I finally get to a computer and...

my face feels like it's about to fall off.

I'm sitting in an internet café in Anna Regina (the name of which I still find amusing to say), having just spent about four hours sitting in a lumber boat drifting down the Pomeroon - hence my being covered in sawdust and smelling of a fine piece of furniture - and a further hour singing Lionel Richie with our taxi driver Fordyce. I've left it so long since the last blog that I can't think of where to begin.

I guess the face thing is as good a place as any - and it's not even interesting. Whilst sitting in the taxi, I excitedly tore into my bag of plantain chips with hot pepper sauce, and managed to spray said sauce all over myself. Guyanese pepper sauce is basically pure wiri wiri pepper (similar to but hotter than scotch bonnet), and is only needed in very small quantities. We must have looked a little odd: singing very loudly, Fordyce and Claire laughing as I half howled with pain and half powered my way through "Say you, say me".

But I digress. I feel I should probably update you with something a little more substantial than my snacking considering it's been two months.

I'll tell you more about Wakapoa, since it's where I spend about 99% of my time.

Any confusion I felt before arriving as to what exactly constituted "Wakapoa" has been eradicated. I'd assumed it was one village, but have eventually deduced that it's many settlements sprinkled along the shores of Wakapoa Creek. Claire and I live on St. Lucian's Mission, which boasts the health centre and the secondary school for the whole Wakapoa community. Life on the Mission really is centred around the school: WSS and its dormitory stand in the middle of a patch of white sand, and there is a cluster of about ten houses and a small shop on the periphery of that, but that's essentially all there is. The circle of sand is fringed with palm trees, and a few feet further back the palms yield to rainforest, then mangroves. Deep, tannin-filled creek water the colour of iodine surrounds all. It sounds idyllic, and it is. Usually, though, we're too busy or distracted to appreciate it fully, which is a shame, and something I'm increasingly trying to change as I settle in and get to know more people.

Our lives have now fallen into the following pattern:

We get up when it gets light at about 6am, and hastily plan lessons (did I say 'hastily'? I meant 'thoroughly and fantastically'), then shower - which involves a bucket of creek water and a mug when our water tank's empty, which it soon shouldn't be since we're entering rainy season. Next we'll eat a fortifying breakfast of bake - sort of like a dense pita. It can be cooked on a griddle, or fried, and we usually make so much that it does breakfast for us and our two dogs, Lontws and Pancake. We then walk the 20 metres that separates our house from the school. Dorms kids materialise as we shut our front door, and we all walk across the already-boiling-hot sand in a big group, arms linked. For the first month and a bit, I was teaching in The Shack, but I'm now in the main school building. It's nice to feel more a part of the school community, but there are now six classes in one room (simply sitting in different areas and separated by blackboard partitions), so it can be an absolute nightmare to talk over the other teachers/children. My class is also much bigger than the others. I teach 38-40 children daily, and the next largest class has 16. The smallest has four. It's just as well that my kids are the youngest and therefore smallest in the school, as we don't have more desks or space than anybody else, so they all have to cram together. The hearing problem is compounded when it rains - thunderous, torrential, rainforest rain - and the zinc roof means we're all immediately deafened. During these times, my class know that I'll start gesturing wildly at the board and be giving them the ol' crazy eyes in an attempt to get the lesson across without any words, so they usually pay attention pretty rapidly simply so they can laugh at me. This suits me fine. 

After school and any school meetings we'll play with the dorms kids for a while (I taught them Duck Duck Goose and the Macarena. If I achieve nothing else, I'm proud of that), then typically wander across to sit in the shop, owned by our friend Dale. This is useful in that we get free snacks, and cuddles with Dale's gorgeous baby brothers, but less so in that Dale frequently buggers off, leaving us to serve people Guyanese items of which we're only just learning the names (and essentially making up the prices). Eddoe? Ajee? Belna? Sweet soap? Sure, take this thing. 

We sit in the shop - or in the hammocks near the shop - gaffing and playing with the kids and dogs until it gets dark, which happens in about ten seconds at 6pm due to our location on the equator. Unless an auntie kindly offers to feed us, we'll head home and cook something together (by the light of our head torches), then sit on our front step chatting with our neighbours, before diving under our mosquito nets. To help with ventilation and heat management walls in Guyanese houses don't reach all the way up to the ceiling, so Claire and I can continue to chat from our beds at normal speaking volume. We debrief after the day, reminisce about home, take the piss out of each other's accents, and watch enormous tarantulas walk languidly across the ceiling. 

Latterly, I've taken to simply braving the mosquitoes so I can sit outside and gaff (and stare at the incredible stars) for longer, but I have paid the price: I am now so covered in bites that I look vaguely diseased.

Anyway, I'm being rushed off the computer now. I'm sorry I've been so crap with updates, but now I know where to get on the internet hopefully they'll appear more frequently.

tl;dr: Guyana's amazing and I'm never coming home k bye x