Mykel's Caribbean Blog: CHAPTER SIX: The Road to Suriname

by Mykel Board

ENTRY SIX
October 24, 2013- October 26, 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 plan is to stay at the Hollywood (FLA not LA) home of my long-term friend and sometimes partner in crime, Sharon I. With a couple small exceptions. The Miami trip went so smoothly you could cry.

Then on to Trinidad, where my friends picked me up at the airport, took me around drinkin'.Then I moved to the South of the country, 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.

I leave for Guyana tomorrow. 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 I'll be paying 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. The Air Conditioning blows luke warm. After a good drinking first night in the country, it turns very NASTY.

The cast of characters is NOT NASTY... 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. I'll be a 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. The time approaches for the move to Suriname]

First to backtrack:

Friday October 18, 2013

It's fan-hitting time. I type this at Jerries Tight & Sweet, a small chain of air conditioned coffee shop type places. Friendly staff, beer (I'm drinking a Jamaican-made TROPICAL RHYTHMS juice right now.) AC... The day started after a nice Benadryl induced sleep. Up, breakfast downstairs, coffee, eggs and sausage, facebook. Upstairs, S-S-S and prepare to meet Ryan at 1:30 at THE MALL, our meeting spot and a place in town I know well.

1PM I get a call from Ryan. “Can we make it 2:30? I have to help my mother with something.”

Okay, that'll give me time to fuck around on facebook a bit more. Since I'm the only one in the room now I can head over to XVIDEOS and enjoy myself.

First Xvideos... I look up tight and sweet... ah, that's better. Then to Facebook. There's a message from my Danielle, my subletter:

Hi Mykel,

I hope you're having a good time in your travels. Alan, the super, left a note for everyone. They want to have the bedbug dogs in to do an inspection. I will be away for the weekend. He asked me to leave the keys with him. I know that you told me you don't want the super in your apartment while you're away, so I don't know what to do. For the record, I'm not happy that you didn't tell me your neighbors had bedbugs.

I'll be happy to leave the keys with the super. If you don't want me to, let him (email address here) know and cc me.

Great, something else to worry about. What do I do? There've been two bedbug inspections and I was there for each one. The dogs found nothing... but if I'm not there... they can find anything... they can bring it in with them. And, though I like my landlord, I don't like the idea that he can come into my apartment at any time.

But, I gotta do what's right:

Danielle, I apologize for not letting you know about the neighbor's problem. I do say, my apartment was inspected twice and they found nothing... and not only that, the whole line (2D, 3D, 4D and my apartment 5D) were found to be bed-bug free. In any case, it's best for your (and my) peace of mind if we give him the keys. That way you can be sure there are no problems.

“Sure there will be problems,” i don't tell her, “I'll have to go home early, clear out my apartment, live out of a dumpster”

October 22:

I'm a bit worried about the drummer problem. The band can't play without a drummer. I can't go to Suriname unless the band plays there. Avinash (I called him Azzis in previous blog entries) has a soca band (and several others... he's something of a prodigy). They have a show scheduled for the same night we leave Guyana. He can't come.

“I asked another drummer,” Gavin tells me. “He's played with us before. He can make it. The only problem is that he doesn't have a passport.”

“Won't that make it difficult to enter another country?” I ask. “Even a light borders, they usually ask for a passport.”

“We've got ways,” he answers. “He can come in a little below the immigration spot. Nobody will know.”

Sounds sketchy.

I'd been promised a home-cooked meal since I got here. Tonight's the night. We're going to hang out at Avinash's place. His mom is a great cook. Real Guyanan-Indian food, not what you buy in the store.

Avinash lives near OMG!, a quiet sports bar that serves tap beer. (I think they took their exclamation point from Keep Your Day Job!) It's a good place for conversation, and though bright on the outside, it's rather mellow on the inside:

When we arrive at Avinash's place we do NOT sit around the table while mom serves. We go to Avinash's room and watch punkrock videos on his laptop computer.

I hear some discussion outside. I can't make out the words. Before long, Avinash's mom brings in a plate with 2 inches of macaroni and cheese. Just one plate... for me.

“Er,” I stutter, “is this dinner? I mean, thanks and all, but isn't anybody else going to eat?” I take a mouthful.

“Mmmm, it's delicious,” I tell her. “But it's too much just for me.”

I hand the plate to someone else.

“Nobody told me about this dinner,” says Mom. “It's the only thing I had. Look, come next Tuesday, and we'll have a real dinner. Roti, curry, the best of Guyanese-Indian.”

I look around me. No one says a thing... but mom gets it.

“Oh yes,” she says, “they're invited too. Everyone's invited.”

After the get together in Avinash's room, Gavin, Ryan and I go to OMG! for drinks. That's when they have THE CONVERSATION^©.

That's Gavin on the left and Ryan on the right:

Ryan: Avinash can make it now. He changed his schedule. We should bring him, right?

Gavin: We already told Nicholas that he could come.

Ryan: Avinash knows the songs he's played with us more than Nicholas.

Gavin: Avinash is a soka player. Nicholas is punkrock.

Ryan: Avinash is a better musician... and a closer friend, right?

Gavin: Avinash! Avinash! Avinash! You have him in front of your face, floating in a cloud all the time. He just isn't punkrock.

Ryan: He told me we are his only friends.

Gavin: Maybe he's YOUR friend. But I don't like Avinash. He's not punk. He won't fit in...

Ryan: But he's played with us before.

Gavin: Ok, Keep Your Day Job is YOUR band. You can do what you want. You want Avinash, we'll have Avinash.

Ryan: No, I didn't mean that. It's just that I told Avinash he could come. I thanked him for changing his plans. We asked him first, right?

Gavin: Nicholas agreed first. Look, you do what you want. I'll take care of everything EXCEPT telling the drummer. You do that. Say whatever you want.

Ryan: But...

Gavin: It's over. You're in charge of the drummer situation now.

We finish our beers and leave the bar in uncomfortable silence. The next day Ryan gives Avinash the bad news.

There goes my home-cooked meal, right?

Not exactly.

OCTOBER 21: we go to Avinash's place for dinner as planned. It is not comfortable.

Avinash's extended family: mom, dad, sister, brother-in-law, sister's son, and more. All sitting around the table. Everyone, except Avinash. He's eating in his room... by himself.

No one mentions him at the dinner. Conversation is about New York, mosquitoes, something to do with cricket, and the weather. The food is delicious, best home cooked meal so far... but the atmosphere is... well... weird.

[Note: there are only three kinds of weather in the Caribbean: HOT, RAINY, or HOT AND RAINY. Yet, complaining about the weather is a favorite pastime... as if each day were somehow different than the day before.]

Avinash comes out of this room wearing a smile. He scoops a second helping of curry on to his plate. Then he brings it back to his room and shuts the door. A new guest arrives at about 8:30. Vaguely oriental looking, he's thin, handsome with glasses that have very thick lenses.

“This is peeps,” Ryan introduces him. “Peeps, this is Mykel. He's from New York. He's seen The Beatles.”

After dinner, we retire to the parlor. Avinash comes out of his room. He is smiling... joking with his his sister... speaking with mom and dad... says hi to me... doesn't speak to Ryan or Gavin... we talk about the weater, New York, the curry dinner and whether it was too spicy for the white guy from New York.

“It wasn't when I ate it,” I say. “Excuse me... where's the washroom.” They laugh.

I'm gone 20 minutes, but feel a whole lot better when I return.

Oct 23: Get up late. Do the usual morning things. Have coffee and breakfast downstairs. Then THE PHONECALL^© comes. It's Ryan. He gets right to the point.

“Mykel,” he said, “Nicholas backed out. He said that if he came with us he'd lose his job. We don't have a drummer.”

“So what are you going to do now?” I ask.

“We'll have to ask Avinash again,” he says. “I don't think he'll do it, right?”

You bet your punk assets he won't do it. You told him he could come. He changed his music plans. Then you told him he couldn't come. Rejection from his only friends. If it was you, would you come? I don't say any of this.

[NOTE: This just in from Gavin. Here's his take on the whole thing, which is probably more accurate than mine, since he was the insider, I was listening and barely understanding, from the outside:

Avinash did NOT change his music plans. He never got a replacement, which is why he couldn't come with us in the first place - so we had to ask Nick. Then after Nick backed out, it was just a final hope that maybe he could still find the replacement, but he still couldn't. So we didn't put him at any inconvenience by telling him he couldn't come .. because he COULDN'T come.]

The rest of the day is a blur. Walked into town to hang out at Jerries Tight and Sweet. Wrote a lot there.

[Positive point.. even though I've been way too facebook (not to mention xvideos) I have written a lot in Guyana. A travel piece for Street Carnage, a diary blog entry that brings me to the Guyana airport, and a post-MRR column explaining why the way you think is wrong. I wish I were that productive at home.]

Oct 24: Last full day in Guyana, I think

At 6AM Jamal's phone alarm goes off. As loud as a car alarm, it rings. Stops just long enough to think it's over, then starts again. An awful BING BANG BING BING. It doesn't wake Jamal.

I fumble for the zipper between the hammock and the mosquito netting, sliding it open, I right my body in the swinging hammock... let my feet touch the floor... slide out and crawl to Jamal's phone. By now I'm an expert in shutting the thing off. I continue to the bathroom, take care of my morning bladder, slip back into the hammock and fall into a fitful sleep.

At noon, Danielle texts me from New York saying that she's been to the post office and taken care of everything else. The landlord has the keys to my apartment and he'll let the dogs in to check for bedbugs. If the results are negative (logic says they should be, they've been negative so far), Danielle gets the keys back when she returns on Monday. If they find bugs (Mykel Boardism says they should)... I'm screwed. Party's over. Go back home, pack up everything (it'll take weeks), and let 'em spray out the bugs.

From 1 to 3 I pack up, take down the hammock, put away the electronics, charge up my camera and phone. Spend an hour on facebook.

At 3 I take a walk into town. Jamal's apartment is the only reliable source of AC (except for Jerries). But there, it's such a strain to get myself to write. I need to at least do something that's not Facebook. I walk to the post office to mail a couple of postcards. On the way back I stop for Royal Castle chicken. It's better in Trinidad. I stop for a banks beer... sitting at a table by myself. Drinking against the heat. A little boy, six or seven years old walks up to me and grabs my sunglasses. I chase the kid, grab him by the shoulder and wrench the glasses out of his hand. They do not break.

At 7 I text Ryan a simple: What's the story?

He calls me back. “Looks like we're going without a drummer,” he says. “We'll just stay at Gavin's tonight and leave in the morning. No rehearsals, right?”

“How do I get to Gavin's?” I ask him. “Should I take a taxi?”

“No,” he says, “I'll take a taxi and pick you up on the way to Gavin's.”

It's now 9:10. I'm packed and waiting. Waiting for the cab and Ryan to take me to Gavin's. Where we'll watch videos of Nirvana, Blink 182, and maybe a GG Allin or two... and wait. Wait until morning when we'll travel to Suriname, the only country I need a visa for. It's a long hard trip. With no idea what happens next.

9:26 Gavin calls. No nothing has changed. It's just that Jamal called him and told him he met this girl and he's trying to score so could I please have all my stuff out of the room by the time he gets back so I won't disturb them.

“No problem,” I lie.

Everything is a problem.

9:45 Gavin texts: Ryan is taking too long to pack. You'll take everything you have and come here directly. I'll call you in half an hour.

10:30 I arrive at Gavin's house by taxi. The driver is angry because I put my bags on the ground to leave the building, and then put them on the seat of his cab.

“People got to sit there, man,” he says. “Wattsa matter wid you?”

He's lucky there is no tipping in Guyana... or maybe I'm lucky.

“The bus is going to pick us up at 4 tomorrow,” says Gavin when we sit in the living room.

“That's good,” I tell him, “that'll give me the morning to take care of a few things in town. I want to go to the post office and the bank, and get something to eat for the trip.”

I guess he doesn't hear me.

“Where do I sleep?” I ask him. “Should I stay on the couch?”

“I think we should just stay up,” he says. “There's not that much time. And we can sleep on the bus. It'll just be us, so we'll have room to sleep.”

It's then I realize that the 4 o'clock is IN THE MORNING.

Ryan arrives at about 1AM.

For the next three hours, the two of them play video games. I try to sleep in an easy chair in the living room. It's not easy.

The bus comes at just after four. It's not a bus. It's a van. Room for 8 people and a driver. When the buss arrives there are 6 people inside... and the driver. Three of the people are giants. Pro-wrestler sized and shaped, they tell us they're from Latvia.

“So was my grandmother,” I tell them.

They didn't know her.

To say that the road between Georgetown and the border is bad, is like saying that an amputation is inconvenient. True, but it doesn't tell half the story.

The trip costs less than the $100,000 we expected to pay. It's only $60,000... about $30US... Ryan and Gavin pay for me. The driver hands us tokens that we can use on the other side to pay for the bus from the port to Paramaribo, the capital.

Next is the ferry to Suriname. In order to buy a ticket, we have to wait in a long winding line reminiscent of the line at immigration when I entered Guyana. When we get halfway through the line, Gavin runs off. We're almost to the front of the line when he returns, with a bottle of duty-free Jack Daniels.

Through the ticket/customs line. Ferry boat tickets in hand (Gavin and Ryan paid for me), we get on the boat... more like a barge than a ferry... and cross the river.

On the other side, we again have to wait in a long line at Suriname immigration. Those guys don't need visas to enter the country, I do. It cost me $100 US. It'd better work.

[FACTOID: In the 1600s the Dutch and British traded. The Dutch got Suriname. The British got New York.

“I guess I should tell them we're here to play at a party or something,” I say. “I don't think you're allowed to work in Suriname.”

“That's right,” says Gavin, “Tell him we're just going to play at a party.”

“I got in trouble in Mexico,” I say. “I was crossing the border with a band and we had guitars. They thought we were going to work in Mexico illegally. Can you believe it? The Mexicans thought Americans were illegally entering Mexico to work.”

He didn't get the irony.

Once we reach the front of the line in Suriname, my passport is stamped. Gavin and Ryan's are stamped. We head out to find the bus that our tokens are good for. A man in a uniform blocks our way.

“You with the guitars,” he says, pointing to Gavin and Ryan. “Step inside that room there.” He points to a little room on the side of the immigration office.

Uh oh, here it comes.

-end-

[You can read previous travel blog entries below.

You can subscribe to this blog by clicking the RSS link at the bottom.

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 FIVE: Two Weeks in Guyana

by Mykel Board

ENTRY  FIVE

October 12, 2013- October 23, 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 plan is to stay at the Hollywood (FLA not LA) home of my long-term friend and sometimes partner in crime, Sharon I. With a couple small exceptions. The Miami trip went so smoothly you could cry.

Then on to Trinidad, where my friends picked me up at the airport, took me around drinkin'.Then I moved to the South of the country, 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.

I leave for Guyana tomorrow. 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 I'll be paying 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 leaves 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 next to a drug factory-- with a roommate. The Air Conditioning blows luke warm. After a good drinking first night in the country, it turns very NASTY.

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

Gavin and Ryan, from Keep Your Day Job! They met me at the airport, took me to rock'n'roll karaoke, got me drunk. The plan is to stay here until October 26, then head with the band to Suriname. I'll be a roadie or do merch. It'll get me over to the next country with company and it'll be PUNKROCK.

Jamal, my host and roommate is a character, known and loved all over the city. He cannot make a complete statement unless it includes at least one reference to a penis.]

FAST FORWARD: I type this on the balcony of Jamal's place in Georgetown. It's my last night here before I go to Suriname tomorrow. The still air is punctuated with bird calls, barking dogs, crickets, car horns, an occasional blast of rap or reggae from a car radio. The lights flicker as the electricity decides whether to live or die.

The only smell in the humid air is my own body: a sickly sweet smell of sweat and insect repellant. The vague odor of piss comes and goes. I can't tell if it belongs to me, or just hangs in the heavy air. My laptop rests on top of my lap. Sweat puddles between my legs. I itch in the good parts. I'm waiting. Waiting for a phone call announcing a cab... departing from Ryan's place, coming to pick me and my bags up. I've been here for two weeks. It's been some stay!

The plan was for me to spend my last night here. Then stay tomorrow at Gavin's house. Then take the bus with the band... all the way to Suriname. Yesserree, that's the plan....

But now lets return to those early days of my stay in the country. The first night, I sleep on my own sheet on the hardwood floor of Jamal's apartment. The air conditioning burbles out lukecool air. The next morning, I don't feel so good. Jamal notices.

[DIALECT NOTE: Most of the people are bi-dialectal... probably from watching American movies on TV. They speak an almost incomprehensible dialect to one another, but to me their English sounds like the boy next door. A few people cannot change, and that's a problem... for me. Strangely, many people refer to their own dialect as “broken English.” It ain't broken. I tell 'em. It's just different.]

“I'm sorry, Mykel,” he says. “I thought those dicks would have told you about the room. They told me you had a sleeping bag or something.”

“I have a hammock,” I tell him. “I don't think I can lay a hammock on the floor.”

“No problem,” he says, “you can swing your penis in a hammock. Don't worry. I'll help you set it up.”

That afternoon, Gavin and Ryan come to visit. Together we manage to rig the hammock by tying the ends to the window gates at right angles in the corner of the room.

And yes, it's as comfortable as it looks. Plus, that window... the bright one... faces east... perfect to catch the light as the sun comes up at 6AM. At least now, my sweat puddles in the curve of the hammock rather than on the floor.

I've got to give Jamal credit. He really does work hard to make things okay. The next day he's got the air conditioner dismantled. The filter out. It's opaque from caked on Guyanese humidity and the muddy dust that fills the normal air. Pow! He's scrubbing away. Every space, sieved out, cleaned, nearly knuckle bleeding. And that's not enough. He's in the actual machine. Behind the filter. Half filled with frozen ice... chipping away with his fingers, an errant piece of metal, anything.

“Why don't you wait an hour?” I suggest. “The ice will melt.”

He takes a break. The ice melts.

After the operation the AC does indeed work better. The next morning it's freezing in there.

Days pass, usually with the same routine: I wake up at 6 with the sun in my face and the pressure of last night's beer on my bladder. I stumble out of the swinging hammock, relieve my bladder, and stumble back into the hammock.

Then I sleep again until around 10:30. Then up, go downstairs to breakfast where they already know to whip up sausage and egg on a roll. Then it's into town carrying my computer in a just-purchased backpack that fell apart the second day I had it. I've since sewn it together, but it doesn't look very permanent.

A few errands in town, the post office, the bank, a bookstore, shopping for a wallet. Then to Jerries:

 

I'll bet he is!

for some time on the internet and some food and drink. Then back to Jamal's and wait until 9 o'clock or so... THEN, the day begins.

For a couple nights, we hit the same bars as on my arrival. I feel like a regular: the guys saying high and giving me the high five. I do not sing at Karaoke.

Tonight's a special night. Kyle (the only one with a car, last blog entry I called him Caleb) is a tall friendly guy whose been the designated drunk driver as he's the only one with a car. Easy going, likeable, always drunk, the last time I saw him he was pissing in the street while talking on his cellphone. More context for that later.

Tonight we're going to GRAVITY. The best club in Guyana. Kyle is driving. I'm with Jamal, Gavin, and Ryan. We park a little way from the club and walk to it.

“Taxi? Taxi?” people shout at us as we walk.

I don't get it. We're walking TOWARDS the club. It's half a block away. Why would we need a taxi?

We enter through the downstairs. Just inside the front door, a very big bouncer-looking guy frisks us with a one of those e-paddles like they use in the airport if you beep when passing through the metal detector.

He looks at Ryan and me.

“No hats,” he says.

We take off our hats.

“No hats,” he repeats, at a louder volume.

Kyle translates.

“You can't bring a hat into this place,” he says, “even if you're not wearing it?”

“Do they think I'm going to assault someone with a hat?” I ask. “Rub the felt in their eyes? Choke a girl on the headband?”

He shrugs and hands us the carkeys.

Ryan and I walk back to the car, leave our hats on the seat, return to the club, where the same guy frisks us again. From there it's onto a line for the elevator... the only way in or out of the place. (I DO NOT think FIRE!)

Upstairs the elevator opens on HELL.

 

Imagine the worst thumping disco/house music you've ever heard. Now imagine it played through the kind of speakers they used to torture Iraqis during the Gulf war. So loud it makes your ears bleed. Now imagine a décor that looks like a high tech bathroom... everything neon, tiled, lit blue. Now image the worst rum you've ever forced down... served without a mixer... each drink costing more than a hernia operation. Got it? Now multiply it by ten. NOW you've got it.

It looks like every white person in Guyana is here. Untouchably attractive local women too. Yuck!

Jamal jumps right in. Finds an attractive girl and starts bumping and grinding and rum drinking. Gavin, Ryan, and I, all feel the same way. We escape through a door to a balcony. The speakers outside are cranked slightly less... perhaps fire alarm volume... Ryan and Gavin sit on a couple of uncomfortable ottomans, the last two. I sit on the edge of a huge concrete planter... more comfortable than standing.

Several Russian-mob looking guys roam through the outside crowd. They look very serious in their suits and ties... the only ones not dressed disco.

We sip our bad rums.

One of the suits comes up to me. “Get down from there,” he says pointing to the concrete planter.

I do.

“Get me outta here!” I plead to Gavin and Ryan. We leave to go to

someplace more congenial. We end up at what the Guyanese call a rum shop. It's like a liquor store with tables. We buy a bottle of rum, some coke, mix and have a grand ole time.

Kyle's the one who notices the name of the place. I guess it's named for a penetration problem caused by the imbibing of too much rum. You can see it on the bottom of the sign.

The next night we go to Buttsey's: Me, Ryan, Addevi (an Indian Guyanese girl I wrote about last time: smart, funny, scatological... in the best way possible... it could be love.)

It turns out that Buttsey's will be my favorite restaurant in the country.

Scummy, in a great scummy way, a couple pool tables. The bar itself looks like a liquor store in a bad neighborhood in LA. Iron gate between the tender and customers. Great plaintain fries, fried shark, and a few unidentifiable but delicious foods.

The local Banks Beer costs about 80¢ a bottle. Wild but friendly dogs scrounge for scraps among the outside tables. Ryan, Addevi and I talk about sex-- or at least strip clubs.

“Lap dances in the states cost about $20.” I complain. “And in most places you can't touch. You have to keep your hands in the air.”

“I went to this place in Georgetown, right?” says Ryan. “And the girl lets you do anything. She puts her chest right up against your face, right? Wiggles like this.” he makes the move. I see the people at the next table laugh.

“Lap dances don't do it for me anyway,” I confess. “I like to watch the girls dance. Do that thing with the pole... but a lap dance. Nah, I stay droopy. Never get my bang for the bucks.”

“I'd give you a lapdance that would get your bang,” says Addevi. “Maybe those girls don't know how to do it right.”

Here we are in front of Buttsey's:

 

It's annoying that the waitress comes and whisks away the bottles as soon as they're empty. You can't see how much you drank. We drink a tableful. Maybe two.

“I'll miss this place in Suriname,” I tell my companions.

At the end of the night, Addevi does NOT give me the perfect lapdance. She's met with some guy at the bar...and they go off together. I go back to Jamal's place.

He's out on the porch drinking with Kyle and some others. “Hey Mykel,” he says, “where you been wavin' your dick tonight?”

I join him and the mosquitoes on the porch. He pours me a drink.

The rest of my time in Guyana is a delicious drunken blur, punctuated with a few moments of lucidity. One is the concert in the park. It's hosted by some radio celebrity. Keep Your Day Job! performs along with another band called COLLAGE. The singer of Collage is so sexy I figure she's gotta be a lesbian.

KYDJ!'s drummer is a fill-in. I forgot his name, but I'll call him Azzis.

“Our real drummer is in Canada,” explains Gavin. “Azzis knows our songs and he can fill in. He can do anything.”

He does a great job.

They play by the SEA WALL, a dyke built by the Dutch, when Guyana was Dutch. It's now a recreation area, with a park nearby and joggers a-plenty along the top of the dyke. Disappointingly, there is no little Dutch boy with his finger stuck in.

A second highlight is the KYDJ! acoustic set at a small “wine bar” in the middle of town. There are about 20 people in the audience when the band starts. They invite me to do guest vocals for BEER IS BETTER THAN GIRLS ARE. There may be a YouTube video of that performance. If there is, I can't find it.

After the song, a handful of women complain to Gavin... then they walk out. Yeah! My kind of reaction. Punk Rock!

Another great, but too short adventure (TWSS) was a daytrip to Kaieteur Falls. That's the highest single-drop waterfall in the world. It's one of two sight-seeing goals I have for the country. (The other is to see a rare bird, native to Guyana, with the Jamal-type name: Cock of The Rock.)

Our small group of travelers to the falls is supposed to meet at the airport. Not at the airport exactly, but at Jerries snackette (Yep, THAT Jerry) right inside the entrance to the airport. I'm an hour early.

Sitting by herself at another table, is an attractive white girl, (oxymoron?), slightly hefty in the right places, she carries a large pocketbook. Twenty-something, dirty blond, the dark pink of a sunburn just rises beneath her sunscreened skin. The amplitude of her chest is squeezed together under a sleeveless vertically stripped top. She wears rubber sandals.

“Going to Kaieteur Falls ?” I ask.

She smiles and nods.

“I think we're supposed to ask for Jude,” I tell her. “I remember the name from that stupid Beatles song.”

She smiles again.

“My name's Mykel,” I tell her, getting up to shake hands with her.

“Oriana,” she says.

It's then that Jude, a guy from the travel agency, shows up.

He takes us to the actual airport entrance. We pass through what looks like a truck parking lot. The airline gate (there is only one) is outside, in front of a chainlink fence. Two people-- one of each gender-- sit at the gate. Both are in uniform.

Already at the gate are several Guyanese-looking people including a hefty Aunt Jemima, and an older couple of indeterminate origin.

I don't have a ticket. Jude has mine and those of others who are traveling with me. He hands them to the woman behind the desk.

“Eye den vacation,” the woman says to me.

“Yes,” I tell her, “I'm on vacation.”

“Gnaw,” she says. (I've been here long enough to know that the locals pronounce NO like gnaw.) “I donnut car uwai yahr hair. I juss need yahr eye den vacation.”

“Give her your passport,” the trip organizer whispers.

I hand it to her.

She copies my name from it onto some note paper.

“New, stahd don de skeel wid yhour bagz.” she motions to an industrial looking platform next to her. I stand on it.

149

She writes it down.

It's the white girl's turn.

“One sixty three?” she says. “Wow. I didn't know I had that much in my bag.” Yeah right.

From the scale, we're ushered into the VIP LOUNGE^®. Soon it's full and the where you from conversations begin. The Guyanese are all expats, living in Miami, New York or Canada. The indeterminate couple are New Zealanders, though the guy was born in Denmark.

“I'm glad there are ten of us,” says the white girl. “I'm afraid of tiny planes... you know like 6 people. They terrify me. I don't like high places in general.”

“You're going on a small plane to a waterfall with no guard rails,” I say. “It's the highest waterfall in the world... and you're afraid of heights?”

She nods.

At 12:30, half an hour early (What do I know about third world? I expected an hour delay.) We board the tiny plane.

I make sure to sit next to Oriana, hoping she'll grab my leg in white-knuckled panic. A little turbulence would help. Maybe we'll go through some storm clouds.

She tells me she's in the Peace Corps. Hmmm. I used to complain that the Peace Corps was a bunch of idealist kids being used by the US government to make third-worlders into America-worshippers. Since then, things have changed. Now it's both sides who are cynical about The Corps.

“I only have to put up with this shit for two years,” I've heard (but not from Oriana). “Then, wowee, my resumé will glisten. Those corporations love that volunteer spirit.”

I donno. This girl seems so nice, innocent and idealistic. Maybe she's a throwback to a better time.

The planetrip is much too peaceful. There's about 30 seconds of shaking, but she grips her OWN leg during that time. Gives me the thumbs up when it's over. Not what I hoped for.

At the falls itself, most of us stand at the edge for our photo ops. Oriana crawls to within 3 feet and sits on the ground for a picture. I show her how it's done.

You can see some more pictures of the falls trip here. Just click on the picture below:

Kaiteur Falls

When we return from the trip, Oriana and I decide to share a taxi back to town. I open my address book to find the number of a cab company. Oriana is looking over my shoulder and sees the addresses there.

“Oh,” she says, “you know Jamal?”

“Everybody knows Jamal,” I tell her.

We split in town and I never see her again.

The next afternoon, I see Jamal sitting with Addevi and this girl I've never seen before. She's very light skinned, wears glasses, sort of attractive, but the kind of attractive that wants to hide... behind glasses, for example. People in this country are such different shades of black and pink, I can't tell if she's a native or not.

“Mykel,” says Jamal, “this is Jocilyn.” He does not make a penis reference. Something is up.

I buy a round of beer and bring it back to the table.

“So Jocilyn,” I say, “what's your story?”

“I'm a Phd student from New York,” she tells me. “I'm doing my dissertation on Caribbean history. I'm here for research.”

She smells of liberal feminism, but I bite my tongue. Or rather try for some casual conversation.

“You ever been to GRAVITY?” I ask her.

She nods.

“Mykel hates that place,” says Jamal.

I nod. “Yeah,” I say, “it's hell.”

She adjusts her glasses.

“You may not like places like that,” she says, “but you can understand why people in third world country like Guyana would like it?”

“It's filled with foreigners,” I don't say. “It's got more bling than a Jay Z concert. It's loud, annoying, expensive.”

Instead, I grit my teeth.

“Let's go to Buttsey's,” I say.

At first she declines, but then gamely joins us. We order more beer. She drinks water.

Ryan and Gavin come later. Jocilyn goes home.

We drink and talk into the night. Casually Gavin says to me. “We have a problem, Mykel. It's with our drummer. Let me tell you about it.”

Wasn't there a scene in a movie that starts with the words Houston, we have a problem? Uh oh, this is gonna be trouble. Damn right it is!

-end-

[You can read previous travel blog entries below.

You can subscribe to this blog by clicking the RSS link at the bottom.

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

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.]