Warm and humid breezes wafted from the open windows at one end of the landing through the veranda overlooking Croal Street. At the back of the hotel are typical wooden houses with shuttered windows and colorfulmetal roofs. Laundry hangs drying in the sun and sea breeze.
The canal dividing Croal Street’s two lanes is a familiar sight through Georgetown, a vestige of the Dutch, David explained, and their methods for dealing with water in a city below sea level. In the plazas and built-up areas, you also frequently step over shallow and narrow concrete ditches that drain away rainwater.
Even though late March/early April is considered the dry season, the town is green and lush with palm trees, and bougainvillea and hibiscus bloom along the avenues. With few shade trees, though, many women carry umbrellas against the hot sun. The traditional straw hand broom is used indoors and outside to sweep away the tiny leaves and petals that drop in the heat.
Across the way and down the street is one of David’s favorite “snackettes” where we bought a late breakfast. Small egg tarts for me and chester cake (similar to a dense fruit cake between two flaky pastry layers) for David. We filled our water bottles from the cooler in the hotel lobby, and David walked to the curb to hail a minibus.
The minibus is the entrepreneurial version of mass transit in Guyana. Each minibus has a route number painted on the front, so David knew which ones were headed down Croal Street to Stabroek market. About the size of a Dodge Grand Caravan and equipped with four rows of passenger seats (including foldable jump seats to take advantage of every inch), the minibus can hold 20 or more passengers, including children on laps. The driver focuses on driving. The “conductor” sits by the passenger door, soliciting riders, instructing the driver to stop or go, assigning seats, collecting money and making change from his or her fistful of Guyanese dollars. I believe the conductor’s objective is to fill each possible spot in the minibus, because we sat intimately, shoulder to shoulder.
The market at Stabroek is a bustling, noisy version of a flea market/sidewalk sale. Vegetable and fruit sellers crowd side-by-side with vendors of t-shirts, tight dresses, mosquito nets, cell phone covers, flip-flops (“slippers”), DVDs of questionable origin, fresh juice, sunglasses and more. Minibuses, cars, bicycles and people fill the uneven pavementand create gridlock with no apparent turning protocol. With Easter a week away, traditional 6-sided kites are on sale, waiting to be flown along the sea wall, and church groups sell fresh hot cross buns.
Local crafts and tourist items are concentrated in a small designated area opposite the national museum (which seems always to be closed). A connected series of wooden booths, with barely enough room for David, me and the vendor, sells tourist knickknacks (key chains, pens, etc.) and craft items like crocodile leather purses and belts, straw hand brooms, leather sandals, and woven baskets and mats. Much of Guyana is heavily forested with a wide variety of trees, so carved wooden bowls and figures are also common.
Oh, the heat. I craved something cold, but ice is rare (very American), and diet sodas are nearly non-existent. Bottled soft drinks, teas and juices are loaded with sugar, so I made do with water which rapidly lost its chill.. In the hot sun, my straw hatprotected my face; in the shade of buildings, I used it as a fan.As much as I would have wanted to stroll through these little shops, the hot stuffy air inside drove me out to the shaded sidewalk. “We’ll come back next Saturday,” David assured me.
Next installment: David plays tourist
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