Travelling in Third World Countries

Travelling in Third World Countries

A business trip to Guyana in South America was my first trip to a third world country

About ten minutes before our plane landed, the pilot announced that the lights at the Guyana airport were malfunctioning and we would be returning to Trinidad.

I was on a pro bono trip to Guyana to teach senior members of the UNDP a weeklong course on computer literacy, and someone from that organization was supposed to pick me up at the airport. I silently offered the individual apologies for a futile journey, as it was around ten o’clock on a Sunday night.

Ten minutes before we were supposed to land at Piarco Airport in Trinidad, the pilot announced that the lights were now functioning in Guyana, and we would be returning there.

So, I land in Guyana three hours late. It’s near midnight.

Now bear in mind, Guyana has its own currency only available if you are in the country (ten thousand Guyanese dollars would not pay for one night’s hotel stay), and I had been advised not to travel with US dollars because of the crime. The UNDP assured me they would handle all of my expenses.

We land.

I stand in line for immigration, and watch all the locals head to the front of the line with a ten dollar US bill in their hands, which they give to the officer. He waves them on without glancing at their passports….interesting…

Surprisingly, I did not have a hard time clearing either immigration or customs, (I think the UNDP documents must have cleared the way), but most of the other passengers were not so fortunate.

Exiting customs was akin to entering a Freddie Kruger nightmare.

A narrow pathway was the only way out and crowds of enormous men surrounded the path, all yelling and screaming, “You need a taxi? I’ll take you into Georgetown.”

Only the pathway was lit, everything else was pitch black.

The person who was supposed to pick me up was nowhere in sight, and paging him resulted in nada.

Think about it, I have no money, I have to get to Georgetown, which is over an hour away, and I must pick one of these hulking men to drive me there….

Two fellow passengers approach me, obvious foreigners, a middle-aged, short, wiry Caucasian man wearing a slightly askew toupee, and his companion, a tall, black man about a decade younger. They ask me if we could ride together and I gladly agree.

Now, how to pick who will drive us there?

Through the hordes thronging the roped-off area, I spot a man my height with keys in his hand (I’m five foot nothing). I point to him and say. “You’ll take us into Georgetown.”

On the way to the taxi, my fellow passengers, Englishmen on an Eco-tourism adventure, question my choice. I explain by saying, if he jumped us or pulled a weapon, between the three of us, we could probably subdue him. The Limeys turn green.

Thirty minutes into the ride after chatting with the taxi driver, I realize he’s harmless and simply trying to make a living. I relax. Not so the Englishmen.

You know the song, ‘Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head?’

Literally happened.

It started to pour, not a gentle rain but one of those soaking downpours. The car’s roof, which we couldn’t really check out in the pitch black, turned out to be more holes than roof. The taxi driver handed us a tarp to put over our heads….and this was only four hours into the trip.

Wait until I tell you about teaching a computer literary course when electricity runs for maybe 3 hours a day, and you don’t know which 3 hours it will be from day to day….continued next blog.