Nick's Picks

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My name is Nicholas. I’m Tim’s younger brother. Tim is a talented and funny writer, I’ll try to keep with tradition the best I can. This is the story of my trip with my dad, not all of it is true.

I have never experienced anything like Guyana. When people ask me “how was your trip?” I usually say “it was nuts.” Or “amaaazing.” If there was a word that described an eight day trip to a foreign country involving deathdefying bus rides, constant chi-hiking, 24/7 sweaty garbage smell, nighttime batattacks, delicious mangoes, pleaded business-yelling, family time, chastising taxicab philosophy, and rum then I would use the shit out of it. I’m sure the Germans have invented one. For now, “it was nuts.”

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Imagine the Mystery Van (you know, the one from Scooby-doo). Imagine ten thousand Mystery Vans packsmushed with 15-20 passengers darting through traffic in cities and on two-lane highways. Everyone drives like drunk Jason Bourne, dangerously over-taking each other as more vans barrel straight toward you.

Those are minibuses. Ornately decorated by their drivers and the daily means for traveling and gambling your life. Did you pray before you got on? Don’t worry if you forgot, their designers have penned scary bible verses inside the upper portion of the windscreen. So when your driver mistimes that cow crossing the road and just before your head passes through the glass, “GIVE ALL TO JESUS” are the last words you get to see. Dad had to get more drunk than usual to travel anywhere.

How much is it to ride with the devil in the pale moonlight? Tim couldn’t explain it to me, but he knew the exact amount we were to pay every time. I’m not  there are different economic factors involved in pricing: number of passengers, time of day, length of trip, baggage, emotional baggage, moon cycle, if SNL is in a rebuilding year, and the decade trend of the green bay packers.

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On our speedboat ride up to Wakapoa to visit another volunteer named Beth, a group of young pork knockers (freelance gold miners who pack pork dinners into the interior, not the name of gay porn, apparently) were riding on the boat with us back to their village. They were about 18 years old, all were downing Guinness like clowns before a kids birthday. And they loved to party: when they emptied their beer, the bottle was flipped nonchalantly into the river; they kindly pushed bottles into our hands after we refused about a dozen times; one boy curiously ducked his head under a tarp/blanket for a minute, marijuana smoke billowed out after; a massive bottle of rum appeared and in a misguided attempt to pour some out for their homies on a speedboat travelling at about 20 knots, Tim, sitting directly behind them, received a rum facial.

The boys drank and smoked their way up the river, through the tight canal, all the way to our landing. They stumbled and slurred greetings to Beth, our host and their neighbor, and goodbyes to us. Later in the night we saw them across the soccer field unintelligibly yelling conversations at Beth. She dismisses them with a wave, telling us how she never can understand them when they get this drunk.

Beth, Tim, my dad and I were guided around Wakapoa by an Amerindian girl named…Janessa? Janelle? I forget. Beth called her JJ. Tagging along was JJ’s 6 year old brother, whom JJ is charged with taking care of all day every day.

JJ is about 14 years old and doesn’t talk too much around us, but Beth explained how she and JJ would spend a lot of time together. From what Beth told us JJ does very well in school, better than much of her class. After receiving interest from a Peruvian soccer academy, she practices soccer tricks every day and plays soccer with the fellas in the evening. The house she lives in has the cleanest yard of the entire village.

We spent the day tiptoeing across beams or canoeing to get from island to island, meeting people, eating mangoes, watching my dad diarrhea behind a tree. It was a fantastic experience, thanks Beth and JJ.

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The main reason I wanted to visit Guyana was to see my brother, Tim. He left about a year and a half ago and I haven’t visited him since. That is no way to treat a person I had shared a womb with.

There is a subtle Guyanese change instilled in most of the peace corps volunteers described in the common phrase “Just Now.” It is a measurement of time meaning now, today, tomorrow, in an hour. In essence, “I will do what I will, when I want.”

For example, after taking a speedboat across a river and reaching the landing a swarm of taxi drivers encircled us and began intensely talking, halfyelling directly in our faces, their hands outstretched, grasping at us to lead us to their cars. Dad froze, I followed suit with added stammering. Wide-eyed, I look over: Tim was texting on his cell phone.

One more Just Now story: We were on a minibus, stopped at a police checkpoint. A young man carrying a big box and displaying a giant marijuana leaf tattoo on his neck was asked by an officer wielding an assault rifle:

“Step out.”

“…No," was the reply.

“Okay.”

And we were on our way.

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It’s a weird, difficult country and Tim has been affected by it. I cannot wait for him to come back, but I know he needs to stay.

I’m proud of how he has reacted and been able to adapt to hard circumstances, he’s learning a lot about something that few of us get to experience. Sometimes his frustration with work and school and daily life come out, but not all of it is bad: he’s dating a very sweet girl (Thanks Kaylee for letting us crash your house) and has a puppy. He has made a lot of friends, led camps, taught lots of classes, and is applying to grad school in Colorado.

I had tears in my eyes when I entered Guyana and saw Tim, partly because I missed him, partly because I thought he was alone in a scary place. I left Guyana smiling knowing the country wants to take care of him and he could handle more than I ever could. Guyana is awesome. And Tim’s a really strong dude. Just try to armwrestle him.

I’ll see you in 6 months, brother.