Countdown to President Gore

As promised, here are some pics from Guyana. We begin with my brief stint as Abstinence / Faithfulness / That Voodoo Dude From Live and Let Die, for the Mashramani Parade. Yes that really is me:


We continue with this spectacular picture at the top of Kaieteur Falls, alongside Dr Karam Ramotar. This photo was taken by Dr Bill Cameron:


Do try to ignore my ever growing paunch in these photos. Trust me, it will be gone in a month. (Yes, I say that every month.) If you can manage to avert your eyes from my portly form, the rest of the photos --including embarrassing ones of me frolicking topless in my glorious adiposity-- are here: Flickr.com.

I will upload my short movies from Guyana at a later date.

Let's switch gears for a minute, okay? It seems more likely every day that the trouble-making Bush regime is inching toward ill-advised war with Iran. EK Hornbeck sends us this disturbing bit of news about the US funding "terror groups" to sow instability in Iran.

So let's recap, shall we? "We" need to attack the Iranians because they might one day cause trouble in "our" backyard by supporting "terrorists". In the mean time, "we" are funding terrorists to cause trouble on their very soil. Remind me again who's supposed to be the good guys here.

Let's also note this bit of news, under-reported of course, from a reputable source about how the Iranians had approached no less than Dick Cheney back in 2003 with an offer to negotiate and were rebuffed! There is increasing evidence that this administration wants war and only war. No other response, action, solution --whatever incorrect word you wish to use-- will suffice. Why? For a number of reasons, but mostly four: (1) war is the only option with a possible outcome of complete American hegemony over Iran and its neighbours; (2) war is the only option that will permanently remove the last military threat to Israeli dominance over the region; (3) the neocons are characterised by their inability to see the world as anything other than a giant Risk game; and (4) war comes with it the juicy perks of war contracts for the vaunted military industrial complex, including huge gifts to traditional Republic sponsors.

Meanwhile, prospectors like our friend EK are watching the gold market for both cues and responses to the upcoming war. When the bombs start to fall, expect gold prices to peak and expect oil to reach $150 per barrel. When the Iranians sink the first US aircraft carrier --and, unlike the Iraqis and Taliban, they do have the capability to do this-- expect all kinds of chaos to result, including renewed talk of nuclear options.

How can it all be prevented? Well, maybe the Democrats can grow some balls. How about that option? Sickeningly, both Obama and Hilary Clinton have voiced a need to keep the military option "on the table" when dealing with Iran. More cowardly election speak. Excuse me... who said that Iran needs to be "dealt with" at all? Idiot Democrats are letting the neocons set the agenda. All is lost unless a truly independent and fearless voice emerges from the wilderness. Could it be..... him?

Long time readers of this blog will note that in 2001 I predicted a President Gore in 2008, and have stubbornly stuck by that prediction, even when contrary evidence has been overwhelming. I foolishly suggested that if Gore accepted his Oscar in person, he may not run after all. I rescind that caveat because, frankly, Gore strategists are smarter than me. There's already talk that his Oscar win has increased his electable potential.

So let me reiterate my prediction: Gore will announce his candidacy this Fall. In the mean time, let's hope some rational voices can find the courage to say, "Another war with someone who hasn't attacked us? Um.... no thanks."

En Route

Greetings from the airport in Georgetown, where I am awaiting my flight to Barbados, first leg of my long journey home. I expect to be back in Ottawa by midnight. Yes, I'm typing this on my pda, even though Guyana does not as yet have GPRS service. It's my hope to press "send" when we arrive in Bridgetown, land of 21st century communications.

My 3 weeks in Guyana have been instructive. Beyond my role in this very important national health project, the changes I have seen here in just a couple of short years are inspiring. I used to describe Guyana as the genuine Third World --and it still is-- but rapid, recent and frequent investments in infrastructure have quelled that status somewhat: the roads are being fixed, the banking, computer and cell networks modernized, the hotel and tourism industries revitalized.

Much of this is due to preparations for World Cup cricket. But some of it is due to slowly increasing wealth, by virtue of foreign investment, ex-pat remittances and some internal industrial improvements. Still, challenges abound. Basic diseases, like HIV/AIDS, TB and filaria are prevalent killers here. And poverty and corruption are still the heartbreaking norm.

On the drive to the airport we passed the farmers setting up (at 4:am!) to sell their wares at La Penitance market. For many, this hard life is the norm. I had memories of my own widowed, impoverished grandmother, forced to raise 5 children on her own by selling her fruits and vegetables for a pittance every day in the city. Lined along the street were scores of such grandmothers, their faces scorched and prematurely aged, their backs bent from hard labour, each flogging a basket of priceless, succulent fruit that will likely sell for less that I paid for my coffee this morning.

Such is the life of the rural poor of the world, and we had better not forget it, especially as we reap the benefits of their sacrifices.

We also passed a lingering image that will always typify Guyana to me: an expressionless young man in pressed pants, white shirt and tie, waiting by the sea wall for a minibus at 4:am, expertly clutching both a briefcase and a live rooster. It is an image of the rural poor working their asses off to earn a stake in the modern world, never entirely sure that they're doing the right thing.

A Deluge Of Doctors

My final few hours in Guyana. The sleep, codeine, N-acetylcysteine and massage have all managed to drive away the toxic aftereffects of Mashramani, so much so that I just broke all of my dietary needs and gorged myself on fried chicken and fries. Ewww.

Speaking of massage, one of my masseuses here is also an allopathic doctor, trained in Cuba, and a naturopathic doctor, trained in Malaysia. Cuban doctors --the non-masseuse ones-- abound throughout the developing world, especially Latin America. See, the Cuban model of international aid is a brilliant one: every year they take in thousands of students from friendly Third World countries and train them in medicine for free. They essentially flood the market with doctors.

Most development initiatives, especially American ones, benefit the donor nation more than the target nation. Bush's PEPFAR money is a classic example. To accept PEPFAR funds, you must agree to so many riders that you've essentially sold your economy to the Americans before a single penny arrives... and the bulk of the funds remain in Washington, anyway.

Perhaps I'll explain in further detail when I'm not tied to a sticky, clunky computer.

Gotta get to bed now. Bye bye.

Mashed After Mash

Back to using the clunky hotel computer with the sticky keyboard. So forgive me if this post is short and seemingly frustrated.

Mashramani was today. As mentioned, my costume was themed "abstinence." This was changed to "faithfulness", however, which is not nearly as ironic or fun. Nonetheless, it was a very unique experience. Our (Ministry of Health) submission was a hundred people deep, with a range of costumes themed along a variety of health lines. In my section were 6 men and 6 women. The former were dressed in faux-tuxedos with tails and top hats and painted silver faces. The latter were clad in wide Victorian-era gowns. See, we were "old fashioned faithfulness", which is especially ironic for a Mash parade in which everyone grinds and winds against everyone else in a simulated mass orgy. (At some points, women would snatch me from the crowd and demand to know if I was truly faithful).

The parade lasts something like 6 hours in the searing heat before finally entering national stadium where we perform for thousands of onlookers, including the judges and TV cameras. The highlight of our submission was a king figure fighting off a genuine fire breathing dragon. It was quite a spectacle.

At one point I caught the eye of President Jagdeo himself, undercover in a baseball cap and t-shirt, and flanked by several similarly dressed burly men of his entourage. He really did blend in, but I'd met the man a couple of times over the years and could pick him from a crowd. We exchanged nods and I danced away like a prissy silver-faced mime.

Our task was to dance continuously throughout the 6 hours, while threading through the streets of Georgetown, under both the oppressive sun and periodic rain torrents. At key points we would pair up and deliver a pseudo-waltz to the judges. There were no meal breaks or washroom breaks and water was scarce.

But that wasn't the hardest part. Since I was in the very front of the pack, I was directly behind the truck blaring annoying dance music at a billion decibels. Between the noise and having to suck in fumes from the truck's tailpipe for 6 hours, I wouldn't be surprised if I have neurological damage.

After trudging for 6 hours and beating our feet into ground meat, getting a taxi home was impossible. You guessed it, we walked the half hour back to the hotel, where I promptly collapsed in migraine agony. Four hours, 2 pills of Tylenol 3 and one treatment of N-acetylcysteine later and I'm finally functional enough to offer a blog post about the day.

Despite all the pain, the experience was unique enough to be worth it. I've never before felt so much like a genuine son of Guyana... for better or worse!

Tomorrow I will congratulate myself with yet another massage. Mmmmmmmm.

Kaieteur

MY friend and fellow consultant Dr Karam Ramotar, another native Guyanese son since fled to Canada, said of Kaieteur Falls, "Why bother? It's just water falling from a cliff." But even the cynical Dr Ramotar had a change of heart when faced with the unfiltered ferocity of this natural wonder, the world's highest single-drop waterfall. (Angel Falls is higher, but the water falls in stages).

Having seen Kaieteur, having waded at its edge and peered over its precipice, I must say that Niagara holds no further appeal for me. Places like Niagara Falls have become throwaway experiences more than God-given wonders. They have been modified to service people, with turbines, restaurants, guard rails, hourly boat tours and such. To get to Kaieteur, you fly in on a small diesel-spitting turboprop, then hike an hour through ancient rainforest, known for its jaguars, poisonous snakes and its famous tiny golden frogs, whose skin exude a toxic stimulant many times more powerful than cocaine. The falls itself explodes from the granite and preside over an eternity of sprawling rainforest; there is no human activity visible till the horizon.

The falls gets its name from King Kai, the chief of a local Indian tribe. To prevent war with the cannibalistic Carib tribe, he offered himself as a sacrifice, and drove a lone canoe over the falls to his death. The wonder now bears his name in remembrance of this feat. It is impossible to observe this violent expulsion of water without imagining Kai's thoughts as he appraoched the edge. Unlike such wonders in North America, one is able to walk to its edge, as the water rushes over the precipice just by your feet; one slip and you take the 7 second plunge to Kai's watery tomb. But it's the only way to channel Kai's final scream, or his peaceful resignation, whichever appeals more.

In Guyana, this holds a certain living importance, as many AmerIndian peoples still populate the rainforest regions, however sparesely, many living not so differently from when Kai took his fateful plunge.

But the day was not over. From Kaieteur we flew to the Orindiuk Falls, which lie upon the Orindiuk river, which demarks the border with Brazil. I and three others decided to wade across the river and bathe beneath the berating falls, braving the slight risk of being taken by the current and drawn over the next stage of falls further downstream. This marks my first technical foray into Brazil, though no passport was stamped, and no immigration official interrogated me.

Tomorrow is the Mashramani parade, and I must go to bed to conserve my energy. It's tiring being Abstinence, you know.

Irony, Sweet Irony

As I wrote yesterday, on Friday I'll be taking part in the national Mashramani parade in Georgetown, along with a couple of interns and the daughter of another consultant. We'll be representing the National AIDS Programme, so our costumes need to be AIDS-themed. Two of the girls, for example, are wearing a costume called "Tentacles of Transmission", which features giant wings and protuberances signifying syringes, IV drips and, I dunno, penises.

So what's my costume, you ask?

Hopefully Andrew is reading this, 'cause we all know how much he cares about irony. My costume, my droogs, is ABSTINENCE.

Off to Kaieteur Falls in the morning.

Wife Surveillance

There's a programmer on our team who recently graduated from York University. While his peers are enjoying their first jobs building websites for grocery stores, this fellow is writing code for the health information system of the whole country of Guyana. Similarly, I'm only 6 years out of my PhD. Based on my publications and experiences, I figure I'm a mid-level epidemiologist. But by virtue of the world of international consulting, I find myself strategizing the TB surveillance of an entire nation, a task in a Western nation that would have been relegated to a team of the most senior people available. It's a glorious opportunity and the odds are stacked against us.

Before you think that this is a big ego boost to me, I should point out two things: my absolute terror that I will screw up and fail these people; and every meeting's tendency to table the topic of how to find me a wife. Yes, it's a senior level agenda topic.

Today I unveiled our surveillance strategy to those who must implement it. We anticipated some resistance, but things went better than predicted. So to celebrate, and to purge myself of the lingering effects of the previous night's Russian vodka, I indulged in a two hour massage.

At the same time, another of our team was the victim of a robbery. She lost her camera, 15000 Guyanese dollars and sheafs of notes. Yes, Guyana has become noticeably safer in the past 2 years. But crime is still rampant, and it's a wonder it took this long for one of us to be victimized. Still, this presented me with the opportunity to see the inside of a Georgetown police station. I now understand why crime is such a problem here.

I should point out that Guyana is one of several Caribbean nations hosting the World Cup of cricket in just a few short weeks. In preparation, Guyana has built a new national cricket stadium, an enormous new hotel, is upgrading its roads and mobile phone networks, and is finally allowing us foreigners to access our money through ATM machines. The question remains, though: are they ready for World Cup? Will the power grid survive a doubling of the population? Will the roads survive? Will crime escalate? I don't think I want to be around to find out.

This Friday is Mashramani, which is essentially Guyana's independence day. It's a huge national carnival-style party, complete with a parade. And guess who's a marshall for this year's parade? Yep. I pick up my costume tomorrow morning!

Drunk Off My Ass

One of the joys of international travel is meeting interesting characters. Tonight we encountered a Russian soldier who is assigned to rebuilding the Russian embassy, which is adjacent to my hotel. He doesn't speak a word of English, but luckily my boss speaks a modicum of Russian and was able to translate.

Vladimir desperately misses his daughter, his dogs, and the snows of his town just outside St Petersburgh. He was so homesick and relieved to find people willing to try to communicate with him that he rushed off and returned with a bottle of excellent Ivanov vodka and several beers. I am now completely sloshed out of my mind after sharing vodka shots with a Russian.

He is a very sweet man who desperately misses his family and craves any sort of human contact. The Cyrillic people are known for their hospitality, hence his willigness to share his most excellent vodka.

Turns out that this fellow had fought in Afghanistan and Angola, and had many stories to tell. It even leaked out that he had just helped to build a nuclear reactor in Iran!

I love these international assignments. You never know whom you're going to run into, or what tidbits of global intelligence you're going to absorb.

Okay, gotta pass out now...

Damn Laptops

Geez. You won't believe this. Halfway through this blog post, my laptop keyboard stopped working. Dead. And it still won't work. I'm finishing this post on another laptop that I had luckily borrowed from the office. Unfortunately the loaner goes back in the morning and I must spend the remainder of my stay laptop-free.

Still in Guyana. Due to the searing heat, I've spent this weekend mostly holed up in my hotel room. But I did emerge for half an hour for a late afternoon run along the sea wall. The tide was in and the water was splashing against the wall quite violently. (I should explain that the sea wall runs along the entire Atlantic coast of Guyana, protecting the country from flooding. The wall is about 4 feet high and 5 feet wide. Folks run and walk on its top.)

I got sprayed several times, with the brown, brackish water forced into my mouth. Ironically, it's probably cleaner than the clear water coming out of the taps. (Yes, Andrew, that really is irony.)

The stars above continue to delight. Here in the city their brilliance is not as great as in the rest of the country, but certainly exceeds that which we are used to in North American cities. Back in Rupununi, on the savannah the stars were oppressively bright. One drunken night, as the locals whooped it up inside the ranch bar, Adam and I wandered into the black emptiness from which the horizon could no longer be seen, the land was so wide and flat. We looked up and beheld the spine of the Milky Way and the blinding vertices of Orion, seemingly in defence of the Gemini Twins against Taurus the Bull. Moments like that is why I travel to remote areas, to see sights that are increasingly more rare, yet which are (ironically) more natural and necessary.

Remember that we were not far from the equator, so the starscape had shifted noticeably. I worked hard to find where the North Star should be, somewhere near the horizon.

A new brood of consultants is arriving this week. It's been an ever shifting cavalcade of pointy heads. Tomorrow I have to make a big presentation I have yet to write... and it's already past 11pm! Thursday, with luck, I'll be heading back to the Brazilian border to see Kaieteur Falls and maybe spend the night there. Gotta squeeze all this news in now, 'cause with my laptop on the fritz I may not be able to blog again for a few days!

On an entirely different topic, people have been sending me news reports of Al Gore reiterating that he "has no intention" of running for President in 2008. I direct you to his verbiage. Having "no intention" is not the same as "not running". I say, watch the Oscars for a clue. When Gore wins for his documentary, the left-leaning part of the country will go wild. If Gore is present to accept his statue on live TV, it means he is not running. If he sends a proxy to accept, then he is running. No serious Presidential candidate wants to be seen in the midst of Hollywood fluffery. And no, I'm not the first to suggest this litmus test.

(Aside: right now I'm watching 60 Minutes, on which Anderson Cooper is profiling Kenny Chesney. Um... one closeted gay icon interviewing an another? Wonder what they're discussing behind the camera.)

Rupununi

Where to begin? Adam left for Canada this morning after a night of quasi-debauchery. Good timing, since the toilet no longer flushes, and such a predicament can tolerate at maximum one resident, not two.

Yesterday we took some time to do some shopping and wandered into Stabroek Market, Georgetown's most central landmark, a place Pierre Trudeau once called, "that bizarre bazaar". It was for Adam his first real taste of bustling, odoriferous Third World market life, and I was more than a little concerned that someone was going to do him some harm. But all went well. Between the catfish stalls, mountains of exotic fruit, the standard dollar-store variety knick-knacks and second-hand books, we found time to socialize. We met a 60 year old woman who could pass for 40! Man, I love my gene pool :-)

As Adam stopped to photograph something, I caught an older woman staring at me, then beckoning at me. It was my Aunt Vedo, my father's youngest sister. Now, you must understand that this woman knew me when I was 2 years old, then saw me again 31 years later for only a few minutes, back when I still had long hair. Despite this minimal exposure, she picked me out of a seething crowd of other brown folk, without knowing that I was even in the country! Of course, now I'm in trouble for not visiting sooner!

Adam and I returned from Rupununi Wednesday afternoon. It's a region on the Brazilian border, populated mostly by AmerIndian tribes. Its natural beauty is mind-numbing. Indeed, I have been all over the world, including to four jungles and 3 sub-tropical rainforests. This visit was among the --if not the-- best. The region features a sprawling, Nevada-style savannah that nudges the foothills of the Pakaraima mountain range. Nestled within those hills is the Iwokrama protected zone, a section of pure, thriving Amazonian rainforest.

We spent one night at a lodge/ranch on the savannah, where we were treated to excellent food and company, long nature walks, and exposure to some of the AmerIndian culture, including the manual harvesting and preparation of cashew nuts and cassava products. The ranch also features many animals, including a tapir, agoutis (cute little cat-sized squirrel things), giant turtles and labos (big-eyed nocturnal rodents, hunted by the Indians for its meat).

Then we spent a day and a night within the Iwokrama rainforest itself. The Canadian government has paid for the construction of a canopy walkway, about 100 feet in the air, strung between the upper branches of the tallest trees in the forest. We went there twice, once in day time, the other before dawn. It's a terrifying experience (for an acrophobic wimp like me) to walk between trees on an unstable-feeling aluminum rope bridge, especially during a rainstorm. But definitely worth the effort. We spotted many bird species, including 2 species of toucans, and had a close treetop encounter with a family of red-furred howler monkeys. No jaguar signs were present, though, despite the region's fame for being home to many of the big cats.

Nothing is quite so surreal as sitting on a treetop in the rainforest with Adam, hunkered beneath golf umbrellas during a torrential downpour, and playing 20 questions to kill the time.

The night was spent in hammocks in the open, by the ranger's cabin. Once again, it was a terrifying but joyful experience. Every small sound emanating from the trees sounds like a jaguar approaching camp. Lying in pitch blackness doesn't help.

The flight back to Georgetown was eventful for three reasons:

1. the plane was filled with Christian missionaries from Alabama. The fellow next to me had ever before left the USA and knew NOTHING about Guyana, not even the difference between AmerIndians and East Indians. I squeezed as much of an education for him as I could into that short flight;
2. the flight itself was unsettling. The plane was a 15-seater cessna that rode the clouds lik a whitewater raft; and
3. once in the air, I discovered I had left my cell phone --my precious, wondrous PDA-- back in Rupununi! Auuuugh!!!!

Now here's where the magic of the new Guyana continues to impress. We landed in Georgetown and was met by a driver from the tour operator who informed me that they had found my phone in Rupununi, and had already arranged to fly it out to me the next night! I am proud to report that my baby is back in my arms, purring contentedly. For those who don't get it, my phone is worth $1000 brand new, and puts to shame the finest computers in this country. It's a wonder that it has been returned to me unscathed.

And my final bit of news... my stay here has been extended 10 days. Yes, there are worse things than working in the tropics while a savage cold spell beats down my home in Ottawa.

PS

• The photo at the front of my site has been fixed. Arrrrgh, that Bravenet!
• Rondi, a few critter pics are forthcoming

"Rick James, Bitch!"

Half an hour from getting on a plane into the jungle...

Just wanted to also mention that we went to a Georgetown nightclub Saturday night. One of the bus boys bore a striking, almost erie, resemblance to Dave Chappell. So that's where he's been hiding out!

Sorry, no photo.

Off To The Jungle

This is not a photo of me in Guyana. Rather, it's from a recent tropic-themed party in frigid Otttawa. The irony is not lost on me.

Off To Rupinuni

Man, where do I begin? Internet access is sketchy and I don't have a lot of time. So I'm frantically getting this blog post done off-line and will upload it in a bit. Adam and I are heading to Rupinuni in a few hours to enjoy some time in the bush. Rupinuni is a region on the Brazilian border, famous for its untamed jungle wilderness and beautiful savannah and mountains. We're flying in a tiny bush plane and will arrive in time for a mountain hike. The highlight will be a walk through rope bridges strung in the high canopy of the rain forest, and the evening spent camping on the forest floor. I'll be out of touch until we return Wednesday night, so you'll have to put up without me until then!

Santa Mission

Yesterday, we took a motorboat boat to Santa Mission, a protected aboriginal village of about 400 people, nestled in the fringes of jungle. It was a marvelous journey, during with we encountered natives in dug-out canoes and other river-borne commuters along these staggeringly gorgeous waterways. Along the way, we saw cappucin monkeys, pukka (sp?) owls, hawks, vultures, toucans and many assortments of colourful insects and eerie, horrorshow trees.

The highlight was the visit to the village itself, complete with fascinating vegetation, adorable aboriginal children and the local moonshiners making cassava wine for us. In the old days, the fermentation process was acceleated by the addition of salivary amylase (i.e., they would spit into the brew), but luckily not anymore. It tastes pretty damn good, by the way.

The most memorable part of the experience, though, was the nice swim we had in the river upon which the village sits. While all the residents gathered for a "town meeting" under a thatched roof, we pointless tourists stripped down and poured ourselves into the black water. Why was it black, you ask? Most claim it's because of the tea-like forest leaves dipping into the river, releasing anti-oxidant tannins. In other words, we were swimming in strong, iced tea. I'll let you know if any medical miracles befall me, like my foreskin growing back.

It wasn't till later that our infectious disease doctor revealed that the water is probably infested with shistosomiasis. Great. Thanks for the warning....not.


Windsor Forest

Today was the searing hot day I chose to visit my familial village, Windsor Forest, dragging Adam across the floating bridge and through the various agricultural villages en route from Georgetown. He was greeted, of course, with various goodnatured catcalls of, "Hey, whiteboy!" to which Adam would respond by openly wondering why they were calling ME white.

Now, you must understand that my immediate family left this village almost 40 years ago. I still had close relatives there 26 years ago when I returned to spend a marvelous summer there. And when I went back 2 years ago, I remembered nothing and could only find one old man who recognized my name. Today, even the old man was gone. While I'm sure everyone there is related to me in some way, we remain as strangers, with no mutual recognition of our histories or sameness.

While this is in some ways a sad revelation, it is the way of the world, wherein change is the only constant. I took some time to contemplate the rice fields, where generations of my forebears would have spent the entirety of their lives working and dying, and where I too might have exhausted my energies, never having known the world. It was painfully beautiful and serene, with a terrible stillness that was nonetheless menacing with the history of hard labour it had absorbed.

And while sylvan beauty is the predominant tone of the place, I took time to photograph the empty pop cans and styrofoam cups that now cluster about the trunks of neem trees, to be fruitlessly gnawed upon by mangy goats and kicked by children dressed in the finest American castaway clothes. This is what some might call poignant closure.

Bravenet Sucks

How many times have I typed the words "Bravenet Sucks" into this blog? You'd think by now I'd have learned my lesson and dumped the buggers. But no, they continue to host this blog and all my websites AND administer my proprietary email addresses.

Few things suck more than being in a Third World country while conducting business abroad, dependent on email, and suddenly your freakin' IP provider takes your email server down. Bravenet seems to do this a lot.

Long story short, if any of you has been trying to email me at the "ray at deonandan dot com" address, I haven't received it in the last 48 hours. Until further notice, please use "deonandan at yahoo dot com".

Thank ye!

So....Delirious....

Is it Day 4 in Guyana already? Keeerist. I awoke today with whole body aches and a fever and NO desire to do anything but sleep. But work waits for no epidemiologist, however sexy and arrogant! No, I don't think it's malaria or dengue... but that would make a good story, no?

The new Guyana continues to surprise. Yesterday for lunch I went to the "Roti Hut", which could not possibly have existed 5 years ago. While in its over-advertised embrace, I felt like I was in Mississauga (which clearly is impossible, since Mississauga has plenty more Guyanese people than does Guyana). Food prices have risen to North American standards. Wages have gone up, too, but not as quickly as the cost of living. I'm not sure what's driving this change, but every impressive iota of Westernization necessarily is partnered with a further slide into poverty for one group or another.

Last night I also broke one of my cardinal rules and went for a walk along the sea wall after dark. Our Project Manager insisted on it. Mind you, she felt safe because she was in the "company of a black belt". I didn't have the heart to tell her that when push comes to shove, this black belt is using his #1 self-defence technique: he's running like heck back to the hotel.

But, you know, it was a very pleasant walk. The only people on the wall were couples smooching and the occasional pair of boys playing dominoes. A far cry from the murder and rape nexus reported with so much zeal by ex-pats of the last 40 years.

Okay, off to the TB clinic. I'll update you as the malaria eggs continue to hatch...

Oil? Here?

My first morning in Guyana is unlike others I've spent here in the past. I woke up at 6:AM and promptly went for a long run along the sea wall. This would have been unthinkable a handful of years ago, crime being what it is. Certainly, this is still a dangerous place, but measurably less so. The sea wall was populated by several similar fitness-minded individuals, and not a miscreant to be seen for miles.

For my post-run stretch, I returned to the poolside of my hotel, which is adjacent to the Russian embassy, to find a bevy of exquisite Russian beauties sunning themselves. What? In Guyana? Where am I?

The surprising news here is that Guyana is now exploring for oil. This has put her in direct
conflict with richer Suriname, who also claims the potentially rich waters. Big things might be a foot for this struggling nation.

One of our team, a physician from New Brunswick, is trying to adopt a 4-year old HIV-positive boy who's living in a local orphanage. The boy was abandoned by his family and has been so neglected that he cannot yet speak. The adoption process is facing all the traditional bureaucratic hurdles. I will monitor developments as best I can.

Off to my first full day of work, mostly helping to strategize the nation's new TB surveillance programme. Wheee!

Arrived!

Every time I return to the nation of my birth, it changes by a generation. I've just checked into the Sea Breeze hotel and am getting accustomed to the fantastic suite of rooms CSIH has reserved for me, in preparation for the week of public work we'll be doing.

The place is wired, breezy and sexy. A far cry from my first trip to Guyana as an adult, back in 2000. Back then it was still crawling out of Third World hell. It's not out of the woods, but progress is tangible... based solely on 2 hours of hotel exploration in the middle of the night.

We'll see if I feel the same way in the light of day.

And We're Off

Greetings from inside Air Canada 974 en route to Barbados from Montreal.
It's freakin' freezing outside, and I'm looking forward to the ironic shift
to tropical hellfire in 6 fires. Time to break out the noise cancelling
headphones and settle in for a long hurtle through the stratosphere...

Thriller-Ji

Heading to Guyana in 24 hours and I am far from getting everything done that needs doing. But the packing for on-the-plane distraction is fun. I have my new noise-canceling headphones, my laptop, portable DVD player, MP3 player, PDA, PDA keyboard, emergency PDA power supply, book to read, client prep material, papers to review, newly burned DVDs (9 episodes of Blake's 7, 24 Hour Party People and Patrick Swayze's version of King Solomon's Mines), audio CDs (mostly Sherlock Holmes audio books) and a memory stick loaded with the countless projects I need to get done. Of course, we all know that I will probably spend the time sleeping and daydreaming about obscure episodes of Buffy The Vampire Slayer.

Someone asked me why I will carry all these sundry devices instead of simply taking my hotshot laptop. See, when I travel to insecure places like Guyana, I prefer to take inexpensive small items, things that I don't mind losing. This is why I'm also taking Adam. :-)

In the news, Al Gore has been nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize. Hmm, with this new moral clout, will my prediction of a President Gore in 2008 come true? Some are saying it's already too late for Gore to enter the race. But remember back in 1992? A certain longs hot politico from the South threw his hat in as late as December, 1991. That was Bill Clinton.

In other news, many people have been alerting me to the actions of the municipal government of Herouxville, QC, which has set forth official "norms" for its immigrants. Well, what do you expect me to say? This is, literally, small town small mindedness. In some ways, we should be thankful that this sort of thing is at least out in the open, so we know exactly the nature of the ignorance that infects much of our society.

On a happier note, EK Hornbeck and I have been cloistered on several evenings watching episodes of the forgotten, but fantastic, 1970s UK scifi show, Blake's 7. In honour of this rediscovery, I give you this tribute to the show, to the tune of Monty Python's "Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life":



But the theme this week is wacky Bollywood goodies. Thanks to Shaila M. for sending us the following, the Indian version of Michael Jackson's Thriller. As Shaila said, "simply speechless".