I have shaken Beckham's hand.

The Guyanese equivalent of the English football star David Beckham is cricketer Ramnaresh Sarwan from the West Indies team (a regional team comprised of the best in Guyana), and yesterday I met this co-captain and top batsman in the physiotherapy department. I recognized his face from the story-high Pepsi advert overlooking Stabroek bus Park. Then later found that he was also a familiar face from cell phone ads in the phone book and that his cricketing exploits are "favourite" material for BBC sports since he is very talented and very young. I was in the midst of getting my badly-sprained finger a game plan for recovery in the two weeks before my karate exam. It was jammed when I tried to block a roundhouse kick with an open fist (not recommended). The physiotherapist recommended an electric treatment, which sounded a lot to me like shocks, so I was looking at her doubtfully when a voice assured me that the treatment worked wonders, and he should know. Nice guy, encouraging words, but I still didn't take the treatment yet. I did pull the fan move and ask to shake his hand, though - I think there are times to be shameless. ;o)

THEN, to add to my star-studded week, Eileen and I came to find out that our landlord is married to the daughter of Forbes Burnham. Burnham was a founding father of Guyana and the president of Guyana from 1964 to his death in 1985. Here's the full story, under HISTORY. What it doesn't say is that most Guyanese remember the Burnham years with a kind of terror in their eyes. Burnham wanted Guyana to be totally economically independent entity, and forbade use of many foreign products in the country (including things like flour, tin food, and other essentials). Armed soldiers entered houses and searched for contriband items at any hour of the day or night. I haven't heard many pleasant stories about these years. There was also some scandal involving money and Swiss bank accounts shortly after his death, so it's a small wonder that we don't see much of her here. His legacy is not quite so fondly remembered as his beginnings and his drive to bring about an independent Guyana.

I am making my retreat in an ancient tree, covered with climbing vines and plants that I remember from biology field studies in remote corners of Ecuador. Here they grow, in the middle of the city, with minibusses passing by. I block the citysound with a new-age interpretation of Native American chants (it works for me) and imagine my heart beating in time with the water moving up the gnarled, braided limbs of this forest creature. I am becoming more a part of the tree with each breath. I lay back on it, some 15 feet above the ground, feel myself more a part of it with each low drumbeat in my ears, each slow exhale into the cool breeze flowing overland, out to sea. The tree invites me, has a crook that fits the contours of my body, welcomes me with wind-blown, hanging vine caresses. When the breeze lifts the lianas, they touch my cheek like a parent drying child-tears; dangling by their toes, they glide over my arm, soothing, reassuring and gentle; they swing by my bent knee, rejoicing at the gifts of strength, agility and courage that have allowed me to climb here and spend time with them.

I have been reflecting on the story of the teepee - how Native American architecture tells life lessons. How the poles that support the skin of a teepee as it ascends up, up, all lead to the Great Creator, that circular hole at the apex that carries our eyes and souls heavenward and humbles us with love. They took their design from the same inspiration that made this tree. A living symbol. Many roots firmly panted in the earth which has been singing its stories in the wind for centuries. The limbs twisting back and forth, but ever upward, always focused, always striving on their ascent to the sun. And the vines climb the limbs, also moving up, but occasionally pausing to send a few whisps back towards the earth - showers of grace and inspiration, promises of better things to come the farther up we travel. A greater perspective - earthly things seeming smaller, God seeming nearer - a freedom in the centre of a gust of wind that carries our troubles from us - a glimpse of a cousin of the bromeliads, the kinds of flowers that do not grow close to the ground.

And I am not alone. Through the jungle foliage I spy a kiskadee, a small black and yellow bird that ruffles its feathers and fans its wings when it calls, "Kis-ka-DEE!" And a second bird suspends its tiny body sideways on a hanging vine with matchstick legs. It looks like a performer from Cirque d'Soleil. And there are two lizards, hardly distinguishable in color from the tree and the vines they are scampering around on. They pause in their fast-paced frolicking to look at me, across a chasm in the middle of the tree and up 10 more feet. We look at each other and acknowledge our bond in the quiet beauty of these moments. We look at each other for a long while. Then, finally, they scurry away to play secretly under the vines. I almost wish I could follow, but truth be told, I'm comfortable where I am, and I don't think my badly-sprained finger will help me scurry along after them. I think one would need to be fit, fearless and fascinated for that kind of climbing. And Eileen is at the base of this tree, lost in her own private reverie, feeling God in and around her in her own way. It has been a difficult time full of difficult question for both of us.

Foremost on the list and most disturbing because it once had an answer: Why am I here? Not here on earth, but here in this ancient tree, in Guyana, working harder than I can remember every day and feeling terrible about the realization that no matter what I do or how much I do, it will never be enough for these people. That is the hardest, but many other questions follow in its footsteps. And yet, something in the breeze quiets me inside enough to listen to a deep peace beating softly: "Why are you here? Be attentive to how you feel right now. This is why you are here. Today is. To find God in a tree in the middle of the city. To feel cradled, cared for and at peace in the midst of your insecurities and questions about your "new" life. To relax, to let it go, to pray and to enter quietly into God's presence and trust God to provide in his time."

And it is enough for today.

~ On Phagwah and Choir ~


HAPPY PHAGWAH EVERYONE! (Don't worry - I won't really write the entry like a philosophical treatise, as the name suggests).

Guyanese holidays struck again on March 15th. We had El Eid in January (a muslim holiday), then Mashrumani/Republic Day in February, and now Phagwah (pronounced PAH-gwa, though someone else also told me FA-gwa). Phagwa means Holi in Hindi, and essentially is the celebration of good over evil. However, it is also a very colorful holiday with links to spring and the rejuvination of the earth, as my neighbor tells it. Many women spend time preparting tasty treats with symbolic ingredients like rice shoots and cherries to remind people of the new life that spring gives us. For a more complete history of the holiday, the story behind it, what it looks like in India and in New York you can check out these sites:

The legend behind Phagwah
Phagwah in New York
Holi in India

Well, the story actually begins at choir rehersal. I am in Our Lady of Fatima parish choir here in Georgetown. It's a great group of folks (ladies, actually) ranging in age from fifty-something to a few months old. We meet occasionally at a choir member's house. It's an interesting group and an interesting approach. There aren't a lot of people formally trained in music here, so the hymnal is actually a collection of just lyrics. At first I was really frustrated by this because I can read music well enough if I've heard the tune once or twice, and can use a reminder when it's a song I haven't seen or sung in a few weeks. So learning by ear was a significant challenge at first. I think it's teaching me to listen better, though. At least I hope it is. The shot below is a picture of most of the choir members at an impromptu rehearsal on Phagwah day.

We had a water balloon fight ... but the balloons were too high quality and they wouldn't burst, no matter how much or little water we put in them ... so we just filled them and squirted them on each other. There was also baby powder ... much baby powder, as you can see in our ghostly shots above.

The "real deal" started on my walk home. It's about a 30 minute walk from Helen's house (where we rehearsed) to my house. Not 5 minutes down the road with two friends, a truckload of orange-colored party-goers pulled up next to us to wish us a happy Phagwah and to invite me to play, since I was wearing the uniform (a white t-shirt). I said yes, and we got gold glitter and orange powder thrown on us. Then the truck pulled away smiling and laughing.

The next Phagwah vehicle that went by was not quite as pleasant, as it came up behind us and without warning and dumped a bucket of water over us going about 30 mph. That was a little like jumping off a 30 foot ledge and hitting the water lying down on your back - OUCH!! But we're tough, so we just went on down the road. Our paths diverged when I wanted to go by another friend's house to say hello. I walked up the street and into Phagwah history. I don't think any of the people in this neighborhood had ever played Phagwah with a foreigner before ... so I was doused at least 46 times within a city block and provided with many packets of pink, orange, red, purple and yellow powder. My favorite was the little boy who came up to me and demanded that I bend down so he could rub orange powder on my face. What a flirt. As you can see, it was colorful and wet. Filled with good food, laughter and running around. I was exhausted by the end of the day. Next year I plan to go to the Kendra (the Hindu Community Religious Centre) where hundreds of youngsters and young-at-heart go to play. It's a little like your neighborhood ball team versus the big leagues. I was glad to have a warm up round this year.

When all was said and done, I arrived home with a smile on my red/orange/pink/yellow/smiling face.

MASH MASH, MASHRAMANI!!

Yes, yes, folks - "A Cultural Mix in 2006!" was on the road on Thursday, February 23rd, as the Mashramani (aka Republic Day) festivities took Georgetown in their colorful embrace. The event commemorates Guyana's 1966 independence from the UK. And there was singing and dancing in the streets! Get your glitter, rub it on your face and come along!

For those of you in the states, the closest thing to this type of carnival would be the old Mardi Gras "celebrations" of New Orleans. For those of you familiar with Brazilian carnival (world famous), you will know that integral parts are 1)floats, 2)themes, and 3) costumes (generally as small as humanly possible, but still ostentatious).

My friend Shoma and her mother, sister and nephew were kind enough to accompany Eileen and I and show us how things were done. They were lovely company, and it was great to "join a family" for the parade. Naipaul (Shoma's nephew) is about 2 1/2, and when he's upset now, Shoma tells me, he'll tell whoever offended him that he and Kate and Eileen and Shoma are all going to Mash parade and we are going to leave that person who did him wrong behind!! What a character. The picture is of him waving a tiny Guyanese flag high high high (too high for my lens!), and his mom watching the floats.

The origin of Mash:

The Jaycess of Linden had, since Guyana became independent in 1966, been arranging a organizing an Independence Carnival in McKenzie (a town a few hours out of Georgetown). With the advent of Guyana becoming a Republic in Feb 1970, the Jaycees of Linden under president Harmon Nobreiga formed a Jaycees Republic Celebrations Committee. The search for a name to replace Carnival (to make it more nationalistic and "owned" by the Guyanese) began and it was suggested by Basil Butcher (chairman of the committee) that an Amerindian name be chosen. One of the committee members (an Amerindian) held discussions with his grandfather who explained a type of Festival that was held by Amerindians whenever they gather to celebrate a special event. This event he said was like "Muster Many" and sounded in Arawak like Mashramani. The Amerindian word may actually be Mashirimehi, which means "Co-operative effort". On Feb 23rd, 1970 the Festival called "Mashramani" was a huge success with people drawn from all Regions of Guyana to Linden welcoming Guyana's Republic Status with over three days of frolic and fun. After witnessing the massive crowds, glitter and level of competition, Mr. David Singh a Government Official held discussion with the Jaycees Committee about bringing the event to Georgetown. Approval was also given by the then President Forbes Burnham for Mash to be he National Event for the Republic celebration. Mash activities were rotated in Linden, Berbice and Georgetown but due to sponsorship, the Costume Bands contest remained in Georgetown. (Thanks to Jimmy Hamilton & Raymon Cummings of the Ministry of Culture, Youth and Sports for this information, posted on the VisitGt website - which I found was actually either nearly the same entry that Wikipedia used, or it was copied and not credited (Guyana is NOT famous for its adherence to copyright policies)).

In Guyana, it happens like this:

A ministry or large private company and even regions (think of them as US county) enters a "float" in the parade to be judged at a competition at the end of the parade in the National Park. Ministries include Ministry of Education, Ministry of Health, Ministry of Culture, Youth and Sports, Ministry of Home Affairs, Ministry of Agriculture, Ministry of Amerindian Affairs and the list goes on. Private companies participating include Banks DIH (bottling and distributing company for the whole country, also produces a variety of products), Gomes optical (yes, an optometrist who is doing very well), NBIC a bank in Guyana, Cellink Plus (a cellphone company), Rayon House of Fashion (providing fabrics and ready-made clothing, I believe) and many more. I saw two floats entered by community members from specific regions. A float in this parade, though, also includes a group of 50-100 people all dressed in theme marching behind the float. Often there is a 12 foot high wall of speakers on the back of the float with soca, hiphop and calypso artists perched on top blasting music to keep the mass of brightly colored parade participants dancing the whole way to the park. It's wild.

The parade has a theme. This year's was "a cultural mix in 2006" underscoring both the rich intercultural heritage of the country (Amerindian, Dutch, French, Portuguese, East Indian, African, Chinese, British, and "mixed") and (more subtly I thought) the suggested hope that government officials and citizens have that perhaps the differences between these groups will not overpower their unity in the face of the upcoming elections sometime this summer. Historically, the rumors go, the time leading up to elections has been marked with violence perpetrated along racial lines. However, we've also heard that the violence was only on the two days after the elections, that it lasted months after the elections, that it was just the week before the elections ... there is no consistent story, just perceived tension. But all I saw on the 23rd was a group of scantily-clad, flag-waving, sweaty Guyanese brought together to celebrate in the sun and the rain.

And, lastly, there are costumes. The costumes I saw generally are uniform and follow the float with which they are associated. For example, Demerara had sugar and sugar cane as the theme, so the folks wore yellow shirts identifying them and walked with long stylized sugar cane stalks in their hands. They looked like a field moving down the street. Then there were red hibiscus, pink hibiscus, heliconia flowers (they look like layers of upside-down toucan beaks), a group of Centurian-looking men and women representing Banks DIH, futuristic looking blue and silver costumes for a cellphone company and many many more.

Ultimately, I didn't partake of too much of the festivities, as I still wilt under the hot sun. (Listen to this: it showered for a good 10 minutes, and we were all soaked, but an hour later when I was ready to go home, I was totally dry. Thank God for the 45 sunblock - just think of what it's doing to my skin!!) The party went on all over the city all day and all night, families came out from all over to tailgate along the main roads and everything was walkable. We fell asleep to the sound of shouting and bass booming louder than usual on the roads outside, only slightly sunburned ;o)

ps. To my favorite 4th of July Hamel Family Clowning Squad - they stole our idea of the Drusella and Anastasia bussles in the back ... but oh MAN could they shake those things around!! I think we could still teach them Dr. Clowne's emergency routine for next year's Mashramani! And it wasn't NEARLY as fun to watch as it is to participate!!

pps. I haven't forgotten - I'm still doing a bit of research for a blog about my ministries - with the confidential nature of the hospital and even more of the HIV program, I can't just share anything I wish to ... I'm still working on it. Sorry for the delay :o(