Gaza me seh

Firstly, I must extend my apologies for failing to keep everybody even vaguely abreast of goings-on this side of the Atlantic - any time I get access to a computer I ultimately end up googling completely pointless things that've been bugging me throughout term time.

In Georgetown, for example, the first thing I did was find out the words to the second half of the middle verse of "The Owl and the Pussycat", and then which date Freddie Mercury died.

All completely essential stuff to know, I'm sure you'll agree, when you're in desperate need of changing your flight times so you can actually get home, and haven't spoken to friends or family for months. Let it never be said my priorities are askew.

I'm writing this from Barbados, having been here for three days, and Saint Lucia for two weeks prior to that. It's been a fantastic period of time, but I'm sure I'll fill you in later. Given the title of this blog writing about Guyana should probably come first.

Our last few weeks in Orealla passed quickly. Too quickly. The obligatory tears marked the occasion of our leaving party (as did our leaning on a bridge and breaking it, before tumbling into the drain it crossed), and our dog Adam West endeared himself to people by loudly choking on a bug during the speeches, then chasing the headmistress' infant son as he toddled around after his mother. A dignified affair, all in all. The days either side of the party were spent touring the village attempting to articulate our feelings about leaving our home, and thanking the countless people who've been our adopted families for months. Oh, and trying to find a home for Adam West, which we did. We led him to his new owner wrapped in tinsel, trying valiantly to make him look less like the bug-eating child-chaser he is.

Visiting Auntie Esther (the mum of Miss Angila, a fellow teacher) had been another of our main pastimes throughout our time in Orealla, and we packed as many hours in with her as we could before leaving. She taught us to weave properly, then make skirts and jewellery from tibisiri (soaked, dyed and dried palm leaves, not dissimilar to wicker. I'm not actually sure what wicker is. Perhaps tibisiri is wicker), then fry fish properly, then lose eating competitions. I'm kidding, of course. She clearly taught OTHER people to win eating competitions, just not me. I'd been talking myself up for days, too, so my defeats were just embarrassing.

We then left the village in style. That is to say I fell over in some mud whilst carrying my rucksack to the boat. The most embarrassing part was definitely the fact I wasn't even carrying a LARGE rucksack, since I'd fobbed that off on Dale ages ago.

Oh, yeah, and Dale was there :) He'd come from Wakapoa to visit me for a few days, and within hours of his arrival had gained himself the callname "Drags". Considering mine is "Tatty" (which does have an innocuous explanation, but it's funnier if it doesn't) we made quite the pair.

Our last few days in Georgetown were spent in Coffee Bean, getting our fill of bacon, Rockies, getting our fill of Forró, Shanta's, getting our fill of peanut punch, St. George's Cathedral, getting our fill of.. God, I guess.., and the zoo, getting our fill of dead/dying animals and a spider monkey called George who I'm 90% certain stole a bit of my soul when he looked at me.

Heather and Pogo (Heather's friend, who'd been living with us in Orealla for a month) then headed to Trinidad and Tobago, the majority of the guys went to Rio, and Claire and I got a bus to the airport to begin our journey to Saint Lucia.

Now, just for those who haven't had the joy of island hopping in the Caribbean (how much of a prick do I sound right now? Don't worry, I'm back home soon and you can all punch me), most flights bar those to Barbados are routed through Trinidad, and consequently I've been to Trinidad four times. I'm aware that there are those of you who'll argue that I can't technically say I've been there, since the hours I've spent in Trinidad have all passed in the airport, but I assure you that during my limited time I've squeezed in as much learning and exploration as possible. I'm not sure if I got a flavour of absolutely everything the country has to offer, but from my brief stays I'm confident in saying that Trinidad's culture is primarily based around planes.

From the very first minute of being in the airport we started making friends:

"You look like a rapist," Claire told me upon catching a glimpse of my passport at the check-in desk.

"She thinks I look like a rapist," I added helpfully to the woman behind the desk. The woman smiled wanly, passport-based humour doubtless a great novelty for her. After a brief stint of going through all of the coins in our pockets so we could buy a pen (the seven currencies we've used this year have inexplicably merged into a horribly jangly stash of useless shrapnel), we proceeded through security. I, as always, was flagged as suspicious looking. Must be my rapist face.

"Do you have anything in your shoes?" the frowny security man demanded to know. His suspicions were not unfounded, as both of my shoes had feet in them. It later emerged he meant the walking boots I'd shoved at last minute into my hand-luggage, and I had absent-mindedly put a bottle of pepper sauce inside the left one. I smiled sadly as the first of many liquids was confiscated from me. And yes, I'm well aware of the much-published rules restricting the carrying of liquids, so have no excuse other than stupidity and blind, hopeful faith in Trinidadian security personnel.

We landed on the balmy isle of Saint Lucia and were immediately swept under the wing of Lorraine, the lady who owned the guest house we'd be staying in for two weeks. She truly was an amazing host, ensuring that every morning for breakfast we were provided with freshly brewed coffee, mangoes, crusty bread and a selection of jams. We ate in her garden, swinging in her hammock and surrounded by her dogs. She also gave us rides to a variety of attractions, including the Moule-à-Chique lighthouse, Laborie Bay and anywhere else she thought we might like. It transpired that we liked pretty much anything she took us to, so she widened her horizons and took us to the Caribbean's only "drive-in volcano".

Sounds like it'd be sick, right? Sadly we were not impressed, but politely took a photo anyway, before hurrying back to the car.

She then introduced us to her neighbour Werner, who's spent so long in London and whose speech is peppered with so much English slang that he's now technically only 20% Lucian. He accompanied us to the cinema (supposedly to watch Batman, but it'd sold out. We watched instead a film I can't even bring myself to talk about. "Madea's Witness Protection". Do the research) and a variety of bars for treacherously moreish cocktails. He took us dancing in Dennery, and invited us for moonlit karaoke sessions at his friends' houses. We also went to several lunches. We turned up to the first expecting the typical laid-back (still lovely!) affair of fried rice in hammocks, so were rendered speechless when presented with glasses of Malbec and shown to a beautifully set table. We tucked into fig salad, tender chicken, and breadfruit, and as we sat making dinner party-esque conversation, it struck me as entirely not-in-keeping with how the rest of our year had been. Until a chicken wandered in and laid an egg under a chair, anyway.

Whenever we weren't with Lorraine or Werner, we would hitchhike all over the island, often visiting things at the whims of our (always friendly) drivers. We packed a lot into two weeks, but a big part of me wishes we'd elected to stay in Saint Lucia for the whole month. As we tearfully hugged Werner goodbye at the airport we realised how genuinely sad we were to leave, even though we were now bound for another two-week holiday elsewhere. We attempted to mollify ourselves by going through security without having anything confiscated, but they took Claire's washing powder so that plan went out the window.

We've only been in Barbados for a few days at the time of writing, and as of yet haven't done much exploring beyond our immediate area. It's hurricane season, and though the afternoons are still blisteringly hot, the mornings have all been stormy. I'm happy to report the cocktails are delicious, though. Yesterday we were sitting reading on Dover Beach when a couple of rasta men approached us and sat down nearby. They were talking amongst themselves in Bajan creole about the white ladies, and were taken aback when we understood them and vaguely pissily joined in their conversation. It had the potential to be awkward but we all laughed it off and we then sat eating roasted breadfruit with them. We're going turtle-watching with them later.

As I'm sure you're all aware the men's 100m is about to start, so as much as I love typing asanine drivel into the interwebs I'm going to bid you all farewell and go see whether Blake or Bolt wins.

xxxxxxx