The mother of all motherlands...

I almost feel like this new chapter should herald the start of a new blog. You see, 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 intensely hot humidity, the soft breeze caressing the palm leaves and the shot of golden El Dorado rum you got upon entering Cheddi Jagan International Airport. I felt like I belonged and it was part of the reason I chose to leave my life in London and travel around South America as, I wanted more that anything to end up in Guyana and stay here for a couple of months, get in touch with my roots, pen my novel, drink rum and perhaps find a goat-herding husband. So, here I am, at my first day of work (however that's another story).

I've been here for a week so far and already it's been quite an adventure. As to how long I will stay, I'm still not sure. Given the fact that I'm at work and bored already is probably not the best sign, however hopefully, finger's crossed things will pick up and get better.

So one week ago, I arrived back here. Of course, it was a culture shock all over again as I am sure it was for my pal. Especially when we both learned what a crazy albeit lovely mothering (and smothering) Aunt I had. Everywhere we walked she came, anytime we crossed the road, she'd shout "get in the corner", and anytime we wanted to go out she'd ask why. But she's cool and fun and it's one way to experience the culture. We spent the week galavanting around town, drinking and hanging out with my dad's smokingly hot, hippie-esque, 55-year-old friend. Man this dude is amazing! He smokes special herbs, he sups virgin pina coladas, does yoga, listens to Michael Buble and dances as though he's making love. In fact I think I am in love, although I am pretty sure he is in love with my friend! Damn, how I wish I was white sometimes. It would have given me an edge in this town.

So as my friend departed on Saturday, I thought it was best that I get myself a some kind of job. The Merdien bar beckoned, but the pay was a pittance. Hence, why I am sat at a little newspaper at 11pm on a Monday night proofreading pages about garbage pile-ups and women getting beaten with a bat. Nice, right? Everyone keeps saying to me "you won't last long", and at this rate I probably won't especially as I have to work six days a week for one sixth of my pay back at home. However I will not let this hinder my plan, even the dead cow and dog spewed across the street yesterday won't send me running from this garbage-infested country! I wanted to come, learn about my roots and so forth garner a better understanding of myself. It may take a while, but I guess I have four weeks (if I so wish) of proofreading (god help me, as soon as monday hits, I am beggin to do some reporting), sipping rum and getting bitten by mosquitoes.

Heaven help me!