Can't you hear that rooster crowin'? Must be something on his mind.

Dylan's words called to me our first night in Guyana at 4:00 in the morning, and at 4:15 and 4:30.Outside the little house my wife was raised in traffic whizzed by, particularly the mini buses ubiquitous in the country on all the main roads. People in this small South American country sandwiched between Venezuela and Suriname are on the move, going to work, building their houses, traveling to market, and going back and forth to America. I learned that while everyone wants to come to America to earn money and build better lives for their children, everyone also cherishes the simple life they have in Guyana filled with the sounds of laughter, Caribbean hip hop and roosters in the yard. My ten days in this tropical summer country gave me a new appreciation and a deeper understanding of my wife and her family, and the country they call home.


The People

The market is composed of these rough hewed sheds lining the street filled with the fruits, vegetables, meat and fish grown, raised or caught by local people. Of course, no trip to the market could be complete without a certain amount of catching up. So, because it's been 11 years since she's lived there, Neeta spent most of the two hours we shopped there chatting with old neighbors.

In addition to flour, rice, spices, meat, smoked fish and produce, people sell baked goods, sweets, juices, clothing and religious articles. As we shop, cars, trucks and bicycles drive up and down the street around people, cows, donkeys, sheep and carts blaring music from home made CD's.

 "No Krishna. No Buddha. No Allah. Just Jesus. Jesus saves!" Holding 

 her Bible high, a woman parades up and down the street hawking Christ. Most of the country's Afro Caribbean population are either Christian or Muslim. Most of the Indians are Hindu, but it's not unusual to find a statue of Christ among the gods and goddesses in a temple.

Traffic, Guyana style. Cows like these just ignore the cars while calves nurse.

Known to his eight children as Daddy and to his 18 grand children and 11 great grandchildren as Aja or Nanna depending on whether their relation is through a son or a daughter, Polo Singh is the family patriarch. Whenever there's company, you will usually find him sitting there besides the door in his silk baseball shorts, a soft spoken and gracious host, but one who is firm in his convictions. According to "Mr. Polo", as his daughters refer to him, the house must never be left without someone guarding it. The family joke is that there must be gold in the door posts.

Here's Polo with three of his daughters. Satee, known only as Sissy by her siblings is the eldest child, Neeta in her Brett Farve pj's is the sixth oldest and Indira with three grandchildren of her own is the "baby" of the family.






The Kids

There is no such thing as baby sitters in Guyana. Families take care of their own adding bedrooms to the house as generations multiply. When she was in sixth grade, Neeta's mom died forcing her to leave school to care for her younger brother and sister and do the cooking. All her older brothers and sisters had by that time, married and moved on. Now, there are five family homes. Dad lives with Neeta's younger brother and his wife and two kids in the original family home. Of Neeta's older brothers, one died and one lives with his wife, son and grandchild in a neighboring community. Satee has a daughter and her three grandchildren with her and a son who lives separately, and Indira and her husband live with two of their kids and their three grandchildren.

Our nieces, Sharda and Ranita. That's Sharda's husband next to her, who we call Boy.(Don't ask) These two when joined by my wife will tell preposterous stories, then dissolve into shrieks of laughter. Neeta came home totally hoarse from all the laughing. I had no idea what they found funny most of the time since I only get about 20 % of what goes on.

My lanky 11year old niece, Ashti, youngest daughter of Neeta's brother, Rangi and his wife Jean. They will be immigrating to the Bronx next year or so sponsored by Jean's sister. Ashti competes with her sister for hammock space especially if it means sitting with Daddy, Mommy or Aja.

Vashti, our 13 year old niece is taking extra classes in computers. She is learning about power point demonstrations, Microsoft office applications and e mail.

This is Indira's daughter, the 20 something Ranita and 13 year old Sandee who is the daughter of Sharda, Satee's daughter. Very quiet and reserved, Sandee exhibits maturity far beyond her age. I wouldn't be surprised to see her married in a few years.She is enrolled in a business course in Second Form.

Neeta's younger sister, Indira with her three grandchildren, Andre and Joshua (children of her son who lives upstairs from her) and the never still Amit, whose favorite game was throwing himself in the hammock where I was dozing.Very amusing, Amit.

Trick shot of Vicky, Sharda's 6 year old son, balancing Amit on his hand.

Even trickier, balancing Uncle Joe on your hand!

Fishing with the family and the kid down the road.

Daily Life

Every house has an altar, and every day begins with a prayer.Though not fervent, Guyanese Hindus respect religion as evident by the large statue of Lord Hanuman you see at the top of this page. Everyone who can afford it does a yearly thanksgiving ceremony to the god or goddess of their choice, and in the process, feeds family and neighbors with a traditional 7 curry feast afterward. People rely on each other and on the kindness of neighbors. The day is measured by food. It seems that meals are always being prepared, always available, though eating together isn't a priority.There are banana trees, coconut palms and a myriad of other fruit species in almost every yard and people also grow some vegetables like bagee which is a spinach like green, squash and bigan (eggplant). Rice and sugar cane are grown commercially. Chicken, duck, lamb, goat, pork for the non Muslims and beef for the non Hindus are sold in the markets and supermarket stores or raised by people individually. It is not unusual to see cattle, sheep or goats grazing freely on the roads miraculously surviving the vehicle traffic and finding their way home at night.The roads are busy with animals, horse carts and people flagging down the aforementioned mini buses which hold a driver, a conductor who collects fares and as many people as they can squeeze in (often 15 or more). People drive on the left at break neck speeds, but most vehicles have steering wheels on the right, a remnant of British rule, I suppose or a death wish.

Kids go to schools that are like long open box cars  to afford some ventilation.Class sizes are generally large and teachers aren't above smacking hands with their rulers. It's all very British. Aside from the rice and sugar cane industry, there is mining and a lot of construction. As people grow wealthier (many from contributions from their relatives in the US), they make improvements on their homes installing in door plumbing, stoves and refrigerators and rebuilding with concrete instead of wood. Infrastructure is poor. There is water piped in to most homes and electricity available most of the time. We encountered about 8 to 10 blackouts of from 10 minutes to one hour while we were there.No one has hot water, except maybe the very rich, so you bathe by throwing the cool tap water over yourself. Except in the early morning, this is pleasant since temperatures are hot and often humid.

Most people have dogs to protect their property at night, but don't treat them as we do. They generally wander the streets by day and get fed with table scraps at night.They are tolerated rather than loved as part of the family. Parrots and monkeys are more likely to be given attention as pets. It's the third world.

Homes can be as scarce as this  tiny shack inhabited by the family of a "rum drinker" to homes with air conditioning and bathrooms in all the bedrooms and guard shacks outside to protect them. Often, they can be located next to one another.

The other extreme. If you double click on the picture at the left, you will see an orange and white extravaganza. Apparently, home decorating has yet to become a highly refined art in Guyana.

This is the simple home where Neeta grew up very happy with 7 brothers and sisters.

  After she married and saved to open a small business, and saved again,             she built this home. Unfortunately, she never got the opportunity to live in it, preferring to move to the United States where she eventually decided to marry me and live happily ever after.

Whether you have a kitchen or not, many people still do a lot of cooking outside.This is edo (a kind of root vegetable like cassava) and eggplant being cooked.

This is a local temple.The flags are planted every time a worship service or puja is conducted. Needless to say, being a priest or pundit as they call them is pretty steady work.

Surrounded by the gods, here's the happy couple praying for protection from mosquitoes.

Neeta bravely facing down a cow who wandered over to check out the vibes.

This was pretty much my pov for most of the time I wasn't eating.

Here's Neeta's sister, Indira and her husband packing the ton of illegal food we took back with us past the scrutiny of US Customs. I'm only kidding. They're just harmless souvenirs.

J.D. Salinger: Rest in Peace

Many today find his writing dated- his characters unsympathetic. I cherished his books, and loved the sad tortured people who inhabited his stories. I remember reading Catcher in the Rye at my sister Eileen's house and asking her if I could keep the book, a Signet paperback in its fourteenth printing in 1960. Perhaps it was because he chose to remain a recluse that I find him so remarkable. He seemed so like his wounded characters. And, perhaps I saw in many of his characters a hint of myself. I've given so many young people his books as gifts hoping they would be as moved by his writing as I had been. J. D. Salinger an American icon, dead at 91years.

Christmas Diorama, 2009

The Christmas Diorama

The Christmas Diorama, 2008. Readers may note the Big Gray replica on the lower right hand side as being close to but smaller than the real house which consisted of three floors plus the attic.

I love dioramas. I believe I think I became a teacher because I knew it would allow me time to create dioramas with my kids. I have two grandchildren now as many of my readers know, so it allows me to see their delight every year at seeing my masterpiece- the Christmas diorama. This year, I'm integrating an HO train into the scene, and I've been preparing my backdrop by including a tunnel from which the little freight will emerge. Oh yes! I  built it around a frame I had with paper mache. Today, Nov. 23, I started rearranging my furniture to see if the plan I had made in my head for the space would work. I think it will be perfect. The diorama will be on display from December 5 to January 17. Be sure and visit for the holidays!                               

I'm declaring victory.

This is what we should have done in Vietnam. I'm calling off the war and declaring victory. The park, or rather the little quadrant I take care of, looks radically different from when I began this project and likened my progress to Sisyphus'. Last year, I worked my way to what are the remotest parts of the woods I care for and found areas that have long been neglected. I cleaned much of what I found with the help of park personnel. This year, I returned with dread to those neglected areas which are plagued with thorns and poison ivy and so, difficult to reach until the understory dies back in the fall. Definitely, I found some other areas to clean and some which needed additional work, but no where near the amount from last year. Also, persistent scrubbing of problem areas is paying off. I notice these areas are staying cleaner longer like when they remove graffiti from a wall and keep it clean, eventually those who would alter it get the idea and cease. President Obama helped too. Not only did he encourage my volunteering, but by banning the sale of those flavored blunts, he stopped the littering of their foil wrappers. Anyhow, I'm declaring victory. I'm inviting all my Big Gray readers to come to Queens. Take the high trail around the kettle pond with me. Hey, if I can do this, so can anybody. Think globally. Act locally!

Zen Driving

Sunday afternoon. The wife cloaked in blue, in a sacred Bollywood induced trance on the coach. When I tried to tell her my bad news , I was shushed and sent to the computer out of sight in the bedroom. Left with this unfulfilled confessional mode, I turn to you, my loyal reader. I just got another ticket on the frakin car. This one, for not" properly "displaying my license plate. Mind you, it was "displayed", only improperly according to the bureaucrats. And all this after having to spend a morning at Motor Vehicles replacing the damn plate in the first  place! What? Oh, I know it's my  fault for hitting the guy. But man, talk  about Karma. Is this happening to me because I lied to the guy who fixes the car? I told him the wife was driving. It can't be that, can it? I have another ticket to pay for forgetting to move the car last Monday. That one was probably my fault. And,   I just beat one for an expired meter last week. In other words, I'm batting 1 for 5 with the car. Not a good average in baseball or  real life, is it? Eddie from Big Gray gave me that book, Zen Driving? I read it. I think I do drive like that. Trouble is, I don't do well with passengers in the car, so people don't get that. I like my car. I like driving.

The star ship commander who helped me restore propriety to my license plate this morning and I were having  our usual talk this morning- how "things are different than when you and I grew up". I told him I was writing a blog, and we shifted to communication and how "too much communication" can be a curse, and he allowed that it's so much easier to give tickets nowadays due to the improvement in technology. And that brought me back to the issue I've been wrestling with here that these young people who have been spoiling the margins of my beautiful park need to see. Nowadays, everything we do stays with us. Even a ticket for drinking or smoking in a park can mean the difference if you're trying to get a job, get into a school, join the Armed Services, or whatever. It's like Karma.

As far as I'm concerned, I might have to give my wife the car.

Life of a Trash Collector

I'm in the park now an hour a day 5 to 7 days a week. It's become an important part of my day- my gig. I visit the larger part of the park, once a week on average. Most of the time,however I'm dealing with the litterers of the the small strip of woods surrounding the park's kettle pond. On the other side, the woods and bridal path dominate the park's acreage.On the side where I work is the pond, the parking lot, picnic grounds, carousel and the golf course. The woods around the pond lead up a long thin ridge to the restored Dutch colonial farm house which has offices for the park administrators and their staff. The Urban Ranger headquarters is also on this side. The community bordering this part of the park is dominated by small single family homes with a large Mexican population, and some bigger homes and apartment houses that are occupied by other new immigrants and some "original" inhabitants. Queens neighborhoods are changing fast all over with new immigrants from third world communities in Latin America, Trinidad, Guyana ,India, Pakistan and Mexico. The impact on city parks in Queens doesn't seem to occupy much press in New York. A couple of years ago, Forest Park had to stop issuing permits for the picnic area to a community group consisting of people from one of those third world countries. It's a problem. We are dealing with populations who have no experience of our culture of National Parks and green area restoration. These are people who lived in parts of the world where garbage was either burned or dumped somewhere else. So, I've been thinking a lot about these things lately as I gather beer bottles, food containers, cigar wrappers and what not. Last week I encountered yet another site of a Santeria ritual. If you don't know, Santeria is a spiritual/magic tradition that began in Africa, and traveled to the Americas. Part of their ritual involves lighting votive lamps, leaving certain tokens and ritually killing a chicken. Apparently from the trash left behind, several people attend these rituals and eat and drink during them. It poses a dilemma for me, because I believe in honoring all traditions and as a magician myself, often conduct rituals in these woods. I never leave any litter behind, and make sure if I'm using incense that it can't start a fire but, all the same. I could have called the Park Manager who would send a crew to clean the site, but this time I decided to clean some of the mess, and leave the heart of the ritual. I left the sacrifice which I covered a bit more, the votives (which I had to extinguish), a plate of dried beans and a glass of liquid (wine?). I cleaned up a lot of plastic cups, food containers and attending trash including the ubiquitous beer bottles. Here's the rub. The people who conduct these rituals may have a connection to the woods as a sacred place, but they don't connect with the idea that leaving litter behind is a desecration.I'm struggling with the same dilemma then, that I have with the pot smokers. Any ideas?