely different opinions,” I correct him.

He smiles.

“Anyway, I don't know the whole story,” he says, “but something happened with the last Rabbi. He just left.”

AGAIN: something THE SAME about US and Surinamese Jewishness.

The topic changes.

“What did you think about the aquarium in Milton's place?” asks Jose's dad.

“I didn't see it,” I say.

“What?” says Milton, “You were in my living room, right?”

I nod.

“You saw the pictures... my wife... the sedar plate.”

I nod again.

“And you didn't see the aquarium?”

I shake my head.

“It's as big as this bookcase,” he says, standing up and moving toward a large bookcase in the living room. “It takes up half the room, and you didn't see it?”

“Sorry,” I say.

“And what about the birds?” asks Jules. “Did you see the birds?”

I smile sheepishly.

“You didn't see the birds?” says Milton, “I have two birds. Beautiful birds. How could you miss them?”

I smile again... and shrug.

Milton shakes his head.

“And the women?” he says. “The three beautiful women... the ones I live with now that my Jewish wife passed away. You didn't see the women?”

I laugh, hoping he's kidding...

--------------

Next blog we'll have some more Suriname adventures. Then, hopefully get back to French Guiana, plenty of adventures wait there too: a visit to the Hmong, a canoe trip through the jungle, a feast of rodents, and a lot of mud.

LAST MINUTE NOTE:

I just found this from a Paramaribo tourist company. I didn't take the tour, but it fits!

[You can read previous travel blog entries below.

You can subscribe to this blog by clicking the RSS link at the bottom or by joining the Yahoo group for readers of Mykel Board's rants

You might also want to check the blog of Mykel Board's Columns .

WARNING: The Column Blog is not PG. It might make you mad, or disgusted. The thin-skinned, politically correct, and easily sickened should probably stay away. You have been warned.]

NOT SLEEPING IN IT: Mykel's Caribbean Blog CHAPTER EIGHT

by Mykel Board

ENTRY EIGHT

October 26, 2013- Nov. 3, 2013

[Recap: From the start, it didn't look good for this trip. Everything went right... always a bad sign. Nothing portends disaster more than everything going right.

Easy subletter in New York, smooth flight to Miami, promises of “meet you at the airport/seaport” for the whole trip. $10 a night accommodations in Guyana, the rest free.

Uh oh! Too good. The better the news, the bigger the fall later. And things get worse. (Better) The Miami trip goes so smoothly you could cry.

Then on to Trinidad, where my friends pick me up at the airport, take me around drinkin'.Then I moved South, some fun adventures, a Goddess... er... Empress of a girl. Back to the airport and the flight to Guyana.

One thing after another... clicking into place. It's sort of like a Bingo game in reverse. Only when you do NOT get the blocks in a row can you call BINGO. If things come together in a straight line, one after the other, vertically, horizontally, diagonally, that's normal. That's losing. When things DON'T click... when they DON'T work out. That's BINGO.

In Guyana, my facebook friends from KEEP YOUR DAY JOB! meet me at the airport. From there, we go to Jamal's place. This is the only time have to pay for a place to sleep: 15 days for $150US. Not bad. No it doesn't go smoothly. But it goes, and I meet some great people in the country. My trip to Kaiteur Falls is amazing.

I spend much of my time in Guyana with Gavin and Ryan. They meet me at the airport, take me to rock'n'roll karaoke, get me drunk. The plan is to stay here until October 26, then head with the band to Suriname. They'll be the only punkband in a metal festival. I'll roadie or do merch. It'll get me over to the next country with company and it'll be PUNKROCK.

The two weeks of my stay in Guyana are adventure-filled, and beer-dulled. Then the band develops a drummer problem. Two drummers agreed to go with them. One a close friend, the other more PUNKROCK. They ditch the friend for the punkrock drummer. He bails at the last minute. The now former-friend does not answer emails. I cannot play drums. This cannot work out. We go anyway. It works out.

After the big show, Jose, our host, takes us on a tour of the city. He points out some exploding neon stars/snowflakes and explains that's where the brothels are. I explain my preference for stripclubs over brothels. He laughs.]

I stay with Gavin and Ryan at the rockstar motel the night after the big show. Gavin is so heated up by the success that he half finishes the bottle of Jack... right from the bottle.

“I need the coolest place in the room,” he says, stumbling.

Somehow, Ryan gets him out and they sleep.

The morning after the BIG SHOW, though, Gavin starts the day with a cough. The cure? A slug of Jack Daniels, right from the bottle, of course.Gavin's not 23 yet, and he's already on his way to full-fledged alkiedom! When I was his age I couldn't drink a six pack without waking up in my own vomit.

Yeah! That boy has a future!

For their last day in town, Gavin and Ryan have lined up a radio interview and another acoustic set. The former is at the studios of a local station. The latter is at Unkies House of Blues, right next to the venue of the big show last time. The band invites me to both.

I haven't been in a radio station since I did an interview in Australia at the turn of the century. Back then, DJs used CD players... and even vinyl turntables. For this interview, Gavin emailed the DJ a playlist. The DJ downloaded the songs, and BANG! ready for airtime, right?

FLASH AHEAD:

“We need to be at the studio by seven,” says Gavin.

“What time is it now?” I ask.

“Just past 8,” he says.

Are we late? Are you kidding? This is Keep Your Day Job Exclamation Point. For them, time, money, commitments, planning. None of it matters. Everything just works out.

We take a cab to the station. The driver finds it easily.

DJ: So what does Keep Your Day Job mean?

Gavin: It's Keep Your Day Job Exclamation Point.

DJ: Sorry.

Gavin: Actually, the meaning has changed. Originally is was what people said to us when we were just starting out. You know, Forget about playing this music stuff. You suck! Then, after a while the meaning changed. It began to be a message from US to the AUDIENCE. YOU keep your day jobs. We'll be punk rockers and live the life you WISH you could live.

DJ: So neither of you have day jobs?

Gavin: That's right.

DJ: And you, Ryan. (to the microphone) He's the quiet one. Do you have a day job?

Ryan shakes his head.

DJ: They can't hear you shake your head.

Me: I have a day job.

Gavin: That's our friend Mykel, talking.

The DJ ignores me.

DJ: So, what is punk rock anyway?

Gavin: Punk rock is about doing what you want. Not following rules. Living for yourself, not some boss who only makes money from you.

DJ: Ryan what do you think?... By the way, I used to be shy too. I couldn't talk to anyone at parties or in groups. I was like that. Just like you.

Gavin: Play that song then.

He does. It's obvious that this DJ, though a nice guy, doesn't have a clue about the band-- or punkrock in general. Suriname has it's own kind of music... dance music, of course... this is the Caribbean, after all... but this guy should at least do his homework. Read the Wikipedia page,or SOMETHING. He seems at a loss to ask any music related questions, You like The Ramones? and just needs SOMETHING to talk about.

The song is over.

DJ: So, we're here in the studio with Gavin and Ryan from Keep Your Day Job...

Gavin raises his eyebrows.

DJ: That's Keep Your Day Job Exclamation Point.

Gavin smiles.

DJ: So guys, do you have girlfriends? Wives?

Gavin: My girlfriend is my music?

DJ: And you Ryan?

Ryan: Me too.

DJ: No girlfriends?

And he goes on about the unfortunate condition of not having a girlfriend, just skirting the issue of what that really means to not have a girlfriend.

Er... what year is this?

From the radio station, it's off to the Accoustic Set® at Unkies.

One of the things I've learned in the tropics is that night and day are reversed from the more temperate zones. In New York bars stay open 'til 4AM. For most of America, that's very late. Most cities have earlier closing times, 2AM or even Midnight. People have to get up in the morning. Go to their day jobs. We wouldn't want them performing inefficiently, would we?

In the tropics, people STOP working in the afternoon. It's just too hot (or too rainy) to do anything. It's naptime, siesta. Sleep trumps work. The way it should be. And night-- real night: 10 PM to Sunrise-- That's when you LIVE!

It's about 10, when we get to the bar. Jose is there already, as is my new friend, Jeffry (a Dutch guy of Surinamese origin)... and Spit. I buy Parbo for the crew.

KYDJ! have no guitars with them. Accapella as well as acoustic? The bartender digs up a single guitar and hands it to Gavin.

Gavin starts playing. Ahh we know that tune. Jeffry starts on the vocals, nodding his head in time to the music:

They're forming in a straight line

They're going through a tight wind

Pretty soon Jose and I pick it up:

The kids are losing their minds

Blitzkrieg Bop

It's not long before everyone sitting outside joins in:

Hey ho, let's go

Shoot 'em in the back now

What they want, I don't know

All revved up and ready to go

Gavin hands the guitar to Jose.

As the only white guy there, I feel like I can ask for it.

“Play Kill All De White Man,” I say.

He starts strumming.

“The white man call himself civilized,” he sings with a strong Carib accent, “Cause he know how to take over. De white man come to pillage my village. Now he tell me I have to bend over.”

I join in on the chorus:

Oh yeah, kill all the white man,

Oh yeah, kill all the white man,

Soon the whole bar is singing:

Oh yeah, kill all the white man,

Oh yeah, kill all the white man,

It's a punk rock hootenany.

In case you're not familiar with the tune. Here it is, performed by the originals. I only wish I had a video of US doing it.

 

I do have a video of US doing BEER IS BETTER THAN GIRLS ARE... Maybe it'll be a hit.

The rest of the night continues the sing-a-long with the guitar passed around like a spliff. The beer flows, the night wears on.

Most of the songs were too recent for me... from this millennium. But I gamely tried to keep up. Only Jeffry seems to know them all.

After the hootenany, we all (me, Gavin, Ryan, Jeffry, and, of course, Jose) pack into Jose's car.

“Guess where we're going?” says Jose... and he takes off. Stopping in front of one of those buildings with an neon exploding star.

We go in and sit at the bar. There are a lot of attractive girls standing around. There's a dancefloor with a pole and some moving lights flashing over it. No one is on it.

We each order a beer.

Next to the dancefloor, a thin half-bald, man dances by himself. He wears a black and white blazer. On the blazer are some kind of Asian figures. He holds a cane, with a shiny metal ball on top.

A very tall, very black, very sexy woman catches my eye. She's wearing a very tight dress, as black as she is. I smile. She walks over to me.

“Ik sprichk geen Nederlands (I don't speak Dutch),” I say to her.

“Sorry,” she says, “I don't speak Dutch.”

“Where are you from?” I ask.

“I'm from Antigua,” she answers.

I nod as if I know where Antigua is.

I'm feeling my Parbo and doubt I could function even if the guys were willing to wait for me. A minor tragedy. I raise my glass and toast the girl, giving her a sorry, not tonight smile. She walks away.

The only one dancing in the crowded club is the guy with the cane. Not what I came to see. I want girls shaking their body parts. Poles to hold on to and slide up and down.

There is one blond girl among the working women. I'm guessing she's Eastern European... or blonde Brazilian. Jeffry's interested in her. She can see it and she walks over to him.

I don't remember much more about the night. We went to another place where there were fewer girls... and not as good-looking. Then we went to Jeffry's

Sorry, I don't remember going back that night. I remember awakening sometime the next day, at Jose's place. I'm alone in bed, and not spleeping in my own vomit.

The next day, I return, hungover, to wish Gavin and Ryan a safe trip back to Georgetown.

Gavin wants a farewell picture with the headlining metal band: DISQUIET.

We say good-bye and I'm on my own... or really on Jose's own.

That night is Jeffry's farewell party. He's going back to Holland. The night starts by the OLD FORT... a landmark in Suriname.

Jose and I meet Jeffry and a bunch of mostly Dutch friends he's met since he got here.

[NOTE: I never met anyone who collected friends so fast as Jeffry. Mr. Niceguy. Mr. Smartguy. Mr. Punkrock Encyclopedia. It's amazing. This guy, of indeterminate race and nationality, could go anywhere in the world. BANG! A friend collection... he should teach a course on it.]

After dinner, theirs... not ours. (Jose's mom cooked for us earlier), we go to a bar for drinks. You guessed it UNCKIES HOUSE OF BLUES.

After a bit of hootenanny, most of the crowd goes home. Those of us left, go to Jefrey's hotel room for a farewell drink or three.

Sometime later, Jose and I are back at Jose's house.

He's a busy guy. He's a student. He works in concert arrangements. His car is falling apart. He's got insomnia. And now he's got me.

[NOTE: I'll have more details about Suriname in my next blog entry... in a Flashback. So now let's skip ahead to where I'm just leaving the country.]

Jose's mom has been making calls for me. She's checking on the best way to get to Albina, the port city for the ferry to French Guiana.

“Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” says Jose's mom.

“The good news,” I say.

“The bus to Albina (port for the ferry to Frenach Guiana) will only cost 10SRD,” she says. “And then you can take a small boat across the river for another ten.”

“And the bad news?” I ask.

“You'll have to get up at 4AM to get the bus,” she tells me.

“You can take a taxi,” says Jose's dad. “It'll cost more, but at least you'll know who you're sitting with. There won't be a bush woman with ten kids and chickens... and it'll pick you up here.”

“What time does that one leave?” I ask.

“I'll call for you,” offers mom. “What time do you want to leave?”

“Well, I hate to get up early,” I tell her. “But I don't want to arrive in Guiana too late. My friends will be back at work at 2PM, so how about 10AM?”

She nods and makes the call. After some Dutch conversation, she hangs up.

“The taxi will pick you up here...” she says, “at 8 o'clock... Still it's better than 4 o'clock.”

I decide to take it.

One more check of the guidebook: On entering French Guiana, it says, you must have a ticket out of the country. A ticket out of another Caribbean country is not enough.

Shit!

I arrive at Surinamese customs at 11:30. The ferry leaves at three. I can't take the small boats because the ferry is the only way I can get a return ticket. The small boats you pay in cash... no return, no tickets at all.

I hang out in the customs shed until 1PM. Then I ask the customs officer where I buy the ticket to the ferry.

“On the ferry,” he says. “You pay on the ferry.”

“On the ferry?” I don't ask. “On the fuckin' ferry? That means no tickets. No return. Nothing. I might as well take my chances in one of those banana boats.”

I pick up my bags and head for the dock. Sure enough, there's a banana boat.

The “captain” sees me with my bags and points to the other side of the river. I nod. Maybe I can get a discount if I travel with bananas.

Nope. He gestures a phone call, then pulls out his cellphone.

In the meantime, another boat pulls up. This one is even smaller than the banana boat, though there is some kind of covering.

Other passengers have joined me on the concrete jetty. They take the first boat. I wait as someone in the distance comes to pick me up. There is already someone else on the boat. As I stumble onto the small boat, I hit my backpack on the roof... I go low and duckwalk into the low covered part.

The “captain” of this boat looks younger than my 16-year old nephew... and just as reckless. I hope he knows where the rocks are.

Another passenger joins us... and we're off. Just us.

The boat sways from side to side, like a (very rough)cradle. One side sinks, the edge dips to the water, then the other side. One of my few virtues is never getting seasick. (Did I jinx it by writing that?)

In less than a quarter hour, we reach French Guiana. I climb over the side of the boat. The “captain” is already out... talking with a friend by another boat... near some palm trees. I open my wallet. There's only a 5 and a 50. I fish some change from my pocket, just scraping together 10 Suriname dollars. I walk over to the young man and hand him the money. He counts it.

“Ten dollars?” he says. “It's fifteen dollars.”

Now comes the BIG MOMENT OF DECISION. I figure I'm being cheated... but is it cheated? I've got more money than these guys... even if I don't have a lot. Yeah, it's racist for there to be white prices and native prices. But racism fits the situation. At least here and now. Okay, he wins. I hand him the 50-- he has change.

I climb the hill to the immigration booth. No return ticket. No visa. Not many Euros. No one else is entering the country at the moment.

A bunch of white guys are hanging out by the immigration windows. They're speaking French. They wear uniforms with the kind of reflective vests that worn by roadcrews to avoid traffic accidents. Instead of CONSTRUCTION, the vests say IMMIGRATION.

I hand my passport to one of the guys. He hands it back to me.

“First you go to that window,” he points to a small bank-teller looking window about two feet away, “then you come here.”

I go to the window, but there is no one behind it. One of the “officers” calls to someone inside. A burly man who needs a shave... or at least a cigar... to complete the look... comes to the window. I slide my passport under the place that looks like I should be sliding dollars.

The man grunts. Opens the passport. Grunts again. Stamps the passport. Slides it back under the bullet proof glass. I return to the other officers. One of them makes a get out of here gesture with the back of his hand.

“Où puis-je obtenir quelque chose à manger?” I ask.

“La bas,” says the gesture man. “deux cent metres a droit o a gauche.”

“Merci,” I say, and walk off onto the streets of the city, with only the vaguest idea of where I'm going.

-end-

[You can read previous travel blog entries below.

You can subscribe to this blog by clicking the RSS link at the bottom or by joining the Yahoo group for readers of Mykel Board's rants

You might also want to check the blog of Mykel Board's Columns .

WARNING: The Column Blog is not PG. It might make you mad, or disgusted. The thin-skinned, politically correct, and easily sickened should probably stay away. You have been warned.]

 

Mykel's Caribbean Blog CHAPTER SEVEN: This Just Cannot Happen

by Mykel Board

ENTRY SEVEN

October 26, 2013- October 27, 2013

[Recap: From the start, it didn't look good for this trip. Everything went right... a bad sign. Nothing portends disaster more than everything going right.

Easy subletter in New York, smooth flight to Miami, promises of “meet you at the airport/seaport” for the whole trip. $10 a night accommodations in Guyana, the rest free.

Uh oh! Too good. The better the news, the bigger the fall later. And things get worse. (Better) The Miami trip goes so smoothly you could cry.

Then on to Trinidad, where my friends pick me up at the airport, take me around drinkin'.Then I moved South, some fun adventures, a Goddess... er... Empress of a girl. Back to the airport and the flight to Guyana.

One thing after another... clicking into place. It's sort of like a Bingo game in reverse. Only when you do NOT get the blocks in a row can you call BINGO. If things come together in a straight line, one after the other, vertically, horizontally, diagonally, that's normal. That's losing. When things DON'T click... when they DON'T work out. That's BINGO.

The plan for Guyana is: My facebook friends from KEEP YOUR DAY JOB! will meet me at the airport. From there, we go to Jamal's place. This is the only time have to pay for a place to sleep: 15 days for $150US. Not bad. I'll have my own room and cool company.

Customs to leave Trinidad is a breeze. The plane is on time. We take off and land at the small airport in Georgetown. I'm one of the first to get off the plane, but I'm having a bit of difficulty organizing my few bags. A few people pass me, as I make my way to the immigration line. There are three lines: GUYANESE CITIZENS, CARIBBEAN NATIONALS, OTHER VISITORS. I get on the line for OTHER VISITORS... BINGO!

Immigration is hell. My “room” turns out to be a mattressless space on a hard wood floor -- with a roommate. Nasty.

The cast of characters is NOT NASTY, however... I LIKE 'EM ALL:

Gavin and Ryan are Keep Your Day Job! the only punk band in Guyana. They meet me at the airport, take me to rock'n'roll karaoke, get me drunk. The plan is to stay here until October 26, then head with the band to Suriname. They'll be the only punkband in a metal festival. I'll roadie or do merch. It'll get me over to the next country with company and it'll be PUNKROCK.

The two weeks of my stay in Guyana are adventure-filled, and beer-dulled. Then the band has a drummer problem. Two drummers agreed to go with them. One a close friend, the other more PUNKROCK. They ditch the friend for the punkrock drummer. He bails at the last minute. The now former-friend does not answer emails. I cannot play drums. This cannot work out.

Gamely they (we) soldier on. We take a 4AM packed van five hours to the ferry to Suriname. Then, on the other side of the river, after a long wait, we get to immigration and customs. We're supposed to meet another van here to travel the hundred or so miles to Paramaribo, the capital.

The band isn't supposed to be working in Suriname. We've prepared a story about playing at a party. Just as we're about to leave the terminal, a customs agent points to the guitars and calls Ryan and Gavin aside. He escorts them to a private room. Uh oh! ]

I wait in the main room... alone. They're gonna get deported, I know it... Turned around... Sent back on the next ship to Guyana... I'll be stranded here... our ride to the capital left without us.

I wait... they're still in there talking. I wait some more. Someone (the bus driver?) comes in looking around.

“You looking for the Guyanese to Paramaribo?” I ask.

He nods.

I tilt my head toward the office.

“They're in there,” I tell him. “I think there's a problem.”

He looks grave, but as often happens in narratives compressed for space, just then the pair walk out.

“So you gotta go back?” I ask.

Gavin looks at me like he doesn't get it.

“Immigration,” I explain. “You had trouble because of the guitars.”

He laughs. “No Mykel,” he says, “the guy was helping us. He said that if we register the guitars coming into the country, we won't have a problem when we leave. There might be an export or import tax if they think we bought them in Suriname. The guy was really nice and helpful... Relax man, everything will be cool.”

“You're coming to play a show you didn't rehearse,” I don't say, “in a band without a drummer, where the members are arguing, where the bus has probably left without us, where the promoter paid for a hotel for you and you can't play and so have no place to stay... and everything will work out? It CAN'T work out.”

The bus is still waiting. We climb into it and take the slightly better streets from the port into Paramaribo. The bus lets us off in front of a rather nice hotel/motel.

Off the bus, in the open space in front of the hotel/motel is a table full of heavy metalers. It's DISQUIET, the headlining band.

[Note: this publicity shot features their OLD bass player. The new one you'll see later. In the farewell picture:

“Dag,” I say, as we pass them, stretching my Dutch to its limits.

“Are you guys from French Guiana?” asks one of the two with long hair.

“No,” I say. “We just came from the other Guyana.”

“Oh,” he says, “you're Keep Your Day Job.”

“Keep Your Day Job Exclamation Point,” says Gavin.

“It's just the three of you?” he says.

“Just the two of them,” I answer. “I'm not in the band. I'm just along for the ride.”

“We lost our drummer,” says Gavin. “We have to find a new one here.”

The conversation stops at that point as the members of the other band suddenly freeze.

Gavin goes in to talk with the hotel/motel manager. He opens our room. Wow! Kitchenette, two bedrooms, air conditioning, shower, cable TV. Paid for by the promoter. Yeah, right. Wait until he finds out we don't have a drummer.

The promoter, Jerry, is a cool dude. Long hair in a pony tail, sun-glasses, friendly. He's some shade of brown as are most people here.

[NOTE: Surinamese are a giant spectrum that you just can't divide into white and non-white. Even more than Guyana, this is an oozing still-melting pot of various shades and types... and because of the Dutch history, there's a lot of Javanese (Indonesian... former Dutch colony) in the mix. That means most people have an Oriental caste improving their already multi spectrum of color. Also the Dutch genes give the people a height boost over their neighbors. I spend a lot of time looking up.]

His wife is a late 30s thin white woman. She's pretty, with tattoos in the right places, and a shock of grey running through her dark hair. Like Lilly Munster on TV

(That's Lilly Munster in the picture, NOT Jerry's wife.)

We meet them briefly, on arriving. After we unpack in the motel room, Gavin goes to talk to Jerry about the KYDJ! situation.

He comes back with a grave look on his face.

“We've been canceled,” he says. “We can't play at all. AHDD will play instead of us.”

“I told you,” I don't say. “You can't just show up as 2/3 of a band and expect to pick up a drummer, rehearse once and play a show.”

“Is he still going to pay for our hotel?” I do ask.

“I don't know,” says Gavin. “It doesn't matter. We're going to play.”

“But the promoter said you were canceled,” I say. “They'll call the cops or something if you try to play.”

“We're going to play,” he says.

Ok, we can just sit here and mope. We need a Parbo moment. The giant bottles of Surinamese beer I'd only heard about. Now, the answer to most problems... most depressing facts... most of life's disappointments is... BEER!! Look at the size of that one! (TNWSS)

After the Parbo, there are a few phone calls. Gavin contacts Jose from ADHD, the band that's replacing KYDJ! The band will rehearse tonight, learn some KYDJ! songs and split the stage with them. They'll be one rehearsal tonight. Then one at 10 in the morning the next day.(Jose is working the stage at the big show. He's he's got to be there at 1PM to help with the set up.) Then, we'll ask Jerry if BOTH bands can play as a unit.

“We'll call it PUNK AS FUCK,” says Gavin. “The two bands together are PUNK AS FUCK.”

“This'll never work,” I don't say.

Later that night, Jose whispers to me about KYDJ! “Those guys suffer from a case of dangerous optimism.”

I nod in agreement.

Jose picks us up in his car. Punkrock bursting from the radio. Some stuff (most) I've never heard... I'm old school... aka OLD. Then come the Dead Kennedy's... Too drunk... too drunk... too drunk to fuck! Yeah.

Then it's on to meet the rest of the band at Jose's parents' place. He pulls up to the door and the other guys in his band follow. Dad comes out to talk to them. They speak in Dutch, so I don't have a clue what they're talking about.

Shavero, their drummer who came to Paramaribo from Bumfuck Suriname just for this show, translates for me.

“Jose's dad doesn't want us to rehearse here,” he says. “It's too late and the neighbors will complain.”

More KYDJ! bad luck. But I'm not saying anything.

“We'll just grab the stuff and move to someone else's parents' house,” says Shavero.

We grab the amps, drums, hardware, guitars, load 'em into the cars, drive somewhere, to some one else's parents' back yard set everything up again.

“Okay everybody,” says Gavin, “you know Smells Like Teen Spirit?”

And he teaches them. Actually, he and Ryan play it and Shavero picks it up. It takes a couple run throughs, but he's got it. AND Blitzkrieg Bop, Last Caress, and KYDJ!'s own songs including my favorite JUST LIKE YOU. Yeah, it's a little rough around the edges, but with tomorrow's rehearsal they'll have it down. Seven songs... not a full set, but with ADHD's songs, it'll be a complete PUNK AS FUCK set.

I'm still skeptical, but it is looking up. Tomorrow they could make or break it... they still have to convince Jerry to let them play. He seemed pretty pissed off... and his wife even more so?

“You thought you could just show up?” she asked, “Without calling or anything. Just show up with no drummer?”

She was trying hard to be nice. Not say the I know, you wanted free food, a free hotel and a vacation in Suriname. THAT's why you didn't call. Actually, she showed more self-control than most. I think an American promoter would've thrown 'em off a bridge.

After the rehearsal, we're off to the action part of town. Beer, local punk rockers, everything we need. On the way, Jose gives us a tour.

He points to a place with a Spanish name. Over the sign is what looks like a neon exploding star. Bright white, with rays shooting from the center.

“See that star?” he asks. “That's what you look for. That's the mark.”

“The mark of what?” asks Ryan.

“Whorehouses,” he answers. “Those are the whorehouses. That's how you know.”

Though I would like to see a strip club. (I LOVE strip clubs.) A whorehouse requires a little more commitment than I'm ready to make.

“Are we going there now?” I ask. “I'd rather go to a strip club.”

“Nope,” he says, “first, we'll go for some chicken.”

“Is that legal in Suriname?” I ask.

He doesn't get it.

But we do:

Kentucky, yep. Kentucky fried, nope. GOLDEN KENTUCKY! Nas Kip!!

After the friend chicken I ask, “Are we going to the strip club now?”

“No,” says Jose, “it's Friday night. We're going to the bank.”

Of course, he's kidding... NOT.

We pull into a bank parking lot. And it's filled with punk rockers... skaters... music blasting from car radios. Ramp tricks,girls winin', and a ton of locals who will become my friends. Shavero is there. As is Spit... who gets his own personal lapdance. There's rum, coke, ice, Parbo. It's like Drink Club in Suriname. It's what my first night in a country should be like. It's what they ARE like (Trinidad, Guyana, Brazil, Tokyo, Copenhagen) when I love the country. [Hint: they were NOT like this in Austria, Italy or Hong Kong]

Here's the crew at the bank... or some of us anyway. From right to left:

I don't know, Spit, Jose, I don't know, Gavin, Ryan, Shavero. I'm behind the camera.

We get back to the hotel very late, and very drunk. Jose does not wreck the car on the way home. We do not go to a strip club (yet).

Remember, we have to get up to be at the rehearsal at 10AM. Without that rehearsal there is no way they can pull off the show.

“Mykel?” through the morning beer fog I recognize Ryan's voice. “You've got to get up. It's 10:15. We have to go.”

“I... er... still have to take care of a couple things,” I mumble, hopefully loud enough. “The beer and rum, you know.”

“Hurry,” says Ryan. “Gavin's already called a cab.”

 

I'm just finishing (zipping) up when the cab pulls up. Gavin sits in the front seat. Ryan and I sit in the back.

 

“We're going to Tibitistraat number one,” Gavin tells the driver.

The driver says something in Dutch.

“I only speak English,” says Gavin.

The driver makes a phone call. There is some discussion in Dutch. The driver pushes the off button on the phone.

“You know where you're going?” asks Gavin.

The driver does not nod, but he does start the cab and head into the street. He's off to a small airport. Home to Guyana airlines. But NOT where we're going.

“Tibitistraat. Tibitistraat.” says Gavin.

The driver rolls down the window and asks a man standing near something in Dutch... I catch the word Tibiti.

The driver turns into what looks like a suburban development. There is Taibitiestraat. He turns down that street and looks for the number.

“Not Taibiti,” says Gavin, “TIBITI!” He shows him a piece of paper with the name written on it. The driver looks at the paper. It's clear he cannot read.

He leaves the street and returns to the airport. He makes a phone call. The discussion is longer this time. The driver nods several times and takes off.

“You know where you're going now?” asks Gavin.

“Leave him alone,” I say. “I think he's got it now.”

I'm wrong.

We're back on Taibitiestraat. We need to call Jose and ask him to explain to the cab driver how to get to his place. None of us has credits on our phones. It's an international call... our phones are Guyanese.

The driver, in the meantime, is looking for number one. Each of us in the car takes a turn saying TIBITI not TAIBITIE. The driver nods and returns to the airport.

Gavin sees a phone, obviously belonging to the driver. “The number here. What's your number?”

“Wat is Ur nummer?” I say in my best Dutch.

The driver understands... and reels off a bunch of numbers in Dutch. I don't understand. None of us do.

“Type it in your phone here,” says Gavin, pointing to the driver's phone. He does.

Gavin has just enough credits in his phone for a 30 second call to Jose. He makes the call.

“We're in a cab with an idiot,” he says.

Jose says something.

“No, not Mykel,” he says, “the driver. Call him and give him directions.” He gives him the number.

Before long the drivers phone rings. He's clearly speaking with Jose. The driver nods... hangs up the phone and heads back to Taibitiestraat.

I knew it. This show was doomed. God doesn't want the band to play and she'll do anything in her power to stop it. Get real. Life is not a movie. Everything does NOT work out in the end. Some things just don't happen.

I don't say any of this, though. By now we've been riding in circles for nearly an hour.

“Wait,” says Ryan, “I think I have enough credits in my phone to text a message. I'll text Jose to call the driver again.” (In case you're wondering, the driver has since communicated to us that he too, has run out of phone credits.)

Ryan sends the text.

Jose calls the driver. They talk some more. Some more Dutch. Even if I spoke more than Dank Je, it wouldn't help. I have no sense of direction... and I've only been to the place once... last drunken night!

The driver nods some more. Drives some more. We pass the airport again. But this time a left turn, rather than a right turn. And there it is: not Tibitstraat, but Jose-- waiting on a corner in front of some landmark. He hands the driver a map of the city.

We get out of the cab. Gavin pays the driver the agreed upon $30SD. And we walk to Jose's house. It's 12:45. Jose has to go to work at one.

BANG! The guys are into the practice. Still pretty rough, but they've got two passible songs.

“We have to leave in two minutes,” says Jose.

“Hold on, just a minute,” begs Gavin.

It's 20 minutes, but they finish the set. Not only that, they play the show... open the whole thing, six smooth songs, one slightly rough, but not bad... AHDD plays a fine set to end the punk segment. The other bands are metal, not my taste in music, but all fun.

You can see my photos from the giant show here. Just click on the picture below:

Paramaribo Metal Show

Lesson learned: If you learn to ignore reality, you can do anything. I guess I've spent my whole life following that lesson, but it took a pair of 20-something punk rockers from Guyana to drive it home.

More on Suriname next blog entry.

-end-

[You can read previous travel blog entries below.

You can subscribe to this blog by clicking the RSS link at the bottom or by joining the Yahoo group for readers of Mykel Board's rants

You might also want to check the blog of Mykel Board's Columns .

WARNING: The column blog is not PG. It might make you mad, or disgusted. The thin-skinned, politically correct, and easily sickened should probably stay away. You have been warned.]