Baramita Again??

In the year and a half since I've returned to the states, Guyana has never been far from my mind. In fact, it only took missionary friends a few minutes in my house to view all the Guyanese photos on my wall and remark, "It appears your living in the wrong country -- your heart is still in Guyana." Between prayers and facebook I've kept connected to the "Land of many waters," and my desire to return has never been buried far below the surface.

A place that's tugged on my heart from the moment I saw it was the village of Baramita in the north part of the country not far from the Venezuelan border. Baramita is a mining community that is home to one of the largest Amerindian settlements in Guyana. Its a town only accessible by flight or a 7 day trek through the jungle. Its an area riddled with poverty, ignorance, and social disparity, yet there is something about it that is compellingly wonderful -- at least to an adventurer such as myself.

In recent months I've been feeling an increased pull to leave the comforts of life in America and return to a place where I can make a tangible impact socially, educationally, and spiritually on the Guyanese people. Its something that I've made a matter of prayer. There are a lot of things beyond my control that would have to fall into place for me to return to Guyana for any length of time. Please join me in praying for God's guidance and intervention if this is a path I am to pursue.

Creolese

With English being the national language of Guyana one would have thought that during my six months there I would have had to ask “what?” just a bit less than I actually did. What they don’t tell you before you come is that although the national language is English, Creolese is what is actually spoken. Although Creolese uses the English vocabulary, the grammar is completely different. In addition, the Creolese language is fond of what Americans would consider old English words such as jeer and vex. In Creolese, me is used for I, while she and he are used in place of all other personal pronouns. Combine these factors with the decidedly Caribbean accent and you find your self at a complete loss to understand everyday conversation on a regular basis. At least until the language begins to seep into your mind and pervade your own vocabulary.

For those who are curious I’ve included a few common phrases and their Creolese equivalents (written as pronounced).

What is happening?-Wappenin?
I don't know - Meh nah know
I am on the phone - Meh deh pon de fone
What do you want - Wuh yuh wat
I’m going now – Meh gwhan
Take my picture – take meh aut
girl – gyal
boy – bai
car – cyar
I am going back to work on Tuesday - Mi a go bak to wuk pon ChewsdeyWhere is Ramona? - a whey Ramona deh?
She is over there. - she deh deh
This water is cold - Dis wata de col col

Story time ... but not in Creolese.
How they could all see the book was really beyond me :)

Daily Life in Mashabo

The view from my veranda each morning.


Stopping on the bridge during our walk to school each morning.


Clearning our property of stumps so we can plant food.


Washing pots Guyanese style... the sand works wonders.


Marica & I


Company every day...wonderful....


All the children over for a midweek water balloon fight.


And no day is complete without spending time with Ferarri...the cat.

An Afternoon Diversion

“Is he dead?”

“He dead. He dead dead dead.”

“Look, he not breathe.”

It was Tuesday morning and I was getting fed up with kids not returning after recess and choosing instead to continue their cricket games or playing at the creek. “Why are there only 8 of you here when there are 12 of you at school today?” I demanded to know.

“Asheana, Jeffron, and Deborah are at the mango tree watching the ‘slooth,’ ” I was informed.

“Slooth? Whats a slooth? I asked.

“An animal,” was their reply. After being puzzled for about three seconds I realized they were talking about a sloth, one of the animals I’d wanted to see while in Guyana.

“Lets go!” They needed no second invitation and within a minutes time we’d made it across the cricket field and under the giant mango tree where a small group of children had already gathered.

Swaying at the top of the tree the “slooth” eyed us from his perch. “Lets catch him,” was my suggestion. Eagerly several of the 3rd and 4th grade boys scaled the trunk and worked their way out to branches that were so slender they seemed incapable of supporting the boys weight.

By now the rest of the school had joined us underneath the mango tree. Students and teachers alike took turns shouting out advice as to how to capture the sloth without meeting his three inch claws, while I maintained a running commentary on not injuring the poor creature. The sloth moved with surprising speed from one branch to the next in attempts to evade the boys.

Suddenly there was the sound of breaking branches as the sloth plummeted to the ground and bounced off of a pile of stacked boards under the tree. Almost instantaneously a giant circle of children and teachers formed around the still form laying on its side in the grass. Stunned to silence we all looked at the little sloth. Finally someone ventured to state, “He dead.’’ The rest of the children nodded in agreement.

Going over to the sloth I began to run my fingers over his body checking to see if his bones were broken. I was relieved to see he was still breathing. Part way through my examination his head slowly began to rise from the grass and his eyes blinked open. Reaching his long front arms out he began to pull at the grass in attempts to move. His back legs were motionless. All I could think was “we’ve made a sloth paraplegic.” Picking him up, I carried him on my hip like a small child.

His fur was softer than I would have imagined and his long claws were containable if I held him correctly. I was thankful to see that after a few minutes his back legs began to move and he was able to hold on to me while I carried him.
Knowing that my sister Elizabeth would want to see him I called her. By the time she had walked the five miles from Bethany he was so active you would never guess that he had dropped more than 20 feet just hours before.

We spent the afternoon carting him around like a baby and playing with him. Or in the words of one of my students, “hugging up on he.” He was patient with all of our touching and photographing until we got him near the trees. Then his little arms went into overdrive and he flailed about trying to make it back to his leafy home.

After several children made comments about taking him to the city to sell Elizabeth and I figured it was time for him to go. So sneaking down to the creek we released him on the most inconspicuous tree we could find. Glad to be rid of us he scurried up the trunk as only a sloth can and lost himself in the leaves.

Independence Day

Food, fireworks, and flags are all hallmarks of Independence Day that I am familiar with as an American citizen. In rural Guyana Independence Day includes none of these.

It was May 26 and Catie, Savie, (missionaries in Mashabo) and I were all enjoying yet another day off from school in a country that takes every holiday imaginable off. We were slightly unsure of what to do to celebrate so we settled on using the day to do some outdoor work at the newly built mission house. Just as we were getting ready to go several school children came up the stairs to our kitchen. Sitting quietly at our table they watched us prepare to leave. Finally one of them asked in a quiet voice, “Can I have a mango?” A bit surprised we asked “Did you eat breakfast today. “Although it was midmorning, her answer was “no.” She explained that they were out of food and her mother had gone out to the coast to get more. The boat returning to town wouldn’t be in until 5pm, meaning that she and her smaller brother would not eat all day. After fixing them some breakfast we all set out for the mission house.

Although the land was cleared for building there are numerous stumps and roots sticking out of the sand that need to be removed and burned. By the time we completed our half mile walk to the house we had a small entourage of children eager to help. Setting to work with shovels, rakes, and cutlasses (machetes) we began to cut weeds and clear the area. The children put us to shame with their enthusiasm and energy. As the hot sun lulled us into lethargy the children happily wielded the cutlasses and worked together to remove small stumps. With lunchtime approaching the children stripped to their underwear and we all dove into the lake to cool off.


After lunch we again returned to the water: this time with the intent of decreasing the ratio of water vs. slime and algae in the little clear water creek where we bathe. Once more we were joined by a small train of children eager to help. As we pulled the algae and plant life off the bottom with rakes and pushed it down the creek, the children darted between us helping and catching fish in small bowls for our three kittens.

After several hours we admitted that the task was too great for one afternoon and settled down for some fun. And what is more fun than cooling off AND bathing at the same time. So we soaped up, swished around, and laughed until we were certain that it was the best Guyanese Independence Day we could possible have.

Taffeanna

Life is fragile; and how much more so in a country whose access to medical care is limited by the logistics of transportation. In those instants that determine life and death time is a luxury that few can access.

The coffin was wedged between the wheels of the banana yellow plane and a wall of legs. From the opposite side of the airstrip I could hear sobbing as a group of family surrounded the small aircraft and clutched each other while straining forward to peer towards the open door of the plane. The sound of ripping plastic sliced through the air and elicited a new wave of tears from the group who watched as the covering that surrounded the body of a 9 month old baby was removed.

The previous week the 9 month old had developed an abscess on is neck. His mother had watched her only child with growing concern. When the local clinic was of no further help she determined to have him flown to Georgetown. Although the abscess was lanced the infection had gone too far. Before the week was out, the he was gone.

As I watched the sobbing group load the casket into a waiting truck I was reminded of Taffeanna and how the story of her life could have had a similar ending.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The IV bag swung from the mental hanger I held above my head as we strode down the sandy trail towards the creek. Four year old Taffeanna eyed the plastic bucket Nurse Becky carried through feverish eyes as her mother toted her down the trail beside me.

Taffeanna had first shown symptoms of sickness that morning when her fever and diarrhea began. As her fever climbed her symptoms worsened until she began having fever induced seizures. When she arrived at the clinic in early afternoon she lay limp her mothers arms with a fever of approximately 105 degrees.

“Quick! We need someone who can start a child IV!” With several years of emergency room experience it was quickly decided that my sister Elizabeth would be the best choice. “Hold her arm,” I was instructed, “don’t let her move, we don’t want to have to poke her twice.” With her tiny hand in one of mine and my other clasping her arm above the elbow I could feel every buck her feverish body made against the needle. “No, no,” she cried, while fat tears streaked her hot cheeks. It was enough to make me feel like crying too.

Once the IV was inserted I relaxed my grip and stroked her hand while she continued to cry and several volunteers cooled her skin with alcohol drenched cotton balls. Eventually she fell into an exhausted sleep. I watched her while she slept and when she awoke I elicited her help in further cooling her skin with the soaked cotton balls. With her free hand she dipped her cotton in the solution and meticulously wiped down each leg and foot while eying me warily.

With her fever down to the still high number of 101.3, Taffeanna was feeling better. Sitting on her mothers lap she drank a flavored rehydration mixture while her IV continued to drip. With no warning, she had what can most tactfully be described as a case of explosive diarrhea. Her mother stood holding her shaking daughter while the front of her dress dripped down onto the widening mess on the floor. With no running water the problem of cleaning her up became a small dilemma.

And that is how I found my self with an IV bag swinging high above my head as our small procession made our way down the sandy trail with a wash tub and a bar of soap to towards the creek. While Taffeanna watched the rest of us laughed at the spectacle we made: Mom caring Taffeanna, others carrying buckets, soap and towels, and me attempting to keep the IV high enough so as to not allow blood to seep back into the plastic tubing.

After her bath Taffeanna continued to improve. When she returned the next day she was running along beside her mother and playing with the other children. “Without medical attention she could have easily died,” was Nurse Becky’s assessment. By the time a boat was found to take her across the lake, the mile and a half walk to the main road was completed, and a taxi had taken her to the emergency room where she would have had to wait for at least another hour, it would have been too late. Once again we had been reminded of the fragility of life, but this time, we were also thankfully that it had been possible to intervene.

Faces of Baramita