Guyana is beginning to be known as a birding hot spot and it is indeed an incredible place to bird. Anyone who travels there must be able to be flexible, ready for the unusual and comfortable with occasional discomfort. I haven't traveled anywhere quite like it nor have I met more polite, soft spoken people.
The Prince Phillip Hotel
“Well,
speak up, please. Do you know this wine or not?
Is there someone else whom I can speak to about this wine?” Holding the parchment wine list, John twisted
in his chair to look up at the silent, smiling black woman. Like most of the hotel staff, she was from
one of the Amerindian villages near Georgetown.
Not more than nineteen, tall and statuesque, she had luminous eyes and
black hair pulled tightly into a bun at the back of her head. The waitress continued to smile silently as
she backed away from the table. The rest
of the group around the table had either buried their heads in their menus or
were staring at John in pained amazement.
“Really,
John, you’re in the third world. You
can’t expect a native woman just in from the bush to discuss a Chateau Neuf du
Pape with you. Give her a break.” This came from Mel, one of the older men in
the birding group.
“If
they have a Chateau Neuf on the wine list, then they’d damn well better have
someone who can tell me if it’s still good. Oh, what the hell.” John turned again in his chair and motioned
impatiently to the woman who waited, order book in hand, a few feet away.
“This
one, please” he said, enunciated the ‘please’. “We will have this wine.” With exaggerated movements he pointed out a
wine on the list. She nodded silently,
eyes down, as she wrote in her order book. Near the main restaurant door, the hostess,
an older Asian woman, watched with narrowed eyes as the waitress retreated. She shook her head slightly,
unsmiling.
When the wine arrived, the
group waited tensely as the waitress skillfully removed the cork and poured a
taste for John. Fortunately, the wine
was acceptable and the rest of the meal passed without incident.
This
was the second leg of a two-week birding trip in Guyana. Our group had returned to Georgetown from Santa
Mission, an Amerindian post deep in the bush.
We had planned a three-day rest
before embarking on a boat trip down the Demarara River, then cross-country by
jeep to Shanklands, a resort on the shore of the Esiquibo River. While in Georgetown we planned to tour a ginger plantation, then take
a boat ride down the Mahocany River to find howler monkeys and hoatzins. The picture in A Guide to the Birds of
Venezuela, the book most of the birders were using as a reference,
describes the hoatzin (pronounced what-zin) as a chicken-like bird with
striking spiky feathers growing out of the blue-skinned head, in the style of a Mohawk
haircut.
Georgetown,
the capitol of Guyana, is a rough, rowdy city where tourists are strongly
encouraged not to wander unescorted.
Masked with a lush, thick garden, fortress-like walls surround the
Hotel. Just outside the city the jungle
is an impenetrable mass of green. Most
travel in the bush is by river; the few roads are deeply rutted and muddy.
The
surrounding Amerindian villages provide staff for the big hotels and government
agencies in the city. The people are
dark, soft-spoken and extremely polite. Those who have been educated in the
local schools speak with a delightful slurred British accent. Their habit, when embarrassed by the behavior
of others, is to smile politely and not say a word.
Our
group was up with the sun the following morning. Breakfast was served in the elegant dining
room where, outside the generous window, a dainty jacana, a long-legged wading
bird, stepped delicately from one lotus leaf to another in the pond. He flashed brilliant yellow under-wings as he
darted after small fish. Blue-gray
tanagers flitted through the shrubbery and a flock of raucous, screeching
orange-winged parrots flew over on their way to a day of foraging in the nearby jungle. It was seven in the morning and the
temperature was already seventy-five degrees.
The
professional guide, Mike, was a veteran tropical birder. He could name most of the birds by hearing their songs. My
travel partner Barb and I were moderately
experienced birders from the Northwest.
We loved finding birds in remote countries whenever we could afford a
trip. Bill and Mel, seventy-eight-year
old native New Yorkers and lifelong friends, had birded together since grade
school. They were made of shoe leather:
tough, flexible and so far, inexhaustible. They told wonderful, opinionated
tales about each other. John, who’d been
rude to the waitress, was a New Englander who let it be known that he was a
Princeton grad with a law practice in New York City. He had left his wife behind so that he could
enjoy ‘roughing it’ for a few weeks. He
looked pristine that morning, as usual.
A crisp seersucker shirt was tucked into creased khakis and a clean
baseball cap covered his sparse light brown hair. No matter how hot and dirty the bird walks
were, John seemed to stay clean and cool.
* * *
Mike
had downplayed the safety aspect, but the group had overheard the East Indian
bartender at the hotel’s main bar talking about a British man who had wandered
alone into one of the rougher parts of
town and was “chopped” for his wallet.
This was the local description of a machete attack. So, rather than wander outside the walls in
search of a restaurant, the group gathered again that evening at the hotel to
eat and go over the day’s bird list.
The
same tall young black woman was our waitress.
The name tag on her maroon uniform read “Verna”.
“What
will you have for dinner tonight, please?” she said, starting at the end of the
table farthest from John. We all ordered,
then enjoyed reliving the discovery of a silver-beaked tanager earlier in the
day. Intense red-black with an over-size
blue-silver beak, the tanager flitted low in a cecropia tree, allowing what
birders call “soul-satisfying”, long looks through scopes and binoculars.
When
dinner arrived, Verna and another waiter served the table. John’s voice rose above the general noise of
conversation in the restaurant. “Excuse
me, this is not what I ordered. I
ordered the baked chicken and yam soufflé. This is beef.” He motioned imperiously across
the table at Verna, who was still serving.
She
hesitated and pulled the order book from her pocket. “Sir, I have written down what you indicated
on the menu, roast beef and
potato.” She started to walk toward him
with the open order book.
“I
don’t care what you wrote down, this is wrong.
I don’t eat beef.”
Verna
was still for a moment. “Yes, sir. I will bring the chicken.” Verna removed the plate and with lowered
eyes, moved quickly to the kitchen doors.
Barb
leaned over and said quietly to me “I’ll bet he ordered the beef. He’s such an ass, he probably just changed
his mind.”
“
You know that ‘chopping’ thing the bartender was talking about? He should watch it,” I said from behind my
napkin.
Again
the hostess had watched the entire scene; her mouth formed into a tight
line. She followed Verna into the
kitchen and her raised voice carried through the swinging doors.
“Great,”
Mike said. “You got her in trouble. She’s just a kid.”
“Oh, they all holler at each other
all the time. Maybe it’ll make her pay
more attention next time,” John said, sipping his drink.
Verna
brought the chicken dish and quietly placed it in front of John. He didn’t say thank you.
The
group broke up early. We were all
exhausted from the heat and humidity, both consistently in the mid-nineties. We were heading for the stairs when I had an
idea. I pulled Barb aside. “Wait a
minute. Come on,” I said as I walked
toward a small open office near the main restaurant door. The hostess sat inside, running down a list
of figures, her fingers flying over an abacus.
“Excuse
us, please,” I said politely. I waited for the hostess to raise her eyes
and acknowledge us. “Yes?” she put down
the abacus and smiled.
“We,”
I pulled Barb up next to me, “want to let you know how much we enjoy the food
here. It’s wonderful.” Barb nodded emphatically in agreement.
“Oh,
thank you so much,” the hostess said.
“We are happy to give you a good experience and good food.” She preened a little and fiddled with the
ivory chopsticks in her pulled-back hair.
“Yes,
and also, we are so taken with Verna.
She is an excellent server. So
attentive to our needs.”
“Oh,
yes? Do you think so? She is very young and I worry about her
around for- uh, visitors from other countries.”
“She
is so polite and thoughtful. Yes, I
think she’s the best waitress we’ve had this trip. Tell her that we are very pleased. And we
plan to leave her a big tip tomorrow.
It’s our last day.” Mike had told
the group that the tips were shared among staff.
“So
nice to hear!” She positively glowed and
relaxed in her chair. “I will tell
Verna. She will be so happy.”
“It’s
our pleasure. We know how hard it can be
to get good help.” At this point Barb
pulled me gently out the door. She
whispered “Too much of a good thing,
girl…”
We giggled all the way to our rooms.
We giggled all the way to our rooms.
*
Stay tuned for the last pages of the story. John meets with an unusual adversary.
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