The Boxing Day Lime

THE LIME

Georgetown celebrated the day after the alleged day of Jesus Christ's birth with a lime. Not lime for your Corona. Lime the verb.

Now "lime the verb" (to lime) is as close to a pan-Caribbean creole word as you can get. While Jamaicans don't use it, Guyanese and Trinidadians do. It means "to chill". Hang out. Drink beers. Listen music. Talk shit. Sunday afternoon shit.

As I was in the Caribbean, I thought I'd interview 10 people on the subject of "lime the verb's" origins. I needed only go as far as my mom.
"Well, limes hang from a tree. So you lime, you hang like a lime from a tree."
"Isn't that kind of arbitrary? Why lime as a metaphor for hanging and not orange, apple, or coconut?"
She doesn't miss a beat. "Because limes never fall off a tree. They hang until you pick them off the tree. Oranges and coconuts...comes a time when they fall off. Or a good breeze knocks them off. Not limes. They just, you know, hang there."

Genius. Then there's "the lime" (noun), an event purposefully created for the collective liming of Guyana's capital city; The Georgetown Boxing Day Lime on Main Street.

SOME MEN GOT LAZY TONGUES

At the top of Main Street, stands the antiquing but stately Bank of Guyana and dancehall artist, Konshens, singing about real friends to a big, girly, unpoppable human bubble from a small set of steel bleachers that appear to be suspended in mid air. The bubble is screaming, it seems, louder than the night before at the "Unforgettable" Christmas night concert he co-headlined with Jah Cure and Ashanti. He's surrounded by a council of bethren in shiny jewelry and fitted baseball caps nodding their heads to the bass.

We stop for beer once we turn onto Main Street proper, lined with little white tents on either side. Competing sound systems down the middle. I'm with Wayne, a family friend with some sort of car business, who's my exact age. He wants to hold my hand and lead me through the crowd. I decline that. I accept a beer. Banks. He gives the vendor who he seems to know, 500 Guyana dollars. That's $2.50 American. He waits for change. A man and woman in matching white aprons fumble around for a bit. Wayne watches with an outstretched hand. "Don' worry rob me, ya know? Whe' meh change?" They tell him they don't have it and to come back later. We wander past Timeka Marshall playing on one sound system. Mavado, a few yards further.

A large field off the main drag feels small because the crowd's so dense. We can't break the perimeter. There's a meters high brick ledge to my left, a dozen or so revelers dancing atop. My eyes keep going to a light skinned girl in a short, white, terrycloth jumper. She's whining till her whole back ah move. A man stands behind her, himself barely moving. I sip my Banks. A vendor passes with his merchandise stuffed in a small cardboard box and hanging from his neck, lit by a mobile. I sneak a peek inside. Cigarettes. gum. Condoms. Spanish Fly? I ask Wayne. "What's Spanish Fly?"
"It's a thing...like..."
He pauses so long, I wonder if perhaps he doesn't know.
"You know, some men tongue lazy."
I don't know what to say to this. Nor even how to interpret it.
"It's a thing," he ventures again, "It's a thing men use to have sex with women."
"Like Viagra." I already know this is wrong.
"No. Like they does put it in women's drink...so then they can have sex with them."

My middle finger plugs the beer bottle neck.

OVERHEARD

Four Chinese men in white uniforms with red trim and Nehru collars navigate the crowd single file, with bicycles. I can't hear what they're saying to clear a path, or if they're saying anything. When I see them come up beside me I move. So does everyone else. They're carrying bags of food.
"Watch everybody moving fa dem. Ya tink black man could move through a crowd a Chiney suh?"

SHOTS

The music has ended and it's quiet save the voices of hundreds rejoining their friends in the aftermath. Deciding where to go next.

The Jamaica Party at Wild Palm?

Something Bollywood at Buddy's?

The Miami Party at some such other club? The one with mirrored aviators and Latin looking girls on the flyer?

Or a nice, dark house party with food?

Wayne stops at the vendor that owes him change. Before he can order, people start running and screaming. Bottles are flying. I'm about to move. Run. Duck. Call a cop. "No. Don't move," Wayne says. I'm stock still but looking for a way out. Just in case Wayne's deer in the headlights approach gets me clocked.

It only took a second for my head to do the 180 from Wayne on the right to the vendor in the red shirt to my left. Straight ahead, a guy with corn rows and a white button down is running towards 5 uniformed officers. He looks behind him, dives to the ground covered in broken glass to dodge a flying bottle. The officers back up behind the gates of the youth ministry as.

Pap! Pap!

Directly to my left is a vendor with dark, cratered skin, a red T shirt and a gun in his hand. They do smoke after fire. He slowly pulls it down to his side. Waits. The running, falling and bottle throwing cease as quickly as they'd begun. He looks at me. I nod and he nods back. Wayne steps forward to get his beer. Doesn't pay for it.

Ashanti and Me

I'd only requested a press pass to Unforgettable, the big Georgetown Christmas night show featuring reggae acts Tameka Marshall, Konshens, Jah Cure, and R&B singer, Ashanti. I called Shanghai, of Kashif and Shanghai International at about 11am on Christmas morning to check on the status of my request. Kashif and Shanghai handle marketing for events, mainly football matches, though they dabble in concerts, all over South America and the Caribbean. "Call back at noon", he said. At noon, I got more than I was expecting. "We're at the State House. Can you come now? Right now?" I had just finished dressing for lunch with family. "Yes, Ashanti is here with the President, having breakfast. Come." It took about 5 minutes of reasoning with the armed gatekeepers to on New Market St. to gain entrance. I didn't notice that President Bharat Jagdeo was even in the room until he answered, "Yeah?", to an aide's, "Mr. President?". He was just so casual in a white linen shirt and khakis. I only snapped this photo, which I made Ashanti's manager take. He was not happy, but he did it anyway. There was no way I could leave Guyana's State House without a photo. We only spoke for a few minutes about being from Queens before she declared, "I love the pepper pot!" (traditional Guyanese dish of meat and casrip), and left for sound check. From there I shadowed Shanghai to a television station, where I watched Konshens do a live spot before snagging my 3 VIP bands. Took my mom to the show. I'll post video on my Vimeo channel in the next few days.

Christmas In A Georgetown Minute

A GT Minute from ieishah clelland on Vimeo.

Georgetown is smelly, dirty, and congested. It's also chaotic, energetic, and totally charming. By Christmas Eve, my family and I had been in Guyana for 4 full days. And I found myself not noticing the smell or the dirt. I found myself ignoring the few sidewalks the city does have in favor of risking death by crazy dollar van, walking in the road with the nonchalance of a true Caribbean. And also today, no one called us yankees. Did I mention we're driving on the left side of the road? On Christmas Eve Eve we took a plane ride to the interior, traipsed through the rain forest, and actually touched Kaietur Falls, 5 times taller than Niagara, and about 2 times taller than Zambia/Zimbabwe's Victoria Falls. I flew over only a few thousand of Guyana's millions of acres of rain forest in the co-pilot's chair of a 10-seater aircraft. With each minute that passed, each mile of plush green carpeting the earth below, like so much broccoli over-stocked in a massive supermarket, I became more certain that Guyana's been minimized on world maps. If not on maps, certainly in the global imagination. So in the spirit of full warts and all disclosure (and, you know, the season) I'm gonna give you ONE bustling Georgetown minute. Merry Christmas, everyone!  

Guyana, Upon Arrival.

I'm in Guyana for the Christmas holiday. Thanks to a man called Choke Fish. Both my parents were born and raised right here in the capital city of Georgetown. They left for America in the 60's and made it. Like two miracles. The last time I was here, I was a mouthy, downright offensive 3 year old, telling folks off in my conspicuously American accent (including both my maternal and paternal grandmothers), like I knew my privilege, even then. They welcomed my weight on their shoulders. Laughed. Over the years I'd pressure my parents, on and off, to bring me back. It was too dangerous, they said. "People does follow you to ya hotel, stab ya and tek 'way ya ting." Or, "The Colombians and dey drugs runnin' Guyana. Dey does kidnap you before you even reach Georgetown". My dad hunted Choke Fish down in January of 2010, surely with some vague feeling that after 40 years the time had come to reunite with the quirky, expressive guy he'd partied with in adolescence. Drunk beers and rode in a "gang" with. Raided birthday parties for the cook up rice and cake. Approached young ladies in the street with. The latter is how Choke Fish got his name. "We used to call girls 'Binis'. We used to say, like, 'Look at duh bini, man!'. But Choke Fish had his own thing. He used to say, 'Look at duh choke fish bini!', when it was a real pretty girl. The name 'Choke Fish' just stuck. And we always used to ask him what that meant. He never told us." In February, my father came back to Guyana for the first time in 30 years for the funeral of Choke Fish, who took the origins of his name to the grave. Finally, finally, I'm here, too, where this and other mysteries of my lineage lie. Guyana welcomed me lovingly.
Guyana. Arrival. from ieishah clelland on Vimeo.

The Gospel According to Touranthroposaurus

Mississippi Mass Choir in Barcelona from ieishah clelland on Vimeo.

Who dat taking a bus tour through a favela in Rio? Hanging out on some obscure beach in Thailand that even Thai people wouldn't live on for a month and considering himself a "local"? Who is that flying to New York, taking the A train to Harlem and sitting in the pews of a "real black church", fat lens Nikon on hand, treating the Lord's house like a zoo?

Introducing the "tour-anthropo-saurus"! 

More than a tourist (at least in his own head) and a lot fucking less than an anthropologist (than he is in his own head). Obsessed with "authentic" or "exotic" cultural experiences. Not relaxed enough to just be a damned tourist and approach travel from their particular perspective. On the other hand, far too clueless to go through what real anthropologists do while trying to get "inside" a culture. You know, the little things like getting a degree, learning a language, and asking the hard questions: Is getting inside a culture even possible for an outsider? And if it is, doesn't my very presence alter the nature of the community I'm studying? Doesn't observance of people's behavior, change their behavior? Touranthroposaurus isn't so into questions as he is into annoying the fuck out of less pretentious travelers.

Glory be for the Mississippi Mass Choir spreading nectar from the core of African American culture throughout Spain every other year. Whose efforts, surely, reduce the number of Spanish folk flocking to service at Abyssinian Baptist on any given Sunday.

The great Mississippi Mass Choir made its way to Barcelona's Palau de la Musica last Thursday, and played to an almost sold out crowd. One of the altos had lived in Madrid for a few months in 2007, performing with flamenco soul fusion singer, Pitingo.

In the end, Mississippi had Barcelona dancing in the aisles, then crowding around for photos and autographs in the lobby, as the singers indulged bad English and personal-space-invasive double kisses with appreciation. "This is the best audience we've had," Pitingo's former soloist confides. Mississippi will always hold in their hearts the moment when 2 Catalans broke into song in the lobby of the Palau. The choir members surrounded them, clapped and cheered them on, iPhone 4's out, taking video. Like tourists. And all of a sudden I was looking at a cross cultural engagement that was somehow more ethical. The cultural gap shrunk. It wasn't about observing the animal in his natural habitat. But still it was totally authentic.

Dreads and Skinheads

In real life, skinheads are never this hot. Just f.y.i.

French Celia calls just as I emerge from the metro at Paseo de Gracia, where we're to meet then transfer to another line that will take us to Barcelona's 2nd Annual Dancehall Queen Contest. "Wait for me at the yellow line, I'm coming down now," she says. I hear a gaggle of rough, liquored up male voices as I walk through the tunnel, towards the platform. I'm posted up against the wall nearest the platform entrance, listening for the voices to pass. I expect a group of drunk young laddish Spaniards. But these are skinheads. Black lace boots. Confederate flags patched to their black nylon jackets. Bald heads. Skinheads. They pass and don't seem to notice me. French Celia (black like me) is close behind them. So is our train. Though they are scrawny and unimpressive as far as skinheads go, there's no measuring rage and stupidity.

"Let's go in the other door. I think they're skinheads," I tell Celia.

We make it to the second door down just as it's closing and stand facing them. The metro's full of Friday night partygoers. One skinhead, the one with the beer, walks around two groups of people (Spaniards always travel in packs, "like antelope" according to Celia) and stands where we can see him. He glares at us. Spits on the metro floor.

"Okay. Let's walk back a bit more, shall we?"

We're about to move when two 6 foot plus Africans with dreadlocks enter the train. We stay where we are, sat comfortably, glancing towards our hateful friends. Smiling at the symmetry. "Yeah, spit now motherfuckers." They can't hear me. We're now so relaxed the skinheads exit without us noticing.

The brothers, however, get off the train when we do and are standing on the corner, lighting up when we get out onto the street. They're headed to the Dancehall Queen contest, too. "Are you Americans?", they ask. Roll call.
"New York," I say.
"Paris," Celia follows.
One immediately starts chatting her up in French. The other dips low to speak closer to my ear. He's kind of cute.
"I am trying to learn English now, because I'm a musician in Manresa. We talk to a lot of English people."
"Cool. Where are you from?"
"Senegal. Do you know Senegal?"
"Are you asking if I know that Senegal exists?"
"Yes, I think maybe you don't know Senegal."
I stop walking. "Seriously?" Celia turns around. "I know, honey," she says. "Breathe." I start walking again. He starts talking again.
"And you? Where are you from?"
"New York."
"Yes, but your family?"
"Guyana. South America."
"But your grandparents?"
"South America."
"But...don't you know your history?"
History? Protection is at the heart of the origins of the state. And it always comes at a price.

In Defense of Small Things

Ever read that children's book, The Carrot Seed, where the little boy plants his seed, and no one thinks anything will come of it. Not even his own momma. But we waters it and pulls the weeds, even while nothing is happening and the ground seems as barren as that land Ethiopia and Eritrea are fighting over. When the carrot finally does sprout, it's so big the boy's wheelbarrow can barely carry it. All from that little seed.

Maybe it's all just a coincidence, but check out this collage about relationships I made in the late 90's, (probably after a break up or something). I found it in my old bedroom on my trip home to NYC last summer. Notice Michael Jordan's Nike logo, and the words 'art' and 'film'.

Notice the words 'film', 'art', and the Michael Jordan insignia. Though the collage has all white guys in it, I went on to have my longest relationship (before the Serb, that is) with a black Londoner of Trinidadian origin. I'm not sure why I cut out the word 'film'. I just went through magazines and found words that spoke to me. I pasted them on a page, went on with my life and forgot about it until recently.

How creepy that I'm now in a relationship with a former pro ball player and actor (with the same size shoe as MJ). Coincidence that one of my best friends is a manager for actors and now manages him? Coincidence? Or did I plant that seed?

I know how it sounds. All woo-woo and new age. However, the proof is there. Seed, water, faith---> big ass carrot. Or whatever the equivalent of a big ass carrot is for you.

The great thing about a seed is that it is a small thing. The smallest of things. Even a crappy collage.

The great life coaches and personal development gurus (and I mean that in the strictest sense of the word, 'teacher') agree on the power of seeds and small things and the great big results they yield.

Chris Guillebeau's gonna visit every single country on earth by 2012, I think. He runs the popular site The Art of NonConformity. In his book of the same name, subtitled, "Set Your Own Rules, Live the Life You Want and Change the World", Chris tells the story of Allan, a regular office working guy with a wife, 3 frickin daughters and a mortgage who decides to experiment with his life. Make time and space in his stable life for a little adventure. First he picks up wife, kids, zero French language skills, and move to Paris for a year. The family returns to the States after a year, and Allan finds a way to keep his benefits and stability with the same company, but arranging it so he can work part time and out of the office. Did I mention he has a wife and 3 frickin daughters? Guillebeau writes,

"Allan traces the root cause of the transition to his "Life Experiments," even the simple things like visiting art museums or taking up photography on the weekends. In his words, the impact of the experiments was "way out of proportion" to the experiments themselves." 

John Demartini was featured in The Secret, but really, his genius goes way beyond anything that film has to offer. He teaches that it only takes 7 seconds of holding a picture in your mind to start yourself on the course to achieving something.

Marie Forleo, author of Make Every Man Want You (How to Become So Irresistible You Can Barely Keep From Dating Yourself), dancer, fitness coach turned serious business coach, teaches that just a walk can get you unstuck, and reap new energy and ideas.

We are all sick to death of the Eat, Pray, Love references when it comes to this kind of thing, but damn it, Elizabeth Gilbert filled the tub and sat in there reading an Italian dictionary for months before her tri-country get my groove back plan hatched. Millions upon millions of women bought into it because it was effective. There was a kernel of truth in there. A seed.

What's your seed? Your tiny you-directed, you-generated action that you'll water with faith until it sprouts?

Update** The Chris Guillebeau commented on this post! Totally geeking out right now.

From Brick Lane to BCN

Brick Lane BCN debuted last weekend, a nascent monthly quasi-pop-up company that sells vintage accessories imported straight from London warehouses. We're talking a diverse collection of bold 80's baubles, timeless snakeskin clutches and logo shoppers. And the shoes ranged from 7-inch red stilettos, to sensible heels in irresistibly counter-trend geometric shapes. In the run up to Sunday's sample sale, Brick Lane was ubiquitous, featured in Buxada, Barcelona Metropolitan, Barcelona Connect, Esencial, Barcelona Blog NL, and finally, the best of the best city happenings blogs, Le Cool. Paid off, too. The event started at noon. By 11:30am, the cue to get into the venue, El Borne's Vintage Restaurant, Lounge, and Bar, dipped clear down the block. By the time I arrived, fashionably late around 4pm, most of the bags and all of the jewelry were gone. Fashionistas arrived from as far as Russia, and you couldn't reach for a glass of cava without hitting a model or a stylist. And I always say Barcelona's a city for creatives, but not fashion. The response to Brick Lane was surprisingly kinetic. There's a market for true style here, it's just about tapping in. "I'm just trying to figure out what the formula is," Brick Lane founder, Krystal confided. "I walk around the city and see people with these beautiful shops, but no one's inside. Like, what works here?". I have a feeling if anyone can figure it all out, it's Krys. And I'm not just saying it because she's Guyanese. Barcelonense, stayed tuned for the next event, 6th February, when men's accessories join the fray.



The venue, El Borne's new "Vintage" restaurant. It's got the decor & the great house wine. We would know.





The mastermind...





The clientele....








DevWorld Chic. These are known all over the developing world as the preferred bag of the migrant worker. I've heard them called Guyanese bags, Ghana bags, and South Africans are familiar with them as well. What if we reworked them? Made 'em chic? Just an idea.



Krystal borrowed this mirror from the antique shop next door. Vintage should buy it.



I lost THIS bag to THIS crazy brasileña. Gutted.

This dude was my favorite. First person I've ever met from Western Sahara, a country I didn't know existed. He's wearing my coat. And giving me life.

The Buika Affair

Tomate esta botella conmigo/ En el ultimo trago nos vamos
Drink this bottle with me/ At the last sip, we go

It's been one year since genre-bending Spanish vocalist Concha Buika last performed at the Voll-Damm International Jazz Festival at Barcelona's Palau de la Musica. One year since I saw her perform live for the first time, and the God in her voice brought me to tears. Above are the opening lines of El Ultimo Trago, the title song of her tribute album to the great Chavela Vargas, herself a groundbreaking artist, whose reworking of the songs of Mexican rancheros, traditionally sung by men, will go down in history as a most clever musical gender-bending. Buika traveled the world performing Trago in the last year, then returned to the Palau de la Musica last week for an encore performance.

What a difference a year makes.

She donated the first hour of her concert to her tour band, The Ivan "Melón" Lewis Quintet, who used the time to seduce us with music from their forthcoming album, Traversia. Melón & Co. opened with a sublimely pretty "What a Wonderful World" and ended with an effervescent sax duel on some track whose name I didn't catch, but which brought the audience to its feet. It was 10:30pm by the time Concha took the stage, with long time collaborator (and genius) Javier Limon. As per usual, Buika began with a classic canto, the kind of summer second chance at romance song beckoning the listener: "Let's go on a date, chill in the park". The best of Buika is in her ability to sound like a native, wherever on the geo/ethno-musical map she may rome. From that first note, however, Buika sounded out of context, attacking the love song with such a lack of melody and romance that French Celia asked, "Is she drunk?"

Nothing seemed to fit. Not even her dress. The one shouldered frock stayed a heartbeat from exposing her boob. She seemed to have forgone concealer. She was sporting 3 huge blinged out rings and bare feet. Throughout the concert, Buika didn't/couldn't open her eyes. At one point, she started feeling around for the microphone like a blind woman. Once, she left the stage to request that someone refill her black and gold mini-pimp cup. And her multiple 15 minute ramblings (in Catalan) on success, church, and humanitarian work didn't help her appear any more present. No one goes to concerts to be lectured on beauty, but to witness it.

I went in search of reviews of last year's performance just to make sure I hadn't imagined her greatness. Indeed, I hadn't. Last year, Roan Clay for All About Jazz was at the same show as I was. He wrote:

"Buika...is awesomely fearless, ferociously infusing her voice with sass and rebellion, driving it at times into a resounding roar as she intimately dissected the lost love of rancheras.... [She] weaves Majorcan, African, and gypsy into a unique whole." 

Buika wasn't keeping shit together the other night, certainly not Majorcans, Africans, and gypsies. What was once a "roar", sounded tinny and brassy like a child clanging pots together and nails down a chalkboard all at once. She called herself scatting, but not even Lewis's superior piano technique could make sense of her back alley cat fight screeches. The saxophonists and bassist didn't even try. "It's like abstract art," said French Celia, as Buika mimed sax-playing and "EEEEEEEE-ed" into the mic, "You wanna like it, but you just can't". I bumped into a few other friends after her concert, who were similarly unimpressed.

The love affair between Buika and me may be over. Or maybe it was just an off night.

Has anyone been to a Buika show lately? What did you think? She disappoint you too?

Check her out in one of the night's few good moments.

Concha Buika from ieishah clelland on Vimeo.

The Shopping Night, Barcelona

For such a small city Barcelona's got a mighty big ego. Last night Barcelona followed in the footsteps of Paris, London, New York and Madrid, launching their take on 'Fashion's Night Out'. The Shopping Night saw the city's shops open until midnight, accompanied by special events, mostly concentrated on Paseo de Gracia. Krys and I had big plans to hit every major event, but spent most of the night drinking one grape wine, and eating frog legs and Pop Rocks. (I'll explain in another post. And the story is gooooood.) When we finally stumbled into a cab with only half an hour left of the festivities, we found Paseo de Gracia hopping. Filled with shoppers and posers alike. Big party in the cold ass street. We headed into Hotel Majestic on Valencia for Metal Magazine's new Designer Showcase. Krys and this guy were the most fashionable people in that house.

Barcelona and grunge go together like Coco and Chanel.

Yes. This is a leather turban hat. It looks better on. Not that I tried it.


We left Majestic and came up upon the longest line ever outside of the Mandarin Oriental. Two lines, actually. One for the free churros and chocolate made by some celebrity Spanish chef. The other was to get into the Mandarin/Godiva/Tiffany's party inside. My student is Mandarin's head of security so Krys and I breezed right past those velvet ropes to side eyes, hissed teeth and "Por que ellas pueden entrar??" Haters. We arrived before the stores closed, grabbed two high back couch-lets near the DJ (cute, Swedish, and loved him some Micheal Jackson mash-ups), and drank lychee-tinis till 2.

So pretty inside. I'd stay here.