More than Spanking the Monkey or Mykel's Caribbean Blog Chapter 19

by Mykel Board

ENTRY NINE-

TEEN

Nov, 2013

[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?

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-

============

[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 neither PC nor PG. It might make you mad, or disgusted. The thin-skinned, politically correct, and easily sickened should stay away. You have been warned.

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. ]

PARBO KNIGHTS in White Satin or Mykel's Caribbean Blog Chapter 11

by Mykel Board

ENTRY ELEVEN

Nov 3, 2013- Nov. 12, 2013

A Parbo Night in Paramaribo

[Recap: From the start, it didn't look good for this trip. Everything went 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” for the whole trip. $10 a night accommodations in Guyana, the rest free.

Uh oh! Too good. The better the news before, the bigger the fall later. And things get worse. (Better) The Miami trip goes so smoothly you could cry. The only problem was a lot of rain-- heavy rain. I got wet.

Then on to North Trinidad, where my friends pick me up at the airport, take me around drinkin'. Then, I move South to San Fernando T'dad, have some fun adventures, meet a Goddess... er... Empress of a girl. Go back to the airport and fly to Guyana.

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

The two weeks of my stay in Guyana are adventure-filled, and beer-dulled. Most days, it rained. Sometimes for just an hour or two in the afternoon. Sometimes al day.

“I don't get it Mykel,” Jamal tells me. “This isn't the rainy season.”

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 punkrocker. He bails at the last minute. The now former-friend does not answer emails. I cannot play drums. Uh oh, here it comes. This cannot work out. We go to Suriname anyway. It works out.

In Suriname, I stay with a punkrock student and his super-generous parents. I mention a local synagogue, they arrange a tour. I mention a trip to “the interior,” bang, we're there... surveying monkey meat. When dad can't do it, they get the poor son, Jose, to chauffeur me around, as if he doesn't have enough to do with schoolwork. I can see he hopes for rain... it's a good excuse to stay home. Often there is rain.

Then it's on to French Guyana. There, Florian, the brother of one of my top ten pals, Simon, lives with his girlfriend Marie. Two blog entries ago, I'd just arrived in French Guiana.

BUT, there was a lot I left out of the Suriname adventure. I did a little back-tracking track last time. Through my escape from the Chinese Restaurant Lunch Terrorist Adventure^©, and the general nastiness of being A BAD GUEST.

Last entry, we were right up to my demand to go to PARBO NIGHTS. A beer-sponsored mega-fest with dancers, cheap beer, loud disco, and a most unpunk atmosphere. Jose, my punkrock host, is as anxious to go, as I'd be to go to a Oregon Ducks Football Game-- and that's not very. But he is the host, and Mom and Dad bully him into being THE GOOD HOST, to my BAD GUEST.

Mom and Dad, by the way, have gone so far out of their way to accommodate every little request, that it almost shuts me up... for fear of being taken on a wild ride in search of peanut butter, or something equally arcane. Between Mom's cooking and Dad's tour arranging, they must rank among the top five most accommodating hosts I've ever had. Maybe number one, if you don't count sexual favors... No, I didn't ask!]

FLASH TO TOMORROW, EVE OF PARBO NIGHTS: I want to see the 70s retro folks. I saw 'em on TV. It's a combination of 70s pimp, Sly Stone, and Elvis Presley. Yowsah!

It's about 8 o'clock. Jose's up in his room, way behind on school work. AND he's got this BAD GUEST who he knows wants to see some awful kitch at an event he doesn't have the time or inclination to participate in.

Unfortunately for Jose, it's not raining.

Dad shouts up the stairs: “Hey Jose! Mykel wants to go to Parbo Nights. You should take him before it gets too late.”

Silence.

“Jose,” shouts Dad, louder. “Mykel is waiting.”

The door to Jose's room creaks open. He slowly comes down the stairs.

“So, Mykel,” he says, “what's up?”

“It's PARBO NIGHTS!” I tell him.

He looks skyward.

“Of course,” I say with a pout that would do justice to every girlfriend from here to Timbukthree, “if you really don't want to go, I could stay home and play solitaire on my computer. You really don't have to worry about me.”

Jose says something under his breath. It sounds like feric. I guess it's a Dutch word in a lesson I haven't gotten to yet.

Jose and I pack into his car and we're off. After a few minutes driving, I begin to hear what sounds like distant bombing. BAFOOM! BAFOOM! BAFOOM! Like in the background of old war movies.

“Are there terrorists here?” I ask the beleaguered Jose.

“No, Mykel,” he says. “That's Parbo Nights.”

The sound gets louder, and more rhythmic We pass a large cyclone fence, and gate. The gate vibrates... rattles... BAFOOM! BAFOOM! BAFOOM! Parked cars pack every street in the area. Double parked. Triple parked. Jose circles a block. Then another block. And another. Not a space... not the smell of a space.

We try further and further away. I have no sense of direction, but even if I did, I would have gotten myself lost in the ever widening spiral search for parking. It's at least half an hour before Jose shouts, THERE! And sure enough,-- there's a small grassy place on the other side of a sidewalk. It's between two occupied cars-- their doors swung open into the space. The occupants are eating something out of styrofoam containers. Their legs hang off the seats into our parking space.

“I don't think we can fit there with the doors open like that,” I say pessimistically.

“The doors won't stay open,” says Jose, pulling in, aiming right for them.

He's right.

Blam! The doors close and Jose pulls right into the spot.

“They don't seem so happy about the intrusion,” I say. “Maybe they were setting up a... er... liaisan.”

“Naw Mykel,” says Jose, “this happens all the time.... You ready to hike to Parbo?”

And hike it is. I don't know how he's ever going to find the car again. It must be half a mile away. … more! But here we are, back at the gates. I can't remember if we paid to get in... I don't think so... but I do remember that there is a huge mob of people.

First things first... we go over to the PARBO tent to buy beer.

“Twee bier alstublieft,” I say, proud of my Dutch.

“Wat voor soort bier wil je?” comes the answer

Huh? I THINK that means what kind of beer do you want? but this is Parbo nights, sponsored by Parbo beer. What kind of beer SHOULD I get? And besides, I don't have enough Dutch to ask what are my choices? Should I ask for a Brooklyn Lager?

“Parbo, alstublieft,” I say.

The attractive woman in the Parbo tent hands me two beers. I hand one to Jose.

“Let's get as close to the stage as we can,” I suggest to Jose, beer in hand.

That means crawling through the crowd, shouldering BIG GUYS who don't seem all that friendly, pushing past some horrible white people, probably Dutch tourists, who are more interested in making public displays of possession, than watching the performance.

Eventually we make it to the stage.

On stage is an ordinary guy with two very sexy girls. 

At the back of the stage, a dozen musicians make the music. The trio sort of sings and sort of dances to it. The crowd is sort of singing and sort of dancing too.

Yeah, the girls are sexy, but I'm here for the retros... Ah, there they are... off stage. Some are taking iPhone pictures, others are smoking something, still others are just staring off into space.

Oh no, I missed 'em!! I'd better at least take an off-stage picture.

On stage now are some un-sexy guys. They're singing some kind of music I don't know. Like superfast rap, with a little reggae thrown in, all unintelleg- ible, but so much fun my face hurts.

“What is it?” I ask Jose.

“What is what?” he answers.

“That music!” I say. “I don't know it.”

“It's bubbling,” he answers, with a vocal link to YouTube. “It was popular ten years ago. Where have you been, Mykel?”

Good question. But no time for an answer. Because HERE IT COMES.

Oh yeah! This is what I've been waiting for. At first there are three of them... but wait... there's more:

Yeah! It's everything I'd want in white jump-suited 70s colored folks of any gender you can name! Hooey!

They dance and sing and get the audience movin'... including girls who wine like I love. (If you've never seen Caribbean wining... well, you can't imagine.) I don't know how they can move like that, but it's something that I don't think white girls could ever do. (Excuse me while I fix my pants.)

When the group leaves the stage, my beer is just about finished.

“Can we go now?” asks Jose.

I nod... reluctantly.

Somehow we shoulder our way out, and onto the street. Even a stranger somehow, we make all the right turns and the left turns necessary to get back to the car.

Jose puts his key into the cardoor. Turns it. Something is wrong.

“Did we forget to lock the car?” he asks.

I shrug.

He opens the car and slides into the driver's seat.

“And look the box is open,” I see he's looking at the glove compartment. It is indeed open.

“We've been robbed!” It's nice that he includes me in the adventure, but I had haven't lost anything.

“They took my iPod... with all my songs,” he says, barely holding back the tears. “And my CDs... I had a CIRCLE JERKS CD! What is a thief gonna do with a Circle Jerks CD?”

“What kind of music do thieves usually like?” I don't ask.

He looks through some papers, and into those handles on the side of the car that you used to close the door. I don't know what they're called, but people usually store gum wrappers and snot-filled tissues there.

“And my condoms!” he shouts. “They took my condoms!! Who would take somebody's condoms? Why? It's just not fair! Not fair!”

Now he is crying. He rests his hands on the steering wheel, and his forehead on his hands. I can hear the sobs. Between them, in English, “They took my condoms.... my Circle Jerks CD... what are they gonna do with a Circle Jerks CD?”

It's several minutes before he can get it together enough to drive us back to the house on Tibiti Staat. By the time I get my boots off, Jose has disappeared.

Dad greets me at the door.

“How was Parbo nights?” he asks.

“I had a great... umm... we were robbed,” I tell him.

Then I recount Jose's sad story, leaving out the condoms and the Circle Jerks.

Dad shakes his head and clucks his tongue sympathetically. Then calls upstairs.

“Jose,” he says, “you should get Mykel something to eat.”

FAST FORWARD: I'm leaving for French Guiana in a couple days.

The next morning, Jose's mom tells me they were doing a lot of research to find the best way to get to Albina (the Surinamese border town)... and then from there across the river to French Guiana.

“The good news is that it costs only ten dollars,” she says.

Uh oh, you know that when a statement starts the good news is... something mighty awful is going to follow. I wait.

“The bad new is,” she continues, “you'll have to get up at 4AM and go into town so you can wait four hours to catch the bus at 8AM. There are no reservations... and...”

I wait.

“You'll have to ride in a packed bus with the Bush Nenge, their screaming children and probably their chickens... Of course,” she says,” you can also go with a taxi-bus with just a few people... and it'll pick you up right here....”

I wait.

“But it'll be a lot more expensive,” she concludes.

The rest of the trip to French Guiana you can read about in Entry 8. Next time, we'll pick up from there... entering French Guiana... from the rear.

-end-

[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 neither PC nor PG. It might make you mad, or disgusted. The thin-skinned, politically correct, and easily sickened should probably stay away. You have been warned.]

BAD GUEST or Mykel Board's Caribbean Blog, Chapter 10

by Mykel Board

ENTRY TEN

[Bad Guest]

by Mykel Board

ENTRY TEN

Nov 3, 2013- Nov. 10, 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 North Trinidad, where my friends pick me up at the airport, take me around drinkin'. Then, I move South to San Fernando T'dad, have some fun adventures, meet a Goddess... er... Empress of a girl. Go back to the airport and fly to Guyana.

In Guyana, my facebook friends from KEEP YOUR DAY JOB! meet me at the airport. From there, we go to Jamal's. 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.

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 punkrocker. He bails at the last minute. The now former-friend does not answer emails. I cannot play drums. This cannot work out. We go to Suriname anyway. It works out.

Then it's on to French Guyana. There, Florian, the brother of one of my top ten pals, Simon lives with his girlfriend Marie. In two blog entries ago, I'd just arrived in French Guiana.

BUT, there was a lot I left out of the Suriname trip, so I'll do a little back-tracking.]

Fish and friends go bad after three days.--Benjamin Franklin

What exactly is a bad guest? What makes a visitor bad company? What makes a couch surfer a couch horror?

One of my life's many shocks was on a recent ego-surfing google. I read a post by my hosts in Australia... almost ten years ago. The city was Brisbane. The note on the internet said:

Mykel Board stayed at our place almost a week. He was absolutely the worst house guest we've ever had... and we still get a Christmas card from him every year.

What exactly does that mean... the worst house guest? My guess is there are 20 million yearly visitors to New York City. Probably eight to ten of them have not stayed on my couch. Of all those guests, I've had maybe three bad house guests, and two dozen fair house guests. The rest have been great. What makes one good or bad?

Among the 59 countries I've visited now, I've probably been a guest in 150 or 200 houses or apartments. I've lived on couches, on the floor, on a hammock, in a private room, in a bathroom. What makes ME a good or bad guest? How many others are complaining – or have stories to tell-- about how bad I was?

So, for the benefit of my readers... and to get it straight in my own head, here are my criteria for bad guests:

1. They're always there: You have no privacy because your guest is there whenever you are. You come home, want to take a nap, to do something... er...private, and there's your guest: Sitting on the couch with a shit-eating grin on... or worse... on the computer living off the internet, like they've never left. They're up late tap tap tapping on the keyboard when YOU have to get up for work the next day. What the fuck? You're visiting my city! Go out and enjoy it. You can facebook when you get back to Beruit!

2. They complain: It's too cold. It's too hot. The girls in this town are too unfriendly. It's a dirty city. It's expensive. Your shower doesn't have enough hot water. Your TV doesn't get HBO. What? You don't have wifi? On and on. Yo buckaroo! If your home is so perfect... go back there!

3. They can't do anything for themselves: How does the shower work? I can't get the door to lock. Can you call me a cab for the airport? Are the subways dangerous? Should I buy pepper spray? What street comes before 28th Street? Can I drink the water directly from the sink? How do I get to the Empire State Building? Related to this is:

4. They're over-demanding. They want YOU to meet them at a bar, take them to the punk rock show, stay up all night. They're on vacation... and they forget that YOU'RE NOT!

5. They're dirty. They smell-- or worse: they smell up the whole place... like a walking armpit... Not aware of their own pollution.

Or, they're messy. Their stuff spreads like a beer puke. First it's confined to one bag, then two. Then every outlet in the house has a piece of their electronics, charging. Then the clothes, shoes by the door, underwear on the couch. Inch by inch, they take over. The place is messy anyway, right? So what's a little more mess?

Yo buckaroo. It's MY MESS! I know where things are, despite how it looks. My mess is familiar to me. It's organized. Your mess isn't familiar. It's just... a mess.

6. They eat all your food and drink all your beer. And never take you out or buy you a drink.

7. They make you go places you don't want to go and do things you don't want to do. Hey Mykel, come to this house music party with me. I need a friend. It won't be so bad. There'll be all this techno electiconic dance music. You'll have a ball. Er... anal sex with John Holmes would be more fun than a techno disco.

There are probably more qualities that make a bad guest. (My worst guest's worse quality was hitting on every girl I introduced him to... then complaining when they rejecting him.) But that's good enough to start. With that, let's return to my stay in Paramaribo Suriname where I'm staying with Jose's family and

1. Am always there (I blame the rain, and lack of transportation.)
2. I'm always complaining about the weather and lack of transportation. (I could easily call a cab, but I don't.)
3. I ask my hosts how to get downtown, call a cab, get to French Guiana, visit the synagogue, each Indonesian food, and get a drink late at night.
4. Take over the guest room. Demand a phone, put my stuff on on the night table, spread my bags over the floor, and lock the room when I'm taking a shower or... er... doing something special in “my” room.
5. Ask Jose to take me into town, to Unckie's House of Blues, to the skate punk bank, and more... you'll read about it.
6. Taking the offer of “our food is your food” way too seriously. Mom's been cooking for me... 3 meals a day.

Bad guest, Mykel. Bad guest!!

The family seems to take it all in stride, though Jose is so busy with school and work that he kind of leaves me alone. I stay in and write... less than I should. Otherwise I ditz around with my computer, play on facebook, take care of... er... a few things on xvideos, and pretend like I'm getting some writing done.

At least I don't complain... at least not out loud. Mom and Dad are the perfect hosts: friendly, chatty, always offering to help (Dad going out of his way so much (See the last entry to find out what happened when I just mentioned I'd like to see the synagogue.)

The only thing to complain about is their continually barking (and howling) dog. Like all dogs in the Caribbean, it's always outside... rain or shine. It's usually not happy.

Actually, there are eves where the dog can get out of the rain. And Jose tells me that the dog gets a home-cooked meal every day... more than many people get. So why should it complain? Bad guest, I'd say.

A few times, I actually call a cab... well, I ask Jose's mom or dad to call a cab and go to the center of town to explore.

Paramirabo is not like Georgetown. In some ways, it's more developed. The streets have sidewalks, all of them are paved. Where in Georgetown you'd find a bar, in Paramirabo you find a casino.

Finding a bar or restaurant is easy in Georgetown. It takes work in Paramirabo. Chinese grocery stores follow Chinese department stores. There are a few banks, but nothing like the easy-going easy-to-find bars and restaurants of Georgetown.

I go to the Paramaribo market, but 2PM is too late. Most of the most interesting tables are just packing up. In a country as hot as this, 2PM is the end of the day. Too bad too. Jose told me I could get Gamelon CDs at the market. I promised to look for one for my pal and former bass player Otto Kentrol. I guess I'll have to disappoint him.

But right now I'm hungry. I want to eat at a local restaurant... sample the cuisine... talk with the restaurant-goers... Nothing... wait... on the other side of the street... A small sign that says FOOD COURT. It's over a Chinese department store.

I go into a door that leads directly to a staircase. I climb the staircase and enter THE FOOD COURT. The first place I see is what looks like a little deli stand. There's a small counter with a Chinese (I guess) man and his wife behind it. There is a glass case filled with soda and juice. There are another couple of empty cases that look like they held sandwiches or some other food.

At the tables in the court sit a few guys watching the TV there, or concentrating on a beer or plate of something vaguely Chinese-looking. At one table sits a young woman with an eyebrow-to-nose scar. She has the half-closed eyes and sunken teeth look of a junkie. She gazes into space like someone lost in thought... or a drug haze.

“So you're out of food?” I ask the Chinese man.

“No,” he says, pointing to empty small, medium and large styrofoam containers. “We can fill one of these for you. What size do you want?”

He does not talk about content... just size. I point to the small one. He nods.

“I'll eat it here,” I say. “You don't have to pack it up.

He nods again.

I walk to an empty table, take off my day pack, pull out a book, (The Dinner, by Herman Koch) and sit down. I read the book while the food is being prepared.

Before too long, a more than adequate amount of... er... Chinese food appears. I put away the book and turn my attention to eating.

The girl with the facial scar walks over to me.

“What were you reading?” she asks.

“It's a Dutch book,” I tell her, “but I'm reading it in English. My Dutch isn't so good.”

She doesn't laugh.

“Can I see it?” she asks.

I hand it to her.

She takes it in both hands and looks at the front cover. Then she looks at the back cover. Then she pretends to read it. She takes it to the table where she was sitting. She sits again at the table. I give her a few minutes, while I finish eating.

Then, I walk over to her. 

“Can I have my book back?” I ask.

She pretends to be reading it. Then holds up one finger in a “just wait” gesture.

“I'm sorry,” I tell her. “I have to leave now.”

I reach for the book. She pulls it away from me.

“HELP!” I yell. “Somebody help me!”

The man behind the counter comes out.

“She won't give me my book,” I tell him.

He reaches over and grabs it out of her hands. Then he hands it to me.

“Be careful,” says the Chinese man, “she works with her husband. He may be waiting for you downstairs. You don't have to be afraid. Just be careful. Be very very careful.”

That must be the quote of the month. You don't have to be afraid. Just be careful. Be very very careful.

Yeah right. I'm scared shitless.

I pick up my day pack, and head downstairs to the door.

I stick my head out... look right and left... gingerly step into the street... look behind me... walk purposefully ahead, like I'm going straight. Then POW! quickly turn the corner... ahead again... then POW! in a new direction. I walk fast... turn another corner back into a doorway and see who passes. No one suspicious... Of course I have no idea what suspicious is in Suriname, but...

There is a big guy with a dufflebag the size of a baby's body. Shit! He's seen me. I walk out into the most crowded part of the street. He doesn't follow.

“What was she doing with the book?” I wonder. “I don't get the scam... the set up.”

Another corner, BLAM! I turn it under cover of a crowd of schoolboys wearing their school uniforms. Hah! Sometimes being 5' 3” tall has its advantages. Like when you're trying to hide from a plan murder/theft. Me scared? Naw, I'm just being careful. VERY VERY CAREFUL.

Then it hits me. She was stalling for time... waiting until her husband got there. Then they'd do a number on me. I got out in time. Before he showed up. I'm safe, I think.... maybe not. I'd better get back “home.” I call a cab.

Back at the Mossel house, as usual, food is on the stove.

“Oh Mykel,” says mom, “I have some nice fish for you tonight. Help yourself. It's in that pot over there.” She points with her chin.

“We finished all the rice, though,” she continues, “sorry.”

By now I feel like a regular exploitative guest, one who takes mi casa es tu casa to the mi casa es mas que tu casa level. I take a plate from the cupboard. Walk to the first pot and ladle myself some fish stew.

Even though it looks like a bunch of roasted armadillos, it's tastier than a bowl of mazto balls... floaters!

Out of habit, I walk to the rice cooker, open it up... empty. Shit! I forgot. No rice.

But then I notice the other pot on the stove. I open the lid and it's filled with rice, little chunks of meat, and a few vegetables.

Oy boy, they must've forgotten there was some of this left. I scoop it over the fish, and take some more sauce from the first pan to cover the rice.

“Make sure you peel the fish,” mom tells me, “you can't eat the outside.”

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“It's armor fish,” says mom, “the outside is like a shell. You have to peel it first.”

I do. It's delicious. I pull some meat off the bone, cut a bit of yellow pepper, mash it into the rice, gobble it all up. Great! Not much left after a meal like that!

During my dinner, mom and dad are watching a TV program sponsored by the Parbo beer company. (Did I mention that all over the Caribbean, families do not eat together? Mom cooks a meal, leaves it in the pot, and the rest of the family helps themselves whenever they feel like it. It makes me uncomfortable to sit by myself in someone else's house, eating their food alone, but that's what I do.) The TV show is a live concert, with people dressed like in the 70s. Amazing blacks in white jumpsuits... Elvis meets Sly meets Saturday Night Fever. Wow!

“That's great,” I say. “I'd love to see that live sometime.

“You can,” says Dad. “That's the Parbo festival. It's going to be right near here... tomorrow, in fact. You just have to ask Jose to take you.”

“Great,” I say. “I'll do that.”

Then I take a whole lot more bites, and finish my meal.

“That was delicious!” I tell mom. “And you forgot about the great rice dish in the other pot.”

I can see her eyebrows knit as if she doesn't understand what I'm talking about.

“That pot over there,” I point. “There's some rice and meat in it... it goes perfect with the fish.”

A voice comes from behind. It's Jose. I didn't notice him enter the kitchen.

“Mykel,” he says, “that's the dog food.”

FLASH TO TOMORROW, EVE OF PARBO NIGHTS: Jose clearly doesn't want to go to this thing. It's about 8 o'clock. He's up in his room, way behind on school work. AND he's got this BAD GUEST who he knows wants to see some awful kitch at an event he doesn't have time or inclination to participate in.

Dad shouts up the stairs: “Hey Jose! Mykel wants to go to Parbo Nights. You should take him before it gets too late.”

Silence.

“Jose,” shouts Dad, louder. “Mykel is waiting.”

The door to Jose's room creaks open. He slowly comes down the stairs.

“So, Mykel,” he says, “what's up?”

“It's PARBO NIGHTS!” I tell him.

He looks skyward.

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