by
Mykel Board
ENTRY
NINE-
TEEN
[Recap:
From the start, it doesn't look good for this trip. Everything goes
right... always a bad sign. Nothing portends disaster like
everything going right.
Easy
subletter in New York... smooth flight to Miami... promises of “meet
you at the airport/seaport”... $10 a night accommodations in
Guyana, the rest free.
Uh
oh! Too good. The better the news early, the bigger the fall later.
And things get worse. (Better) Miami goes so smoothly you could cry.
The only problem is a lot of rain-- heavy rain. The streets are
rivers... waves in the pool. I get wet. Very wet.
Then
to Trinidad, where my friends pick me up at the airport and take me
drinkin'-- and more drinking. It doesn't rain so much in Trinidad.
Then
to Guyana.
In
Guyana, my facebook friends from KEEP
YOUR DAY JOB!
meet me at the airport. The
two weeks of my stay in Guyana are adventure-filled, and beer-dulled.
Most days, it rains. Sometimes for just an hour or two in the
afternoon. Sometimes all day.
“I
don't get it Mykel,” says my pal Jamal. “This isn't the rainy
season.”
“Rainman,”
I say.
He
still doesn't get it.
The
plan is to travel to Suriname with Keep Your Day Job! But, uh
oh... a drummer problem. Two drummers agreed to tour with us. One, a
close friend, the other, more PUNKROCK. They ditch the friend for the
punkrocker. He bails at the last minute. The now former-friend
doesn't answer emails. This cannot work out. We go to Suriname
anyway-- drummerless. It works out.
In
Suriname, I stay with Jose, a punkrock student and his super-generous
parents. They cook for me every day. I'm the guest of honor. It rains
a lot.
Then
it's on to French Guyana, where the brother of one of my top ten
pals, Simon,
lives with his
girlfriend Marie.
His name is Florian.
I
take a small boat across the river that separates French Guiana from
Suriname. The captain lets me choose my port of entry: “legal or
backtrack?” I choose legal. At customs, I annoy the white
immigration officers by asking for a passport stamp. It's raining.
My
first days in French Guyana are distress free... unless you count the
bottom paddling I get from my friends' spare bicycle. I have one of
the best days of the entire trip: canoeing through the Amazon with
Florian as my French guide. Chased by dogs, paddle-blistered hands,
bitten by mosquitoes, stuck in the roots of swamp trees... it's
wonderful.
The
only thing better, I'm told, will be THE CARNIVAL... an all night
festival my hosts and their friends have been working on for months.
Nope.
It
rains... pours... torrents of rain... non-stop. A field of dreams
turned into mud. I was outta there the next day. After a banana boat
ride back to Suriname, I found myself back at the home of Jose and
his family in Paramaribo.]
“What
did you think of French Guyana?” asks Dad. “Pretty primitive
wasn't it?”
“Were
the roads paved yet?” asks mom. “We haven't been there in
awhile.”
“And
the crime?” continues Dad. “Did you feel in danger? Did people
try to rob you?”
“I
think you're confusing it with Detroit,” I tell them.
They
don't get it.
I
explain how I liked the country and found the people friendly, much
like Suriname. The people speak French instead of Dutch... and there
are more French French in French Guiana than there are Dutch Dutch in
Suriname. Otherwise, it's just the same... except... “While I
haven't seen the jungle in Suriname,” I tell them, “I paddled
through it in French Guyana. It was beautiful.”
Uh
oh! Last time I made a casual comment-- about wanting to see the
local synagogue-- I got the whole magila. From kissing the mezuzah to
the post-shabbos Borei Pri Hagafen. I mentioned fishing... and
bang... mom made me the most delicious armored fish soup this side of
the Corentyne River.
(For
an interesting look at the PIRATES in that river between Guyana and
Suriname, check this
out.)
Remember
this picture?
IIt is NOT Ryan who plays guitar in Keep Your Day Job. This is a cool IT/techie guy who'll end up giving me some bootleg... Whoops, I don't want to say any more... the NSA is snooping, don't you know? I'D NEVER DO ANYTHING ILLEGAL! Got that NSA? Me and LEGAL are tight... like that. See ONLY LEGAL! Get it?
armor fish stew
|
What
now? I mention JUNGLE
some- thing's gonna happen. Sometimes, I'm such an idiot.
“Jungle?”
says Dad. “You want jungle? Tomorrow!”
Bang!
We're off the the wilds of the Suranamese jungle... at least the part
we can get to by car... their car. It's a whirl of trees, ports,
weird food... and I forgot to charge the camera battery! I'm so sorry
I didn't get... THE MARKET on film... er... on pixel. You'll have to
settle for Google images.
We
pull up to a local market... on the outskirts of Nowhere... a nothing
village in the middle of No Place. Mom, Dad, Me, the only white(ish)
people for miles. A woman is selling intricately patterned
blue-on-black fabric. Another one has an odd assortment of roots...
many looking like those much
shared internet photos.
“Come
here Mykel,” says mom.
She's
standing next to a large freezer chest... the kind they sold coke out
of before you were born.
Mom
speaks to the native lady. She nods and opens the chest. Ice fog
emerges like in a horror move. Inside are various cuts of meat. Then
I see it. It looks like a baby's shoulder and arm, with a woman's
hand attached... frozen... white as a zombie. There's a ragged cut...
outlined in dried blood... where the shoulder used to attach to a
chest. On the palm of the hand is what looks like a snowcone. I later
find out it's rice.
“Aap
de hand?” asks mom.
The
woman nods.
“It's
a monkey's arm,” says mom. “A delicacy around here. Should I ask
the price for you?”
I
stare at the thing... not really able to answer... in retrospect, I
expect mom was kidding... but at that moment I'm... not horrified...
not shocked or disgusted... just slack-jawed and amazed. And no
camera!
Here's
someone else's picture from the web... it looks a lot less human than
the one in the chest.
Monkey Meat |
It's
a great trip of course. But these people. They're SOOOO nice it
hurts!
Ah,
there's so much more to tell, but my life is also full of other
trips, other adventures with more to come. So I need to speed up this
narrative.
My
next day in Suriname is filled with a Gamelan chase.
I
just happened to mention... to Dad... that an American pal heard
about the Javanese influence in Suriname and wanted to hear some of
that music.
Pow!
Dad is on the phone... calling friends. Then, back into the car...
Jose and I are off with dad, visiting this friend and that friend.
Dad knows everyone in the capital!...Chatting, getting directions...
going here... going there... sleuthing... including an encounter with
a giant snail.
More
sleuthing... finally, a copy of an ancient CD obviously copied from
vinyl. Another trip to find someone who can dupe the CD... a trip
back to the CD owner to return the original.
An
hour... two... three... all for me! Wow! I'm afraid to say anything
else.
“You
really have a lovely home.”
“Oh
Mykel, if you like it. It's yours. I'll draw up the lease transfer.”
No,
that didn't happen, but Dad did arrange for a taxi to pick me up...
at 6AM.
It
was that taxi that picks me up to bring me back to the ferry to
Guyana... a real ferry... with lots of people and tickets and cars on
the boat. The ride is uneventful. Once on the ship, it occurs to me
that I still have to get from the Ferry to Georgetown.
I
have about 400 dollars-- Guyanese dollars. Value? About two US
dollars. I don't think that'll get me very far.
I'm
the only white guy on the boat... and that's the way I like it. Maybe
I can play the stupid-poor-white-guy-in-distress. It won't take a lot
of acting skill.
Here's
a nice guy... fatherly with touches of gray appearing in his
close-cropped hair. Next to him sits his wife... frumpy but
dignified... and kid... a girl about 7, her hair braided in corn
rows.
“Hi,”
I say. “Are you by any chance driving to Georgetown on the way
back?”
“We
are,” says the man.
“Could
you give me a lift?” I ask.
“We
can't,” says the man.
“The
car is full,” he explains, shrugging. “You know, Suriname
shopping. It's cheaper there.”
“I
understand,” I lie.
I
ask another guy, this one younger and hipper.
“Sorry
man,” he says. “I'm here with my mates. (Mates?) What they say
goes.”
The
ship pulls close to the Guyana port. The passengers are in their
cars... engines started. A line of cars has started at the exit ramp
to Guyana. Maybe a dozen wait to leave to ship.
I
walk through the carbon monoxide to the first car in line... Look in
the window... the back seat is filled with zippered plastic bags and
open paper shopping bags. Sitting on the front seat is a man about my
age, a plump woman with very bad teeth, and a little girl. Actually,
the little girl is standing... on the seat... bouncing up and down...
saying something I can't hear through the closed window. She looks at
me... laughs.
I
move to the next car.
This
is the one with the guy and his mates-- all teens or barely
twenties. There are four of them, each with a Red Bull (the drink,
not the animal) in hand. They look like they'd had quite a time in
Suriname. I'm guessing it might be lucky that I can't ride in that
car.
Then,
the third car. In movies... in literature... in eggs... it's
always the third something... that's the payoff. Three wishes, three
curses, three minutes... So this should be the one... life imitates
art, right?
Nope.
This is an ancient Toyota (NOTE: most of the cars in Guyana are
Japanese cast-offs. Since, like Japan, people drive on the left, and
since Japanese cars last longer than Guyanese people... it makes
sense... although it's strange to see people in this English-speaking
country, trying to figure out what メニュー
means
on their touch screen.) The car is a ぽんこつ車.
I'd be amazed if it made it off the boat, let alone all the way to
Georgetown.
Car
number four: This one's also a Japanese car... a bigger one...
SUVish. Mom and dad in the front seat, brother and sister in the
back. No bags... plenty of room for skinny Mykel. Yeah right.
“Are
you going to Georgetown?” I ask the driver through the open window.
He
nods.
“You
got room for one more?” I say in my most pleadingly desperate
voice.
He
turns to his wife. She shrugs. He speaks over his shoulder...to the
boy in the back seat.
“Open
the door for the man,” he says.
Yeah!
Right!
If
you've been following the adventure, you remember that Guyana is the
only place I had to pay for accommodations on this trip... and that
was a measly $10 a day. This time, my KYDJ! friends found me a place
with Ryon... aka Peeps! He's the guy whose parents hosted the nasty
dinner where the band fell apart (or so I thought... You can read
about it here.)
Anyway, here's peeps with his (and my) beverage of choice... probably a BANKS!
Peeps |
IIt is NOT Ryan who plays guitar in Keep Your Day Job. This is a cool IT/techie guy who'll end up giving me some bootleg... Whoops, I don't want to say any more... the NSA is snooping, don't you know? I'D NEVER DO ANYTHING ILLEGAL! Got that NSA? Me and LEGAL are tight... like that. See ONLY LEGAL! Get it?
Ryon's
place will be the scene of my farewell party... the location of the
weird uncle... one of the most interesting guys I meet on this trip
filled with interesting people and... well, you'll find out about it
next month.
-end-
============
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BUT
WAIT! THERE'S MORE! In an ultimately useless effort to rid myself of
apartment junk, I'm giving away CDs, cassettes, VHS videos and more.
Just pay separate shipping and handling. (sorry US addresses only).
The details are here.
]