The rebound...

In a lame attempt to get over jungle boy, I went out the other night and spied a super hot man, hat on head in Mojo's.

Several vodkas later, I mustered up the courage to talk to him. Well, not really talk, I kind of just blurted out "you're hot", which worked a treat.

He told me he was a barber from Brookland, New York who was just focusing his energies on being creative. Wow. I was in awe.

We exchanged numbers and agreed to meet on Monday as he had some stuff to tell me.

I was making up all manner of things in this over-excited head of mine, however nothing could have prepared me for what came next.

He was no barber. Oh no. He hadn't even have a set of clippers!

Instead, he told me, in all seriousness (well, i guess it's a serious matter), that he was a deported drug-pusher!!!! WHAT!?! How did that happen!?

He then asked me if we could still have a relationship as he showed me his outdoor shower, toilet sans seat and box of instant macaroni.

Um, now I am starting to sound like a snob, however it was a rather peculiar situation, particularly when all he had to offer me was a cup of Kool-Aid, which he assured me was safe and even offered to have a cup as well.

However, I appreciate his honesty and I am glad he told me about this sooner rather later. I am still debating whether or not to see him again. I would SO love to introduce him to my dad when he comes in February... or is that just cruel.

The jungle boy...

So after four months in Guyana and a lot of crazy men, i thought that I'd finally found, well not the one, but a special one.

He was hot (it's not always my first preference, but it often helps), interesting - he lived in the jungle, so amazingly sweet, had amazing biceps, a hairy chest that rivalled Austin Powers and didn't wear underwear.

After striking up an acquaintance in Buddy's (not a cool place to meet, but still, i was drunk and he was hot), a flurry of feelings ensued.

We met every day, chatted endlessly and I really thought I was falling for him.

However good things don't last forever - hell, they don't even last three weeks it appears. No sooner was I considering changing my flight, my plans, my life, he asked to borrow some money.

One part of me wanted to think the best of him, however after listening to advice from friends, I started to believe he was just out for what he could get.

Things went kind of weird after that, partly because I felt I couldn't trust him and partly because he is an ass.

However, we continued to communicate and it all culminated the other day when we met, I screamed at him like a crazy woman, he threw in the L word, I screamed some more and then (oh, the shame)I shed some tears. In retrospect, I should have thrown something too - just for effect.

Anyway, he's gone now. Back to the jungle. To mine gold. He asked if he could come and see me before he left. I said no. I thought my aunt would give him the third degree. And I had flu. He then said he'd call and he never did.

Which suggests to me, he is an ass who should get the hell back to his excavator and hammock in the stupid jungle and stay there forever with Mowgli and Baloo the Bear (although that does sound fun).

The whole situation breaks my heart. Yes, he did break my heart. Infact he didn't just break it. He broke it. Ripped it out. Stamped on it. Then threw it in the dirty, stinking trench. And while I hope that he'll call, I know deep in my heart he probably won't... for the first time in four months my phone is tone and it's silent.

Like my soul, like my heart.

Oh dear, now I am being overly dramatic. I don't regret what happened. I enjoyed every second of those feelings, even the crazed ones. I guess this is what we live for. The extreme highs (which are way too often followed by the extreme lows).

What doesn't kill you, indeed makes you stronger, and if nothing else - it's great material for the book.

A new dawn

In the past month, I've experienced Christmas Guyanese-style, New Year Guyanese-style, worked way too much, put on five pounds (or more) and had my heart broken by a man from the jungle (which I may deal with in a seperate blog).

It's been eventful to say the least.

So Christmas was pretty cool here. In all honesty, it's not so dissimilar from the British Christmas, aside from the fact that there's that a lot more sun and a lot more rum! You eat a lot. Sleep a lot. Drink a lot. Throw in a bottle five-year-old and a few retro CDs, it's pretty much heaven, well my heaven.

New Year is party central too - however I was working and had women's problems. Oh dear. Instead of hanging on the streets of GT, supping five-year-old, I went home had three shots of rum, passed out in a drunken stupor, woke up, was very confused, then threw up. Nice.

And now it's 2010. Yep, 2010, the year when I am going to finally figure out what to do with my life...

Why Guyanese men are first-rate weirdos...

A 60-year-old asked if he could be my boyfriend while I was in Guyana the other day, and yes he was being serious. He has since called me sexy and chubby - the latter is a compliment too... apparently. I told him I have five boyfriends and can't accomodate anymore.

While buying an ice-cream from Demico House, a lovely man uttered the not so lovely phrase: "If you ever wake up one morning and fancy sex, call me!"
Unfortunately I was a little bowled over by him, proceeded to converse with him over tea and ice-cream and foolishly gave him my number. Alas he never called. Not that I was about to take him up on his offer - of course.

Me to driver: "Are you married?"
Driver: "Why, do you find me attractive?"
Me: "Er no, it's just a question"
Driver: "Call me sometime, we can talk. But don't tell anyone."
What is that about??? Yesterday he tried to put a ring on my finger (Beyonce style) and today he said there were many things he'd like to tell me but couldn't. Right.

The drivers here are quite something. Another asked if he too could be my boyfriend. And no, it's not exciting. While he's fairly attractive, he has terrible teeth and has told me that he's not a "work-a-man"... at anything! He also asked if he could bite my nose... in a sexual way. Oh dear.

I met a guy on the street the other day. Again, I stupidly gave him my number, mainly because he has a tattoo by his eye. However I wasn't prepared for the onslaught of text messages including my personal favourite: "Hi babes u r so special to me i need you in my life. If loving u is wrong i don't want to be right. Stay safe"
He now wants to know why he's not hearing from me! I only met him fricking yesterday!

And finally, I get onto the guy from the Halloween party, the only one that I find attractive (apart from the hot tall boy at work who I can no longer talk to since he asked me via msn, within 20 minutes of our first conversation, what the freakiest thing I'd ever done was). After declining his drink's invitations three times - the halloween boy, not the tall boy - I asked him to go for coffee yesterday. He suggested we skip coffee and have sex instead. I was appauled. However after he suggested drinks instead, I said yes. As repayment, here are the comments (not compliments) I received:

"You look much better than last time."
"You should wax off the moustache."
"You're actually quite pretty."
"If you lost weight, you'd be hot."
"When you take of your glasses, your almost shaggable."
"Wow, what a big knee you have."
"I like your arm (aka the bingo wing bit)it's so warm."

And finally after asking him what he's doing for Christmas, he replied "I'd like to do you". Nice.

Now tell me, why do I still find him attractive???

I've also joined Guardian Soulmates for some stupid reason. There are two hotties on there and after exchanging one email a piece, I'm yet to hear back from either.

Conclusion? Men are idiots, no matter where in the world you are.

Hot, hot, hot

It's been a hot today. And I mean mega hot. I've never sweat so much. In my life. It's bad. Really bad. Again, I am enjoying writing short sentences. It's one of my favourite past-times when I have nothing to do. Which is what is happening at the moment. Today, I have eaten an omelette. Played some steel pan. Been to the corner shop. And tried to put a lock on my door. Why a lock? Because the lodger is crazy. Yesterday he wrote a note saying he would come and see me in ten minutes. Psychotic or what? I told him if he came anywhere near my room I would scream. He doesn't seem like a dodgy type. However, you never do know. I have finally found the key, so touch wood, I am safe. For the time being. I can't tell my aunt about his strange behaviour as they once had relations. Hmmm, this is not good.

On another note entirely, I have discovered that Guyanese men aren't so different to English men. I went to Halloween party the other week - Caribbean style. Please note that it's the first time I've drunk, heavily, in a long time. I went with some peeps from work, when I soon discovered that the dress code isn't that dis-similar from P-Town on Saturday. It appears, that over here, less is indeed more.

So, one hour and a vodka and triple rum later (which cost no less than a pound), I was hammered. And i mean hammered. I was swaying, spinning, shaking and bumping into people galore. I somehow managed to shimmy my way over to a young man, knock his drink over and announce to him and probably the rest of the party that I was educated. Oh the shame. I then dragged him outside and whittered on at him for several hours before it got to much for him and he had to take me home.

Anyway, we went for a coffee last Monday, which seemed to go okay. How much we have in common, I don't know. However, he was fairly entertaining aside from when he asked: If we were to start dating what would you bring to the table? Er what? Who asks that. I was baffled and didn't really know what to say, much like when he asked if I'd like to do this (coffee) again.

Now, it's one week later and we've spoken once and he's now announced that he'll call me in a week or so! Which he did (I am updating this sometime later), and he can't meet until he has cash. Screw him man. These folk just get weirder and weirder.

Oh and did I mention my cousin tried to throw me out last week! Get me outta here now!!!

The original steel pan man

An article that was published in The Sunday Magazine of Guyana Times...

If the steel pan were a man, it would no doubt be Roy Geddes. Rosetta Pineapple discovers the story behind Guyana’s premier player and asks him how he’s developing the art form these days

Roy Geddes is a chap who lives, breathes and adores the steel pan more than any other. His talent is second to none, his passion is beautifully raw and his dedication is, in a word, remarkable. Oh and did I mention this man’s got style?

Decked out in burgundy plaid trousers, a red striped T-shirt and beige flat cap perched atop a bed of white hair, this is a man who remains true to his roots and is hell bent on continuing his love affair with the pan - he even has a gold pan pendant slung around his neck, glittering in the sunlight.

His evolvement into one Guyana’s leading pan players has been an eventful one and began in 1953 at the tender age of 13. “Coming from a single parent family and being the eldest of five, I had to leave school at 13,” says 70-year-old Roy. He soon took up a job as a tradesman; however the glorious sound of the steel pan soon started floating his way. “I was living on Lambert Street at the time where I was bombarded with steel pan music and that’s what inspired me to get involved. I would head to the pan yard everyday and imitate how the fellas there were playing.”
Three years down the line and a plethora of pan sessions later, self-taught Roy started to take the art form seriously.

“After that, I started playing with the Casablancas and started to think this could really be a career. The first time I performed I was so nervous and couldn’t stop trembling,” he says, his mischievous eyes crinkling into a smile. But the path wasn’t always easy. Back in the 1950s people had to work during the day to generate an income, and then head to their jam sessions in the evening.”You couldn’t just play for the love of it alone,” explains Roy.

However people soon caught onto the fact that this wasn’t just any ordinary pan man. Roy continued to make a name for himself, playing in bands in Wismar and Bartica where his father lived. “I was well known in those regions,” says Roy, “and I was one of the best as I was always willing to learn. I didn’t know how to read music, so I had to be a very good listener.”

After returning from his stint in Bartica, Roy’s star really took off. He would tramp the streets of Georgetown, pan around his neck, whipping up a melodic frenzy where ever he went.

In 1962, the original pan man was selected to hit the shores of Trinidad with the National Steel Orchestra of Guyana. “It was such an honour,” explains Roy, “as Trinidad is the headquarter of the pan and it’s where it was first invented.”

Then in 1963, Roy was once again selected to be part of the National Steel Orchestra but this time he headed to Cuba. “It was in Cuba that I learnt about respect and how to respect myself,” he says smiling, fondly remembering the seven months spent on the rhythmic island. “The trip was a blessing in disguise as we would attend lectures and they would tell you to express yourself freely.” It was almost like a second schooling for Roy and on his return to Guyana, the pan player realised there was a great deal he wanted to share with the youth of his country.

“I wanted to help people and teach them about patriotism, as well as respect for others and for themselves.”

Midway into our interview which is taking place in his steel pan museum – full of memorabilia from the good old days, hammers for building and tuning pans along with quotations and plants by the dozen - Roy suddenly jumps up from his chair. The cricket is on upstairs and while his full focus is on the interview at hand, he, like any other sports-loving man, has a radar for when something’s happened. Today, Trinidad is playing and he’s eager to find out from wife Pam, what’s been going on. Ganga’s out he informs me, as he settles back down, a look of excitement flashing across his face as he shouts thanks to his wife of 43 years.

Leaning forward conspiratorially, he confides that Pam, who not only provides him with the cricket scores, is the academic one and secretary for the band as well as a loyal companion to Roy. “Without her support, this wouldn’t be possible,” says Roy, his face glowing proudly.

Back to the task at hand, it becomes clear that Roy’s career went from strength to strength after discovering his love for teaching along with playing.

He formed his own band called the Silvertones in 1964. During his time in the band, he played for Elizabeth II, won the Guyana Music Festival twice; he also chalked up awards for Best Original Costume Band and took home first prize from the National History and Arts Council competition.

He’s also received two National Awards for his contribution to the art form from former presidents Forbes Burnham and Dr Cheddi Jagan.

Roy remains humble however, and hasn’t let the awards faze him. “I was honoured by them but that’s not what I was after.”

Today, Roy isn’t just one of the most prolific steel pan players of all time. He’s also a pan builder and tuner (he sinks drums and creates pans in his museum - every corner is chock full of drums, pans and tools), arranger, leader and most importantly, a social worker.
“My main objective is to commercialise the steel pan art form and pan production as an industry,” he says. “I want pan men to be able to take care of their family and I
want the steel pan to give the youth of today a firm direction in their life.”

Teaching is something that Roy takes very seriously. “When kids come to learn to play, I try to instil family values as it’s something that’s lacking and hampering young people these days,” Roy explains. Being a firm leader himself and adhering to a strict set of values, Roy believes discipline is essential and stresses that “you can’t lead young people effectively unless you lead them by example, which is what I am trying to do”.

As well as his social work, Roy’s other mission in life is to preserve the history of the steel pan, as he says, “a man who has no sense of history is like a man who has no eyes or ears”.

“Pan won’t die, there will always be pans around, but the development is lacking. That’s why I have a museum which I am developing so future generations can learn more about it.”

Looking around his museum (which tourists flock to regularly), you can immediately gage a sense of just how rich the steel pan culture is. This museum tells the story of Roy’s 56-year stint in the business and as he himself can vouch for, his “contribution is not just seasonal, but full-time”.

Photographs line the walls, awards are piled high on a table, a football lies on a bench in homage to Roy’s alter-ego Pele – he is a pretty mean football player - and inspiring quotations fill every nook and cranny encouraging the practice of discipline, responsibility and patriotism.

Roy Geddes is certainly a man with a mission and one who continues to break barriers when it comes to the steel pan. As the pan player himself says, “greatness is determined by service” and given his service to the art form thus far, that must mean, and rightfully so, that Roy Geddes is a truly great player, creator and most of all, teacher.

The Roy Geddes Steel Pan Museum is located at 190 Roxanne Burnham Gardens, Georgetown. For more information call 226 9844.

My column...

Admittedly, this is probably a repeat of much of what is already on my blog, however here is my fully published, fancy column...

Back in February, I visited Guyana, the land of many waters, many bottles of rum and where my many (well two) parents are from. From the moment I stepped off the plane I was taken by the intense heat, soft breeze and, of course, the shot of El Dorado rum I received upon arrival. So eight months later I thought it was time to pack my bags, head to the motherland, get in touch with my roots, drink copious amounts of rum, perhaps find a goat-herding husband and of course, work.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the culture shock that comes with actually living here along with working not five, but six days a week! Apparently this is normal over here (I like to conduct a survey everywhere I go to see how many days people work, six or seven is average), however for my lazy British behind it’s not. I’m slowly getting used to it though and I am finding that there’s still plenty of time to experience the wonders of Guyanese culture.

At the moment I’m staying with my Aunt, which is a mini culture fest in itself. She loves to cook every West Indian dish in the book (and tell me about every sordid crime that occurs in Georgetown). So far, I’ve sampled baigan choka, baigan curry, squash curry, black eye cook up, fish and chips, fried fish, methem, vermicelli and of course, chicken curry. (The list goes on by the way.) However all these decadent dishes means that I’ve been accompanying my lovely aunt to Stabroek Market on a tri-weekly basis.

I’ve restricted myself to heading down town once a week now though, as all those screaming bus touts, dead carcasses and losing lottery tickets have started to give me a headache. What I do love, however, are the music vendors. Tell me, where have they sprung from? I swear I didn’t see any in February. The tunes that blare out from those brightly painted, larger-than-life ghetto blasters always bring a smile to my face. It’s like going to a nightclub in the middle of the day. However, if I hear “One More Night” one more time, I might stab myself in the foot with a cutlass which, I’ve come to notice, is quite a common thing. Cutlass crime that is, not stabbing my foot. I’ve been assured though, that these are merely crimes of passion and as long as I steer clear of love, romance and water coconuts, I’ll be safe.

But Stabroek Market isn’t the only place I’ve visited. Last week, the Essequibo River beckoned, so I took a trip to Bartica. As soon as I reached Parika and jumped onto the ageing wooden speedboat, life jacket in hand, I knew I was in for the ride of my life. Zipping across the vast expanse of the stunning river brought a certain sense of freedom and reckless abandonment as I drank in the sights of the lush islands piled high with greenery, the teeny-tiny beaches beckoning to the speedboats and, of course, Eddy Grant’s awesome house plonked on top of his own private mecca. Bartica itself was quiet. Compared to Georgetown most places are, however the golden rum sipped at the Kool Breeze Wharf made the trip worthwhile as I gazed out onto the stunning river, silly (semi-drunk) smile plastered across my face.

Aside from chicken curry, speedboats and rum, I’ve also taken it upon myself to learn the steel pan drums from the truly inspiring Mr Roy Geddes. He is, in a word, awesome as is his pan yard which is packed with plants, fascinating quotations and, of course, many a steel pan drum. So far I’ve learnt the F scale, the C scale as well as Do-Re-Mi! It's simply a matter of time before The Pegasus comes knocking at my door.

So while I’ve enjoyed pretty much everything about my trip so far (six-day week aside), my stand-out moment has to be arriving at my desk to find two rolls of toilet paper sat, quite happily, next to my computer. I like loo roll as much as the next person. However, it was a quite a surprise. Apparently staff are given a toilet paper allocation each month. Yes, that's right. A toilet paper allocation. Men get one roll, women get two. Bonkers I know. But cool. In England we have to make do with what’s in the bathroom and if there’s nothing there, then too bad. But this idea is genius. I just need to make sure I go easy on the pone and don't get a bout of diarrhoea before October 23 (the next time the paper is dished out).