The two-year summer

Guyana, by Kristen Hare

by Kristen Hare, Guyana, 2000-2002

     It’s Sunday. It’s hot. My fan blows directly on me. The sun hangs heavy in the sky today. There is no promise of rain. I woke at 5:30 and fought with sleep again until 8. I swept and made some toast. I went to market. I waited for my mom’s Sunday call. I made lunch. Took a nap. At five, I will go on a walk. Come home. Shower. Watch the news. Cook dinner. Go to bed. It’s Sunday.

     Each day passes here with eerie regularity. I work, take care of myself, sleep and eat. It’s slow. It’s hot. I do not notice the time passing.

     This is life without seasons, one steamy day into the next, one smear of sweat that stretches through days, then weeks, then months.

     I’ll probably be the only one to celebrate American Thanksgiving on Guyana’s Essequibo Coast and plan to dine on duck curry. A local night club recently advertised a “Thanksgiving Feast and Grand Dance,” with stuffed turkey and sweet and sour chicken. I am tempted.

     The minibus drivers have begun playing reggae Christmas songs already, and it’s too early, I protest in my head on each ride. It doesn’t feel like November. It’s not nearly winter. It’s just hot.

     So far, this has been the longest summer of my life.

     I have forgotten what seasons feel like, forgotten how they measure time. A friend who works for the American Embassy told me of the Barney Halloween video her mother-in-law sent for Kelly, a 3-year-old. Barney crooned about the colors of the leaves in autumn, and when the video finished, Kelly turned to her father and said, “Daddy, can you buy me some autumn?”

     Unlike that little girl, I’ve lived through seasons all my life. Until I came here. Now, the differences are slight. Are mangos in season? Is it time to harvest the endless fields of rice? Will rain fall soon?

     Here, life is sweat, work, eat, rinse and repeat.

     Here, I have postcard sunsets, cool, rainy nights, and a breeze that is sometimes benevolent enough to circle my house. The day is framed by the open, wide sky, and tiny frogs sing lover’s songs to each other all night. 

     It’s all making me forget that there’s any time but summer, and any place in the world for me but here.

     On a walk last Sunday, I wandered onto a dusty road that was being paved, newly covered with a white, powdery sand. It hurt my eyes for a moment, glowing brightly ahead for half a mile. 

     “Miss,” my walking partner and young student asked, “is this what winter looks like?”

     I nodded. I tried to explain snow days, snow boots and snow angels. I nearly plopped down on that road to flap and flutter in the white dust. My student chattered on, musing about a season and a chill she’d probably never feel. 

     For a second, I stopped and looked back at the faux snow.

     Then, sighing with some feeling that hoovers between content and discontent, I trudged back home, sweating all the way.