Exotic or not...

I went for a walk yesterday afternoon following my usual neighborhood route, to pick up a roti to scrumptiously supplement my evening meal. As I meandered, attentively, down Albert Street, with the Roti Hut as my ultimate destination, I realized how important it is that I take in all the sights that have perhaps become, over the course of this summer, commonplace to me. I think it was easy in Guyana, or was for me, to forget at times just how unique it is here, as it is much less "different" in a striking sort of way, than other countries I have traveled to- South Africa & India come to mind. In Guyana, at fifth glance, you can start to feel like, in some ways, it is just as westernized as the States, and perhaps then, not that different. I will be politically incorrect, as a prior student of anthropology, and just say it (the forbidden word), it is comparatively less "exotic." Perhaps in recognizing this, I am, as an anthropology-minded individual, just bringing awareness to my own perceptions. 

Guyanese dress in jeans and suits, skirts and slacks. There are no eye-catching, bold patterned ensembles wrapped in unusual ways around the female form. The females for the most part, dress like me, if not remarkably better, given my noticeable lack of wardrobe. The people speak English here, albeit often with a uniquely beautiful Creole style/Caribbean accent. Individuals chat on cell phones as they stroll the streets and many (it seems to me, like everyone) watches such American shows, as the Young & the Restless, with a religious dedication. I think it is easy in some ways to assimilate here, to an extent, as an obstinate U.S. citizen, wanting to do so. And, in doing this, one might begin to forget, as I sometimes have, that despite the similarities, there are many, many unique parts to this ultimately, very foreign place. Many of these I realize now, have eased themselves into my daily life with the facility of a lithe dancer and the stealth of a trained spy. 

My favorite thing to watch or look at here in Guyana, are the canals. The water of Guyana in general, I will miss first & foremost, be it that of the canals, the coca-cola colored rivers and ocean, or the relatively, cooling and always appreciated rain. But the canals. I find myself, in passing one, pausing to gaze down it, as it reaches away from me toward the middle of the horizon, long and straight. There are always palms growing on either side of a canal, and there are often curved wooden bridges or simply straight wooden planks, serving as a crossing. The palms, this is not even the correct nomenclature. The coconut trees, perhaps. There are tall ones and short ones, ones with green coconuts and ones with the gristly looking brown hair. Brown are for milk and green are for the refreshing, clear coconut water. I am perhaps one of the few here, that is not particularly taken by the coconut water, which is a little too rich for my taste, but unmistakably enjoyable with the local rum, on ice. But the canals... the tropical sun of Guyana seems to have a special way of hitting the water that is next to magical. Then there is the ephemeral afternoon light of Guyana, particularly as the hours near dusk, which is worthy of documentation by the world's best photographers. There is a pinkness and alertness to the it, perhaps as the sky recovers from the persistent mid-day heat, that is captivating, if not soothing, and encourages a walk such as the one I took this afternoon.

    

Umbrellas of varying colors of the rainbow dot the Georgetown horizon, as women walk either alone or in pairs. The women here being savvy to the heat & sun. The ubiquitous minibuses, also of varying shades, and most often multi-colored, with creative names labeled across their sides and windshield, offer rides with honks, shouts, hisses and men hanging out the frequently, open sliding side door. This is Guyana's primary mode of public transport. A half moon of letters on the backside of the minibus declares where it has come from & where it will go. Then there is the honking. The honking is a signature sound of Georgetown. One that mingles with, and at times attempts to compete with, the song of the many, many local birds. The birds themselves, of the country and even city, are worth writing a book about. And, in the evening there is the orchestra of song: toads, frogs, insects, that seeps in through the windows, and seems to me, to be central to night. There are the predominantly, cachectic-looking, but heavy breasted dogs, spotting the town, that seem to be in a constant state and stage of reproduction. Never threatening, the canine of Guyana either wander the streets in a tropical haze or rest lazily in a hint of shade. 

There are unique smells here in Guyana, which will undoubtedly haunt my nostalgia of the future. Many are what I'll call, street smells. One such smell, quite pleasurable, being that of roti and curries cooking. I will always miss, until I learn to make it which I have vowed to do, the dual flakiness and softness of the golden roti as you tear it to eat. Served to you wrapped and folded, so as to maintain the delicious integrity of this satisfying flat bread. I cannot get enough of them or the Guyana "burrito" as I call it, which includes a large dallop of your choice of curry, accompanied by a sensibly smaller dallop of either peppersauce or achar (I routinely get both), and wrapped like a present (or burrito) in a roti. I am invariably laughed at by the locals because I regularly choose the mouthwatering pumpkin curry, which I have been told, is the most mundane. 

Most importantly, I will always miss and remember fondly, the people of Guyana. The varying shades of their skin and the discernible differences in their accents. Some with styles of living that can be very different from the other, due to the strong contrast between the Afro and Indian ways of life. And, I must not fail to mention the Muslim and Rastafarian styles which are most visually distinguishable. There is a kindness here, amid the hardship that is central to so many of the individuals' lives. There is also a general frustration, it seems, with the systems that govern, and a consensus of corruption seems to predominate. There exists a deep-rooted pride in the country and its beauty, and with it a recognition of the lack of awareness of this beauty by outsiders. There is a communal desire to share Guyana and encourage an understanding of what the country has to offer. There is also a disheartening understanding of all that it does not have to offer, in the way of employment, opportunities for upward mobility and financial fulfillment. There are more than enough highly educated and incredibly determined individuals here, with no opportunity for them to be utilized. There is also an all to common desire for future migration from Guyana, presumably because of all these things mentioned previously. A plan often exists, be it preliminary or in the complicated stages of progress, to exit the country when the time is right. Not by all, but by many. As for many, this would likely never be a possibility. There is great work being done in Guyana, and still so much more to be done, like anywhere, but unique in its own struggles: Healthcare, food shortage, the paucity of employment, and poverty. And, then there is HIV. So familiar is it, that there are a myriad of television commercials pertaining to its detection, prevention and acceptance, routinely, if not monotonously, run during the prime hours of the day.  I am hardly exaggerating. 

It is a busy and yet leisurely place. I speak mostly of Georgetown, as it is what I know best. It is Guyana, at once foreign, if not unheard of by many, and yet simultaneously familiar in its differences, to me. The point of anthropology, after an undergraduate degree in the field, has come back to me here as a nurse researcher in Guyana, many (!?) years post collegiate. In being taken away with a new place, and at the same time, less taken away with, than say a place blatantly more exotic, I consider the "other" which is examined in anthropology, to be understood in its own contexts, yet with an awareness of the subjective nature inherent in being an outsider. Perhaps also, at this point in my life, I examine such details with the meticulous, newly ingrained, awareness of a Nurse Practitioner-in-training. Contemporary cultural anthropology reminds the ethnographer to focus not just on the explicit exotic, but to see the exotic, if you will, in the familiar. To understand a culture in the context of itself and as a conglomeration of the symbols and meanings that make it what it is, is critical. Guyana and I have melded in many ways over the course of this experience, and in many ways, both obvious and not, I skirt the sidelines of its culture and, its ways. Many fond memories I will take with me on leaving, that I imagine, will undeniably seem much more exotic from the outside looking back in...