Bogota
October 10, 2024
At the onset, two things. It says a lot about a country that I never once saw a souvenir. Even the most-tawdry object, a key chain, a tee shirt inscribed with “my grandma went to Guyana and all I got was this tee shirt.
It also says a lot that I have a very sour taste in mouth about my stay, a taste that’s been building.
I won’t return.
But to the beginning.
I arrive with all sort of excitement on Saturday evening after a very long day. Earl flight to Houston, long wait, then a six-hour fight with nary a peanut offered to Georgetown. Guyana. If, at this point, you conjure up romantic, exotic image of a remote jungle nation, abandon it now.
Forty dollars (forty!!!) got me to Bev’s Apartments. Good air, I slept soundly and long. Troy, the super I suspect, who I thought was a woman but turned out to be a man, arranged a taxi to get me money then redeposit me in the (hah) colonial center. It was noonish, no one was on the streets except the people selling vegetables an outdoor market. Colorful. Same stuff all over the world. The streets were deserted. Even the churches were shut up. All around me were Colonial structures from another time. All shuttered for Sunday. I walked. Hungry. I’d eaten nothing since Houston. There were simply no restaurants except KFC, Burger King and Pizza Hut. Nothing. It reminded me of Romania 1998 when a similar thing happened. All American fast food but nothing local. Pizza Hut. It was the beginining of the surrealism of G.town. Bathroom. Floor was flooded. No one cared. Giant cockroaches were swimming on the surface. Some got loose and scrambled across the floor. One woman started sweeping and just killed them as she worked. It reminded me of the time in Jaipur on a Sunday afternoon when I stood at the main train station and watched a cow mosey alone. No one noticed. WTF!
I got myself overheated walking under the hot sun. I spotted a casino, got ID’d in, sat at slot machine and did nothing but relish the cool, dry air. Only Chinese were inside, me and other Sunday sinners. I left, sat in the bar and nursed a Diet Coke until I felt comfortable again.
It was only the beginning.
Georgetown was fucked from the go. Monday, my primary goal was to figure out how to get to Suriname. No one could tell me. That was the beginning of the realization that there was no tourist infrastructure in this town. Embassy. “You have to apply online.”
Another taxi back to the apartment. Three hours trying. No luck. I gave up and returned to the Suriname embassy. Even the guy working there couldn’t get the web page to work. He called Suriname. “Use Firebox or Chrome.” I gave up and went to the National Garden instead, then caught a taxi back to Sheriff Street where I expected to find a place to eat. Nothing but Burger King, KFC, Church’s, a Chinese fried chicken place. I settled on that and went home to eat it. It was so piquante that it was impossible to eat. More fries and bad chicken.
Tuesday I returned to the embassy. Nothing worked. I gave up. This was not meant to be, but getting out of Dodge was not going to be easy. No one goes to Guyana. There is zerioinfrastructure. There are no beaches. No restaurants. No museums worth a visit. There are nice people, though, and they collectively redeemed my stay.
It was clear that I wasn’t going to Suriname. Huge disappointment. Travel agency. What were my options? Nothing was cheap. I opted for a 3:00 am flight to Panama City then on to Bogota. $875.00. A Glenda. I was reminded of her having to buy a one way ticked from Paris to NY in 1990. An expensive blunder. Clearly Suriname did not want visitors, but I refused to be defeated, although I wanted to give in and return home.
Instead, I hired Dominique for 5 hours on Wednesday to bring me around. WE drove up both coastlines—east and west. All the same stuff. Interesting Dutch colonial homes with a Javanese flair, shut down sugar cane factories, Burger Kings, KFC’s, Church’s and…Dairy Queen.
We ended up in Parika, on the Essequibo River. At least that was interesting and reminiscent of Vietnam. The poor of course work in the hot sun, tossing plaintains and pumpkins one to another to get them on trucks. Such different lives.
On the way back the best thing happened. I saw a fire, or Dominique pointed out a fire. What is it I asked? Very casually…it’s a cremation.
Me: What!
D: Yea. They got someone on the barbecue.
Now, I’d seen heaps of Hindu temples, all over the place, but this was more than I expected. But an open air cremation in the Americas? Unheard of.
Me: Turn around. This is just too good.
I got out of the car, waited until many people had left, then walked in. The ghat was next to the sea, near an open air temple where a service must have been held. Nobody Hindu. They’d assimilated perfectly, although one boy was a Muslim with the standard white robe.
It was hard to tell who the mourners were, but soon then all left and I was left alone. The pyre was square, boxed it, and fully in flame. There was no evidence of a body inside. Nothing. I lingered, took some photos, satisfied my curiosity.
Back in the car the back to 88 Williams Street in Campbellville. I was going to bed early as I had to be up at midnight so Diminique could pick me up for the 3:00 am flight to Panama City then on to Bogota.
He never showed up. Repeated calls. Frantic. I finally called the Marriot and they sent someone. By now it was two hours to flight time and an hour from the airport. Off we went.
I made it. Dominique called me repeatedly and I only picked them up in Panama. Yes, I said. I’m terribly sorry.
Well, yes… at least I got to the airport.
And now I’m in Bogota, a place I said in May that I had to reason to return to. Odd how life is. I’ll make lemonade. There are pleasant things to do. I need a haircut, a facial, a manicure. I can have dinner on Monseratte and see the guys perform on Saturday in Candelaria. Fun things to do.
All is well. I’m grateful. Good lessons. It’s only money, albeit a lot of it.
It’s not the end of the world.
