Georgetown…my Caribbean Prison

April 17, 2012:  I just finished serving my time in Georgetown, my Caribbean prison.  Today I was given my release papers from the Ministry of Home Affairs permitting me to leave Guyana.  With the stamp not yet even dry in my passport, I booked a seat on a van leaving at 4:00am that is going to take me at ungodly speeds to Paramaribo, Suriname.  I am hoping to get the front seat so that if I die, it will be a quick death.  I might though exercise my vocal cords for once if the driver feels too much need for speed – doing it after I stamp out of Guyana and into Suriname, just in case the driver or the others believe the van is better going at warp speed and I am abandoned on the road for someone else to pick me up.

I feel that I might be still a bit traumatized from the van accident I was in last month.  Every van ride since, it has become a common thing for me to do a death grip on anything solid as we do sloppy weave jobs going in and out of traffic on the two-lane highways.  Speed limit signs and big billboards plastered on the road stating such things as, “Reduce the carnage, reduce your speed” doesn’t mean anything to the drivers if they can’t read.

Guyana has given me one of my best unplanned adventures when I was in the interior.  I will eventually forget about the paperwork mess I experienced trying to leave here, but from the van accident to the time I arrived in Georgetown, will be a highlight of my South American trip that will surely get better and better every time I tell it.  Before you know it, the van will not just have flipped, but rolled 5 times and the boat on the river will have jumped a 20 foot waterfall not a measly 8 foot falls.  Goodbye Guyana and hellooooooooooooooooo Suriname!

Hiding in an empty gas tank…

April 12, 2012:  According to my current visa, I was supposed to leave Guyana 21 days ago.  Since not even a homeless person would sponsor me for an extension, I had to sponsor myself before my visa expired.  I filled out the proper paperwork, wrote a nice long handwritten letter and gave the Ministry of Home Affairs a frightening passport photo that was taken a while back.   Even though the photo has me looking like an upcoming serial killer with the shadows in just the right places, I wanted to save my good photos for visas that are plastered into my passport - not a file cabinet in the depths of some rundown office or some secret admirer’s purse.
 

It has been 24 days since I applied for an extension on my visa, wanting just a little more time to catch up with writing, sorting through photos and such – not 24 days…which is equivalent to about 3 years of accrued vacation time if I was working in the US.  Maybe the Ministry of Home Affairs are not finished going through databases of criminals’ photos, or having troubles reading my letter that was not in a font - it must have been a long time since they received something completely produced by a good ole ball point pen and not an inkjet or laser printer. 

I will continue to sit and wait for my paperwork to be processed so that I can leave Guyana by walking across the border…instead of the fetal position, while hiding in an empty gas tank inside a compact van.  Even though I have been trimming down on the calories if this has to be an option, I would much rather prefer to save this position for after a kick to my twins, or a nice bout of food poisoning…not a border crossing.

The beach of the future…Plastic Bottle Beach

April 9, 2012:  I went to an amazing air show this afternoon, displaying 1000s’ of tethered aircrafts along the seawall in Georgetown…looking like confetti frozen in the air.  This city is internationally famous for its aerial show it has the day after Easter Sunday.  Wikipedia states the history of this practice is not entirely clear but it might be symbolic of the Risen Lord.  Asking around a bit, it now seems more a tradition to fly kites and have a family picnic than a religious day.  Since I had some extra time, I thought that I would count them…finding it hard to recall where I left off after a necessary blink from time to time to moisten my dry eyes - not to mention being meaningless after I passed 1025 kites, hence 1000s’.

Most kites here were the simple handmade kites that were purchased off the street.   For those with just a little more money to spend on a kite, you could personalize it and have one plastered with stickers.  Yes, it is normal to see a 5 year old kid holding a kite with such famous characters such as Mickey Mouse or Dora the Explorer, but not so normal when the stickers are of a women wearing a bikini in questionable positions.

One group of individuals had built a wooden framed kite that was at least 18 feet tall and 12 wide.  When I saw it go up I knew it would not be long before it came crashing into the ground as it needed more speed and a larger area than a cricket field.  When the 8 overweight men reached the edge of the fence, with no more space to run…the gigantic kite began to do a dive without any possibility to come out of what was inevitable.  My eyes and my grey piece of internal matter were quickly calculating where the point of impact was going to be.  If my calculations were correct…the large wooden kite was going to miss the crowd of people and smash into one of the cars parked in the field.  The excitement grew…I was about to witness what damage a kite of this mammoth proportions can do to a new car.  5…4…3 seconds till impact…2…1 – BOOM!!!!!  It missed – I sometimes really hate being wrong.
 

I discovered a wonderful beach of empty plastic bottles while walking along the seawall.  As far as I could tell, there was not a single message in any of them.  With more and more plastic bottles being produced daily, this is the beach of the future.  There is nothing like burying your kids on the beach with plastic bottles or building a plastic castle. The plastic bottles are much less dangerous and dirty for the fragile kids of today – playing in the sand is so 70’s anyhow.

The perfect pit stop

March 29, 2012:  Time has gone by really fast the past few weeks.  I arrived in Georgetown with the intention of getting all of my documents and visas in order so that I can continue forward with my trip, attempting to do it here since English is their primary language.  I also need a little break from moving every few days to a new city as I did when I was in Brazil. 

I have been trying really hard to discover the beauty in Georgetown, but I am struggling to do so. Georgetown seems to be a noisy horn ridden dirty hole that is lurking with an oversupply of taxi drivers barraging you everywhere you go.  In mobs they stand in front of stores, restaurants, banks or anywhere there is a large group of potential victims.   

My hotel is above an extremely popular establishment called Jerries bar and restaurant.  It seems to be THE place to be for those with an aspiring career to one day become a professional Karaoke singer.  With 9 too many Karaoke nights a week, I am happy when those individuals in their 30’s to 40’s park their cars that resembles a teenagers vehicle more than a adults.  Equipped with huge speaker systems, the noise effectively drowns out the singers from 10pm to 4am - causing most car alarms in a 50 meter bass blast zone to chirp or scream in anger due to disturbing its sleep.  From the neon lights, to the creative stickers plastered on the vehicles windows, ranging from a giant window sized $100 US Dollar to ones saying such things as “Hard Cash” or “Gigolo” makes me feel sorry for the woman with such a questionable gene pool.

Perhaps the limited gene poor is why some women are in desperation mode to outsource, using the most horrid pickup lines, making me question their true profession even though they are dressed like Jackie Oassis.  A good example would be when I was walking down the street with a 1-liter of soda and a girl stops me to ask, ”Are you going to drink that alone?”  I smoothly stuttered, ”Ye – ye – ye- yes.”  Another time was when I was looking to cross a busy intersection in the middle of the day and a girl says, “Were you looking for me?”  Not meaning to sound rude, but I put my head down, quietly saying, “No, just the building over there.”  I am just not use to woman who use dialog straight out of a pornographic movie.

The parade field across from my hotel is home to a few handfuls of drunks that have occupied the bleachers.  The pleasant aroma in some way reminds me of an open pit toilet that nobody has bothered to cover.  The soil is being nourished daily by the natural fecal fertilizer deposited by the cats, rats, dogs and men that live here or just passing by…making this field probably the most fertile spots in the entire city of Georgetown and quite possibly the country. 

With all of these things to say about Georgetown, I still think this is a perfect pit stop for a week or two.  When you don’t feel pulled to do anything in a city but to walk and get something to eat and perhaps see a movie now and then, there couldn’t be a better place to relax and catch up with my writing. 

It has an engine, a tail, two wings and it flies...

 

March 17, 2012:  It has an engine, a tail, two wings and it flies…so technically it is a plane but metaphorically it was shight.  When it was my turn to board the plane for the one hour flight to Kaieteur Falls, the only available seat happened to be right next to our yellow toothed pilot.  Unfortunately…Unfortunately, I had no other choice but to sit up in front with the pilot.  Just because I look like a full grown adult on the outside doesn’t mean that I can’t feel like a full grown kid on the inside, as I sat behind the controls of the plane with a good sized smile.  “Why haven’t I ever requested the front seat before?” I thought.  For my future flights with Delta Airlines, I will have to make sure that when I do online check-in, to click on and to reserve the seat next to the pilot. Yes, there may not be as much leg room as the other seats on the plane…but, I will deal with it.

The highway in the sky today took us though a canyon and above the narrow rivers that snake through the ocean of trees, which resembled the entire 20 different colors of green crayons that Crayola has in its extensive product line.  Looking out the large and plentiful windows that surround the cabin of the small plane, made me feel more connected to the sky than the typical aluminum cloudlike passenger planes, with the front loading washing machine like windows.

Kaieteur Falls is one of those places I have never heard about until I started traveling around South America.  Travel guides and Guyana’s tourism offices boast that Kaieteur Falls it is the largest single drop waterfalls by volume in the world at 226 meters (741 feet), though after doing a little numbers research…I doubt that it is the largest, but it is definitely beautiful. 

The falls itself offered me no surprises, it was just like the photos, but the views from flight and spotting a few Cock-of-the-Rocks was the unexpected pleasant bonus. 

Me so TALKY. Me talky you long time

March 16, 2012:  A decently dressed 72 year old man, who was walking past the park bench I was occupying this afternoon, stopped and asked if he could sit and eat his lunch.  Since the bench was as big as a stretched limousine and doesn’t belong to me, it would have been hard to say, no - though I did turn my body in the other direction to not encourage conversation.

Not even 2 minute later, he started to talk to me.  At first, I thought that he might be a lonely man needing conversation, so I didn’t stop him.  My mind was preoccupied; therefore I gave him 40% of my attention with 1 - 3 word answers if a response was needed.  Then it happen…he started to heavily quote the parts of the Bible that talks about giving to others, as I could clearly seeing where he was going with the conversation.

After 30 minutes, when the older man finally finished his sales pitch, he asked me for $20 USD.  When I didn’t give him anything (I get on average about 7 requests per hour) his true personality tore thru his mask as he stopped quoting the bible and cursed me with the whip of his careless tongue.  He stood up, angrily calling me a thief because I stole his knowledge and blessings without giving him anything – this was strange…I don’t recall ever inviting him to sit with me. 

This man is a good example of a social prostitute, on how he was using a skill such as quoting the Bible in an unworthy way for financially gains.  I feel I am pretty good at stopping conversations with a common prostitute, since it is usually obvious on what they do by their work clothes.  But, it is the social prostitute that is the hardest to stop, because “what if” you are wrong and they are just being friendly?  Anyhow, if I ever did decide to pay a social prostitute for their services, I would much prefer that they follow the dress code of a common prostitute with the typical over the knee pleather boots and an extremely short environmentally friendly skirt and top. 

Life on a Brazilian River Dredge

 March 14, 2012:  Ten amazing days ago, when I was suppose to leave with the Bedford returning to Georgetown, I instead accepted an invitation to stay with 4 Brazilians living on a river dredge in Issano, who are on a quest to find gold.  With this said, my plan of omitting Portuguese out of my mind until I get back to the Amazon River had to be reworked, since all individuals on the dredge; spoke, thought and dreamt Portuguese. 

Though the dredge was inoperable during my stay, they did anticipate it will be functional in another week so that they can leave the riverbank, to go fishing for gold.  For 24 hours a day it will operate, stirring up the soil below as it is sucked up through a long 10 ton metal straw, where the yellow powder is separated and the rest is released back into the water.  In a way I am glad it wasn’t working when I was there, letting me overload my senses of sight, hearing and touch while on the river without the machinery contaminating it.  Where we were, also gave me a nice opportunity to observe an Indian family, who pulled up along the riverbank on a canoe then set up a makeshift home for a few days before eventually moving somewhere farther along the river.

Since I grew up outside the “Motor City” not a mining town, I didn’t know anything about mining when I arrived on the dredge.  I did what little I could to help the Brazilians such as teach them English, translate, provide them with many laughs and gave them an extra set of hands when needed.  It took me 14,400 minutes to come to the realization that I should cross gold prospector off my list of possible future careers if I want to make it to the age of 40, as dodging serious injury seemed to be a daily event for me - not recalling when in my adult life I have become such a magnet for large metal objects wanting to smash into me.

A short walk away was downtown, Issano.  It was a living ghost town with 1 police station, 1 school, 1 gas depot, 1 medical clinic, 1 store and 2 kiosks.  I was told that back in the 1980’s it was a booming town, but now…it has slowed down considerably.  The town itself only houses a handful of Indians, with the majority of 500 +/- Indians living upstream in communities along the river.

It is supposedly common in these areas to be addressed by names that were not given at birth.  I myself was given two different names along the way.  “White Boy,” was what I was called by the truck drivers and for those on the dredge it was, “Gringo.”  It was no problem for to call someone “German” or “Alligator” but I myself had a difficult time with names such as “Blacky” or “Fat Man.”  I guess it takes some getting used to.

Meeting a local man who is an independent prospector, he invited me to go with him on a boat up the river to meet his friends that work for small and also big mining operators who pull the golden power from the land.  I have been to plenty of mines in my lifetime but most of them are underground where it is hard to see the damage that is hidden by a blanket of untouched soil.  The type of mining I saw today floored me because I it was so easy to see the open bleeding wounds mining has done to such a beautiful region of the Amazon.  It is not just what it does to the land that is disturbing, it is what it does to the people who caught this disease called “gold fever,” leaving there families for months at a time in hoping to strike it rich.  In their search for the golden powder, a quite a few of them found more than that…they found malaria and even worse, dengue fever in the process.

With Malaria being the leading cause of death in Guyana, the first few days I was being a good paranoid North American boy doing what I was told by the brains at the CDC (Center for Disease Control).  So I would wear a long sleeve shirt, pants, socks and shoes in addition to coating my skin with a nice shower of 40% DEET every few hours - when almost everyone else wore nothing but shorts and sandals.  Then I thought…enough.  I was still careful but no longer did I wear my long sleeve shirt in insane temperatures, nor did I wear my shoes, due to getting tired fighting off the thief hiding in the mud who tried to steal them every time I took a step off the dredge.

I stayed on the river dredge for the past 10 days, but needed to pry myself away today.  With the complete work crew arriving tomorrow, there would be an oversupply of hands and limited space.  Even though I didn’t understand a lot of what was being said during my stay, it was hard for me to leave today…I will miss all of them and their kindness.

Mud…lots and lots and lots of mud

March 5, 2012:  The journey to Issano that was suppose to take a total of 2 days from when I was picked up, took a unexpected 5 days to deliver the engine – not including the time it will take to return to Georgetown.  The driver told me that the last section of the road could be bad when I joined the team, but really, what is…bad?  “Bad” doesn’t really say much, with your only options being:  bad, okay, or good.  What I should have asked was, “On a scale 1 to 100…how much over 100 is it?”

Days of breaking down, getting stuck, breaking down, climbing hills with a winch from tree to tree and then breaking down again, became the norm. I figured out that taking photos would be better than me standing there and trying to help when all I was really doing was getting in their way, hence the 1000+ photos.

In the back of the Bedford, I did my best to brace myself during the ride.  I wrapped some webbing connected to the canopy’s frame around my one hand and with the other hand; I locked it around the canopy’s frame like a gymnast on the high bars as I prepared myself for the bumps, the out of control branches, the possibility to be squashed by the shifting cargo…and then of course, the unknown. 

Nobody intended be trapped in the jungle or to miss so many meals after we left the road stop while in route to Issano.  In a span of 56 hours, I had a smidgen of chicken served with pumpkin curry and rice, 9 crackers, 2 biscuits with a hint of jam, 1 coco-bun and 750ml of fluids.  I felt so weak at times I struggled to walk a straight line and even to do something as simple as take photos.   

If the Bedford didn’t have to make a delivery, I can’t see normal people, just deciding to just drive to Issano.  I don’t think I will ever have a better off-road experience than I did the past few days.  When we finally made it to the small town of Issano, I felt as if we were stuck in the jungle for months.  I would have paid any price for just water…and unlike a few days ago, I would have been happy to eat a fish head with 6 eyes, let alone two. 

Van flips in Rainforest…and I am 97.8% unscathed

March 1, 2012:  Hitchhiking from the side of the road at 3:30am in the Iwokrama Rainforest, I waited for an hour until I saw the 1^st set of lights come tearing down the road.  Getting a van to stop that was transporting people to Georgetown, I threw my backpack on the roof and off we went as if we were evacuating a town that is about to be nuked.

At a high rate of speed the driver would whip the wheel to the right and left in an attempt to dodge the large craters that speckled the road.  I scrambled for my seatbelt only to discover what I already knew…there was none.  Getting annoyed with the drivers need for speed, I held onto a metal crossbar in front of me and laid my head on the backpack on my lap, thinking that it was going to be a horribly long 10 hours.

Feeling the van pull rapidly to one side, I quickly looked up and a blurred headlight lit tree was all that my brain could processed before I felt the van going up on two wheels - hoping that it was just temporary and that all four tires were going to be shortly back on the road.   Tilting farther and farther in slow motion we crossed the plain of no return, flipping over on its side as we began to slide along the road.  Knowing that the road was narrow and surrounded by trees and ditches, my body clinched as I hoped not to hit or drop off or anything.  The slide seemed as if it lasted for minutes.

Once stopped, the musical choir of moans and the sound of a screaming engine filled the interior of the van.  All 11 of us eventually climbed out of the side windows that was now located on the roof, which proved to be quite difficult for those with broken bones.  Seven people sustained injuries, yet I was one of the fortunate ones to have just enjoyed flipping a van and walking away from it 97.8% injury free.

Today my backpack flew off the top of the van and took a tumble along the road, sustaining no damage – and Spirit Airlines can somehow manage to break my backpack in just one flight.  What do those union workers really do with the luggage?

Tossing all the pieces that fell off the van to the side of the road, we flipped the now crooked vehicle back over on its wheels.  After sending those injured needing medical attention in other vehicles going back in the direction we came from, we pilled our luggage in the now empty seats and continued on to Georgetown. 

Very little changed with our drivers…still driving as if dooms day is here but now in a van that had just flipped with a big air leak in the front tire.  I am not a mechanic, though I no longer thought the vehicle was safe…hoping that it was going to breakdown so there was no other option but switch vans.  Getting a flat rear tire my hopes partially came true.  With the sliding doors no longer working…we now needed to exit through the windows like Bo and Luke Duke from the American TV series, “The Dukes of Hazzard.”

When changing the tire, this was the perfect time to switch vehicles.  With two big trucks pulling up to see what was going on, I jumped ship and climbed in the back of the Bedford (a ex-military truck) transporting an engine.  I was later invited to travel with them to drop off an engine and some other mining equipment deep in the interior at a small gold mining town.  In less than a 2 minute’s time, I rewrote my travel plans and said, why not?  I have the time and this is my free ticket to see it all from the back of a Bedford.

Pocket knife drawn…

February 29, 2012:  Hitching a ride from Annai to the Canopy Walkway, I was dropped off in the southern end of the dense tropical Iwokrama Rainforest at about 4:40am – sort of early to be in an area where I was told that a large population of jaguars and anacondas live.  I love seeing wildlife at close range, but this morning when I was walking to the lodge, I was alright not seeing any.  Wearing my headlamp, I had my pocket knife drawn in one hand while I was eating a coconut muffin with the other, making it to the lodge after a short brisk 1.2 km walk down the road.

The first morning there I made it out to the canopy walkway, which is a series of suspension bridges that hangs 30 meters (99.9 feet) above the forest floor.  On the walkway I spotted with the help of some hard core birders and there 100,000,000 power scope, 2 species of Toucans I have never seen before and some beautifully colored birds.  It is always nice at the beginning of trip to see such amazing wildlife since then on the rest of the trip…everything else can be considered a bonus.  For me, it was the monkeys, giant rats and some strange looking insects. 

While doing a hike one afternoon we heard a noise and my guide said it was a Tapir.  Of course a Tapir, I thought.  He couldn’t say a feral pig since not many people would be excited seeing such a common animal.  Rule #34 in the “Pocket Book on How to be a Good Guide” clearly states:  Claim any loud and untraceable noise to be either a jaguar or an animal that a member of the group wants to see.    

I was able to save some costs with a little begging and agreeing to sleep in my hammock in the dining area after everyone went to bed - though later finding out that the cockroaches must have also had the same agreement.  Waking up at 3:00am to independently search the tropical forest for the nocturnal animals, there were about 20+ cockroaches scattering on the floor with a few even springing off my backpack, looking as if they were enjoying using it for a diving board.

My last night at the lodge, we heard a megaton tree fall near us.  There is not much you can do except, hope that it isn’t going to land on you.  After it landed the manager at the lodge said it was far away…about 200 meter or so – far for him, sounded kind of close to me.

My Green Pea pod

February 26, 2012:  In the wee hours of the quiet night I woke up in my hammock, alone and in an open hut made solely for protection from rain.  My hammock is excellent for sleeping outside because it has a mosquito net conveniently sewed to it with a zipper, protecting me from all little things...though this green pea pod is the worst place to be if I needed to quickly get out it for the bigger things.

Something didnt feel right lying there and in a strange way...I felt like I was being watched.  Peeping out from the side of hammock as would a child, I scanned the area with my flashlight thinking everything you shouldn’t when not a soul is around you.  Thoughts of a jaguar making me a human piñata or even worse, the pasty dead girl from the movie, “The Ring” standing aside the bushes filled my head.

While lying there, the late night choir started with a solo, as a bird began a chirping rampage with a savaged dog later joining in.  Perhaps they were warning me that something was out there…but what?  I seemed to be letting my imagination having the best of me here in Annai, scaring myself again for the second night in a row.

In the morning, I went for a hike climbing a nearby hill overlooking the town and the surrounding area.  I happened to see a family of howler monkeys and two birds in the process of murdering some large ants with their two facial swords.

I had the intent to eat something healthy today instead of Guyana's famous coco buns, so I walked to the road stop that serves food to the town drunks, domino players and they can now add, mangy backpackers.  When ordering the fish stew, the man at the restaurant told me that they can make chicken for me.  “Why,” I thought…if fish stew is the menu of the day, there is no reason to make me anything special.

Well, the stew was shight.  I got the head and fins.  A joke? - I am not sure.  But, if I remember correctly my friend Martha from Colombia loved the head, the eyes, and even its cheeks.  I didn’t seem to have the appetite tonight for eating something’s eyes so I ended up just eating the coco rice and went to bed.  Next time, I will stick with chicken - there is no way possible to mess up chicken…never once have I ever received only a head with wings.

Gee, I love hindsight…but not dirty condoms

February 25, 2012:  Double checking everything to make sure I didn’t leave anything behind before I checked out of my posada…I found something under one of the two beds.  It was a rouge condom and I know it wasn’t mine.  It was nasty but if I left it…then it would be assumed it was mine, and who happened to be the only other person in the room with me?  My first night here, I shared the room with a Brazilian backpacker whom I met on the bus after it broke down.  Oh…did I forget to mention the Brazilian backpacker was a guy?

Yep…not needing any false speculations, I grabbed it with tissue paper and flushed it.  Flush after flush, it went nowhere.  It sat there, floating proudly at the top of the bowl - proudly.  It wasn’t going anywhere so I needed to go in and now retrieve it.  Grabbing toilet paper again, I pulled it out of the bowl and put it the only other place I could think of besides my pocket and that was in the water tank behind the toilet.

Thinking about it now…why didn’t I just tell them to check under the beds because a condom was there?  Gee, I love hindsight. 

Me? A Conman?

February 24, 2012:  Crossing the border, I didn’t realize that there wasn’t a cash machine in the town of Annai.  Needing to exchange my emergency cash from US Dollars to some more colorful currency, I went to the only bank in town.  It was an old small one story farm house, with the porch that conveniently served as the waiting room.

Once being granted access into the living room and after looking at the exchange rates a little more thoroughly…I thought that maybe it was time to get rid of my American Travelers Checks that I been traveling with since April of 2009. 

While I was forging my very own signature to the way I did it 3 years ago, I was told they couldn’t accept my travelers checks because I didn’t have the receipts for them – in which the company that issued these checks states that you shouldn’t carry them together.  The bank told me this after countersigning 3 checks.
 
I clearly understand policies and procedures but sometimes small town policies and procedures can be created from small town damaged brains.  The manager here was just a puppet of the bank, as I tried to reach in and pull some of his strings that were connected to the hand of his puppet master.

After the manager called the main branch in Georgetown to request leniency, he called me back into the bank and needed to know about my life history, how I financed this trip, what countries I have been to and what I do for a living.  After about 2 hours of trying to cash the checks I signed when I first arrived in the bank, they were not convinced that I was not a conman...later implying that my Passport and other documents could all be created to cash these travelers checks that could be forged – for a mere $150 USD?  I think the bank might have watched the movie, “Catch Me If You Can,” one too many times…it is time to watch something different.

With the nearest bank in Guyana being perhaps another 10 hours away, I exchanged my US Dollars and left.  Where is an intelligent ATM when you need one...

(Please note:  Photo courtesy of  www.IMDb.com)

The Men in Black

February 23, 2012:  Today is the day I said “Adeus Brasil!” and “Hello Guyana!”  When I was at the Brazilian border crossing I had to see the Federal Police to get that magical stamp for my passport that I am always talking about.  Entering the office, I made my way to the desk of a Tommy Lee Jones look-alike who was dressed in all black attire with his gun holstered at his hip as he was standing there with another man in the same attire.

Not even in 0.345 seconds after grabbing my passport he asks me, “Where is your immigration form?” in Portuguese.  This was almost word for word on what I was hoping not to hear, as soon as THAT form decided to go separate ways while I was down south in Salvador.  This itsee tiny piece of paper that is the size of two book marks placed side-by-side has a cost of around $100 USD and a long day of going back and forth to the nearest town to pay a fine.  I smiled and responded to his question in broken Spanish, using the proven; I don’t understand your language strategy – thus limiting their questions.  But…he responded in English, as I was later sent to the corner to sit as he decided what to do.

Time moved slowly as Tommy Lee sat at his computer terminal taping away, searching for something.  About 6 others came and gone as I patiently sat there hoping not to hear the words,”you need the form.”  After a little more squinting at the computer screen and a few more looks at my passport, he grabs the exit stamp and slams it into my passport, authorizing me to legally leave the country without me needing to make a dash out the door for the Guyana border.  There was a long stretch of road between the two and with the size of my bags…I wouldn’t have made it too far anyhow. 

Walking across the border of Guyana and into the small cowboy town of Lethem (2,500 people), I could not have arrived at a better day because today was the annual festival celebrating Guyana becoming a Republic in 1970. 

I must say that is great to be somewhere that English is there first language but I unfortunately I don't at the momment understand them very well with their strong accent - if they could only have subtitles...