A Solo Guyana Travel Story: Kindly Desisting From Urinating in This Area (Feat. Phil Collins)

There’s a quote by David Brooks I recently read: “We have a notion that the happiest people are those who have aimed their life toward some goal and then attained it... But the best moments of life can be found within the lifelong learning or quest itself. It’s doing something so fulfilling that the work is its own reward.”

Brooks might as well have been peeking into my travel itinerary when he wrote that. There’s something transformative about reinvention—about throwing yourself into an adventure so far removed from your routine that it feels like stepping into someone else’s life. When I booked my ticket to Guyana in 2019, it wasn’t because I had a burning desire to explore its storied waters or colonial history. I went because it was a blank space on the map of my life, a destination as unfamiliar as I felt to myself. It seemed like the perfect place to get lost—and maybe, find something worth carrying home. Plus, the first-class plane ticket was a heck of a deal.

Arrival: Guyana, Land of Many Waters

I arrive in Guyana late one evening, disembarking from what might be the most casual flight Caribbean Airlines has ever offered. Pro tip: if the cabin atmosphere suggests you’re in a reggae music video, partake in Xanax before takeoff. Between turbulence, cramped seating, and an air of mild chaos, I thanked my past self.

The name “Guyana” originates from an indigenous term meaning “Land of Many Waters,” and it’s not a marketing gimmick. The country is crisscrossed by rivers so wide and powerful they seem like oceans, and its roads are an adventure sport all their own. My Amazon-bound tour company picks me up at Cheddi Jagan International Airport. Cheddi Jagan was a Guyanese politician and dentist who served as Chief Minister and Premier of British Guiana, later becoming President of Guyana and the first Hindu and person of Indian descent to lead a government outside the Indian subcontinent, though his namesake airport is a place with the charm of an office building and the convenience of an outpost that was, in fact, once a U.S. military base. From there, we begin a drive cloaked in pitch-black darkness.

“Do you know who was on your plane?” my driver asks suddenly, breaking the tense silence created by my exhaustion and recovery from flying an ancient airplane.

The first “Land of Many Waters” moment I encounter in Guyana isn’t a river—it’s the Courtyard by Marriott pool gleefully glowing like a nightclub.

“Uh, no, I didn’t recognize anyone,” I stammer.

Apparently, the entire front of the plane had been occupied by a reggae band and their groupies, in town for a concert series. It’s a funny thing about fame: it only works if you’re in the know. Otherwise, you’re just a random guy with dreadlocks.

Arriving at my hotel, I take a peek out of my window into darkness other than the swimming pool, lit like an overachieving nightclub, feels oddly out of place in a city that looks like it lacks electricity and is perpetually recovering from something.

I hit the sack and pass out.

Georgetown: Anxiety, History, and Trash

The next morning, I wake in my hotel room at the Marriott in Georgetown and raid the snacks that I've packed for the trip to make up for missing breakfast. I descend to the lobby to face my first trial: the ATM. I don’t know the exchange rate, and the machine blares impatient beeps at my hesitation while I try to figure out how much to withdraw. Finally, I hit a random button and out comes a comical pile of Guyanese dollars. It feels like I’ve just won at Monopoly, though in reality, I don't know if it's enough for a latte back home.

The ATM screams at me for hesitating, so I panic-press a button and walk away with a pile of bills that looks like I robbed a board game. I have no idea if this is enough for coffee or a car.

My guide for the day arrives and introduces me to the other tourists: a family from Baltimore. The elderly father, originally from Guyana, has returned to show his daughter, son-in-law, and grandson their roots before his health declines further. Their journey is deeply personal, and I find myself trying not to listen in on their conversations as we tour Georgetown’s historic sites in attempt to give them privacy.

Georgetown is a living time capsule of British colonial ambition. It's in the midst of being beautifully restored, but still rough around the edges. Take the statue of Queen Victoria, for instance: a steely-eyed monarch whose frown famously suggests she’d rather be anywhere else. Erected in front of the High Court, the statue has a history as dramatic as Victoria herself. Its head and arm were once blown off in a protest, she was moved to a different location and then brought back and to be painstakingly restored only to have her arm fall off again—a testament to either colonial resilience or stubbornness, depending on your perspective. I examine the location of her once again missing arm and wonder if this is funny or scary.

Queen Victoria, still managing to look unimpressed despite losing her arm twice—proof that colonial statues are literally falling apart under the weight of history.

The architecture of Georgetown is rather stunning. The style of British colonial architecture in Guyana is primarily considered "Tropical Victorian." The design aesthetic leans towards Victorian style, with elements like intricate details and decorative elements, but is characterized by features like large verandas, "Demerara windows" with louvered shutters, sloping slate roofs, and a heavy use of local timber, all adapted to the tropical climate of the region; a prominent example is Georgetown City Hall on the city's Regent Street, which showcases a Gothic Revival style within the broader British colonial framework.

Georgetown City Hall: proof that “vintage charm” can apply to buildings too—authentic, beautiful, dramatic, and could use a little paint.

As we walk around, I wonder to myself about the psychological line the local Guyanese population has to walk when wanting to restore buildings associated with the extraction of resources for a distant colonial power in order to have an appealing downtown that appeals to both pride of place and a draw for tourism.

The streets of Georgetown are lined with trenches, teeming with life: fish dart between lotus plants, frogs leave their eggs bobbing in the water, and a peculiar ecosystem thrives where it arguably shouldn’t. The lotus, an Asian native, has colonized these drainage ditches like a botanical imperialist. It’s like playing the childhood game, “Which of these things doesn’t belong?”

Even the drainage trenches in Georgetown try to outdo the scenery—tiny ecosystems thriving below, while colonial-era architecture looms above like it’s supervising nature.

Eventually, we reach the point where the Demerara River meets the Atlantic Ocean near my hotel. It’s heartbreakingly polluted. Plastic bottles, sealed jars, and even bushels of apples float in the murk. Among the debris are items associated with Indian burial rites—sealed jars meant to accompany loved ones into the afterlife. The guide confirms my suspicion, but I’m left wondering if some mysteries are better left unsolved.

My guide is pointing toward history, but I can't take my eyes off of what we leave behind—plastic, produce, and the ghosts of our good intentions washing up on the shore.

Stabroek Market: History and Horror

Stabroek Market is a labyrinth of sights, smells, and… questionable ethics. Originally established for slaves under Dutch colonial rule, it later became a British centerpiece. The iconic clock tower was once a marvel of American steelwork, but today, it stands frozen, a glaring reminder of halted progress despite $41,000 donated by the US Embassy for its restoration in 2016.

Inside the market, chaos reigns. Huge exotic Amazonian fish—headless yet massive—bleed onto makeshift stalls. Brightly colored birds, crammed into cages far too small, chirp sadly. And then, the pièce de résistance: capuchin monkeys trapped in metal cages designed for feral cats or the occasionally possum that's living under your home in the States. Their eyes meet mine and I immediately look way in sadness. For a fleeting moment, I consider buying them all just to set them free. Common sense prevails realizing that I don't want to finance the illegal pet trade, though it doesn’t ease the guilt for the monkeys in their current circumstances.

Stabroek Market in Georgetown, where history and daily commerce meet beneath a rust-red clock tower.

Redtail catfish on the counter at Stabroek Market—fresh from the river, sold without ceremony.

Tropical produce in careful piles—everyday staples for locals, unexpected discoveries for travelers.

After dodging the maze of vendors selling everything from mangoes to mascara, I finally relax with a machete-carved coconut. Refreshing? Absolutely. Worth the psychological toll of Stabroek Market? Debatable. I snap a selfie in an attempt to entertain myself among the chaos, but it doesn't quite work.

I have a better understanding of the definition of "wet market," something that would be discussed during the outbreak of the Covid 19 Pandemic.

Rum, Cricket, and Reflection

Back at the Marriott, I head up to my room. While peeking out my window, I notice a wedding taking place along the same river where I witnessed funeral remnants. I decide to head downstairs to the lobby bar, and I order fish and chips with a local beer, then sample El Dorado rum, aged nearly as long as Guyana has been and independent nation. Sipping on history, I reflect on the day—the trash-strewn rivers, weddings and funerals, the captive wildlife, and the overwhelming vibrancy of a place still finding its footing.

A wedding party poses on the sand outside of my hotel while families wander the same beach, a celebration unfolding beside everyday life, both carrying on without needing permission from the other.

When I text the Brit about my experiences, he replies, “Haven’t you ever been to a developing country?” Sure, I’ve traveled extensively, but Guyana’s rawness feels different. Its imperfections are unvarnished, unapologetic, and inescapable. The contradictions are unironic and in-your-face.

A minibus in Georgetown fills one seat at a time, extra chairs unfolding into the aisle until the idea of an exit becomes more theory than reality.

The Puddle Jumper That Wasn’t

The day starts with a bold decision: skipping a flight that would’ve involved a Guyana Airlines puddle jumper flying over the Amazon Jungle. My fear of flying—specifically over dense rainforests in planes that look like they belong in aviation museums—overpowered my FOMO for Kaieteur Falls. I’m not proud of this. But my turbulence-induced panic on the flight to Guyana and a not-so-helpful cocktail of anti-anxiety meds and in-flight vodka made the decision for me.

Instead, I find myself at the Marriott lobby at 6 a.m., bleary-eyed and waiting for a guide to take me on a riverboat tour of the Essequibo. Adventure, I tell myself, comes in many forms. Sometimes it’s aerial. Other times, it smells like curry and involves a minibus driver with a death wish.

A Symphony of Chaos on Four Wheels

The morning begins innocuously enough with a van ride to a random street corner in Georgetown. Then things escalate. A minibus arrives, smelling like someone turned a pot of vindaloo into an air freshener. Initially, I’m relieved at how empty it is. But as we roll through sugarcane fields and one-street towns with towering statues of Hindu deities, the bus starts filling up. When every seat is occupied, I think, Okay, full house. I’m wrong.

At the next stop, contraptions unfold from the aisle, turning the bus into a sardine can on wheels. Any hope of escape in case of a fiery crash disappears, and I start reevaluating my choices. Adding to the absurdity, Phil Collins’ greatest hits play on loop. “Another Day in Paradise” comes on as we pass rusted tin shacks and rice paddies—a hauntingly ironic soundtrack to Guyana’s rural life.

A boat from Old Fort Tours—no brochure gloss, just a seat, an engine, and the quiet understanding that adventure doesn’t need polish to be worth it.

Boarding Old Fort Tours: The Lone Outsider

Eventually, the bus screeches to a halt in a dirt parking lot by the river. Multiple boats are docked, their captains shouting instructions in thick Creole accents. Confused but determined, I shadow someone from my bus who directs me to a boat labeled Old Fort Tours. The “captain” welcomes me and directs me to an elevated seat at the front. I look back and realize I’m the lone outsider; everyone else is a local, part of, an organized group but I can't put my finger on exactly what it is.

The boat roars to life, and soon we’re gliding down the wide Essequibo River, flanked by dense jungle and the occasional stilted wooden house. Our first stop is Fort Zeelandia, a Dutch colonial relic perched on a small island.

 Dropped into a Sunday outing with coworkers from a curry factory. No shared backstory, no inside jokes—just me, the odd passenger on someone else’s normal day. A reminder that it’s good to be the outsider once in a while. It keeps the world bigger than you.

Fort Zeelandia: Ghosts of the Dutch Empire

Waipotosi Island feels timeless, cloaked in tropical greenery with ruins peeking through like forgotten memories. The fort, built in the 17th century by Dutch settlers, once served as a stronghold against rival European powers. For nearly two centuries, the Dutch maintained an uneasy peace with the indigenous peoples, carving out riverside plantations for sugarcane and tobacco.

Ruins of Fort Zeelandia on Waipotosi Island—Dutch walls once guarded a place where people now wander freely. A place that once enforced who belonged here, now toured by descendants of those it shut out. History doesn’t apologize; it just stands there and lets us look.

Walking through the crumbling stone walls, I try to channel my inner extrovert. But the group is clique-ish, and my attempts at conversation fail. I explore solo, try to take artsy photos, and image Dutch people who immigrated to South America, standing watch over the river and wondering if they ever questioned their life choices like I am now.

Bartica: A Ghost Town on a Sunday — Feeling Very Solo in my own Guyana Travel Story With Questionable Signage

Next, we arrive in Bartica, a town entirely cut off from the rest of Guyana except by boat. My excitement fades when the guide announces that it's Sunday, so everything is closed. Wandering the deserted streets, I clutch my backpack tightly, aware that I likely stick out as a tourist.

A painted wall catches my eye: "Kindly desist from urinating in this area. Persons found doing this will be held accountable for their actions. This is not a urinal. By order of management.”

A public plea painted on concrete: “Kindly Desist From Urinating In This Area.” The sort of sign that tells you everything you need to know about what people will definitely still do. Travel isn’t always temples and waterfalls—sometimes it’s a wall begging for basic decency.

I laugh, wondering what series of unfortunate events led to the necessity of this sign. It’s the most engaging thing I find in Bartica. After a fruitless search for open shops, I retreat to the boat, questioning why Bartica was included on the itinerary.

The Curry Factory Connection

Back on the boat, the group warms up slightly when a woman offers me a bundle wrapped in foil. “It’s roti,” she says, her accent thick and cheerful.

“I just learned about roti in Trinidad,” I say, grateful but apprehensive about eating food from strangers. “It’s like a curry burrito, right?”

Her laughter is kind but judgmental. “Yes. We all work at a curry factory. This is our company retreat.”

The smell of the bus suddenly makes sense. The roti ends up in my backpack, a diplomatic maneuver that I hope spares me both food poisoning and cultural offense.

Baracara Falls and Rainforest Realities

The boat’s next destination is Baracara Falls, a modest cascade hidden in lush foliage. The group takes a quick dip in the water, laughing and splashing. I don't join in. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m an interloper in someone else’s outing, plus the water is a brownish-red color, due to the amount of silt in the water. It's safe according to everything that I've read online, but I chose to play it safe and stay dry. The guide strikes up a conversation with me and explains that they don't get many tourists. "The real beauty of Guyana is the interior," the explains. "Here's my business card so that you can book me direct if you come back."

He offered to take my photo, so I agreed. He was rather talented.

Baracara Falls, where the water runs the color of brewed tea. It isn’t pollution—just tannins and organics washed out of the rainforest. The river takes on the forest’s flavor, the way strong coffee takes on the color if its beans.

From there, we head to Aruwai White H2O Resort on Buck Island, a surprisingly modern oasis with a pool and bar. I didn’t pack swimwear, so I nurse a beer at the bar as a torrential downpour clears the deck. I sit, covered by the bar, and people watch as the thunder and lightning associated with an afternoon tropical storm causes some to find shelter while others choose to stay in the pool.

Aruwai White H2O Resort on Buck Island, where a bright blue pool looks out over a river the color of cocoa. A strange luxury—chlorine and rainforest, leisure floating beside something wild enough to swallow boats.

On the return journey, the captain slows the boat to point out red howler monkeys in the treetops. My aging DSLR struggles to capture photos, let alone their grumpy expressions. It's obvious that the captain is only stopping for me to take photos as no one else on the boat seems to care about the primates in the trees lining the river. Their mood mirrors my own as I note the telltale signs of deforestation—patches of regrowth forest punctuated by a few towering sacred trees spared by loggers.

A red howler monkey staring in the treetops down the river traffic like a tired city landlord.

The Road Back: Statues and Solitude

Back at the dock, I face a new challenge: finding the right bus. After some trial and error, I board one that looks familiar. The familiar smell of curry and the sight of my roti benefactor confirm I’m in the right place.

"Did you enjoy the roti?" she asks.

"I'm saving it for later."

"Are you even planning on eating it?"

"I want to re-heat it first," I reply, with what I'm guessing is a terrible poker face because of what comes next.

"Why aren't you going to eat it?"

A towering Hindu deity stands on a rooftop in Guyana, where families often place statues like this as protectors of the home. Part guardian, part neighborhood landmark, watching quietly over the street as the sun goes down.

I explain that I'm hesitant to eat food from strangers given that I nearly ended up in a hospital thanks to strawberries in Egypt.

"So, you just travel around the world by yourself and turn down other people's food?" She has me cornered. She is right, but I never thought about it in those terms before. Here I am thinking that I've become a fully independent human, but I've never felt alone in this way before.

I peer out the window as we drive through the countryside in a bus that seems like it's taking forever to get back to Georgetown. I marvel at the towering Hindu statues atop modest homes, some reaching three stories high. Phil Collins croons once again, “Just Another Day in Paradise,” as I stare out the window, reflecting on the day’s surreal blend of isolation and cultural immersion and wonder how far away we are from where the Jonestown massacre took place which led to the metaphor about drinking Kool Aid.

A glass of El Dorado rum at the Courtyard by Marriott—smooth, patient, and aged longer than Guyana has been independent. It's this country in a sip: history, sweetness, and a hint of something you can’t quite name.

Lanterns and El Dorado

Back at the Marriott, I head straight for the bar, ordering two shots of El Dorado rum. The smooth caramel warmth is the only thing that feels comforting in this strange, challenging country.

Guyana doesn’t cater to tourists—it challenges them. Its rawness forces you to confront your discomfort, whether it’s on a cramped minibus, in a deserted town, or turning down roti under judgmental eyes. Reinvention, I realize, doesn’t happen in comfort zones. As Emily Dickinson said, “I am out with lanterns, looking for myself.”

Even in the chaos, there’s a beauty to Guyana’s unpolished authenticity. Sometimes, adventure is less about awe and more about understanding—of the world and of yourself, even if you end up a little worse for the wear and looking like a statue of Queen Victoria missing her arm.

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