Guyana - One Final Morning

June 28, 2026

My final morning in Guyana doesn't quite go to plan. The photography tour I had booked months before has been cancelled and no alternative offered. Thankfully, Chris, yesterday's guide, comes to the rescue, suggesting that Ronaldo, who had picked me up from the hotel the previous day, take me wherever I wanted to go before my flight home.

With only a few hours before checkout, my wish list is surprisingly short. There are two places I want to revisit: the birds in the park and Georgetown Market.

Returning to the park feels like the right decision. Yesterday's visit had been far too brief and I was keen to spend a little more time here before leaving Georgetown.

We have parked a short distance away when the heavens suddenly open. Neither of us had expected rain. Fortunately, I have a rain cover tucked away in my backpack, while Ronaldo borrows my umbrella. The downpour is heavy but short-lived.

Yesterday, the egrets had been the stars of the show. Today, I discover there is much more to see. Green parrots squawk noisily from the tops of the trees, apparently quite content to sit in the rain rather than seek shelter elsewhere. Ronaldo excitedly points towards a toucan, but by the time I spot where he is looking it has already taken flight. I don't mind. The parrots more than make up for it, and there are plenty of other birds flitting through the trees to keep my camera busy.
At one point we are both distracted by a beautiful water lily growing quietly beside the path. Curious to know what it is, Ronaldo messages his aunt, who soon replies with its name: the Sacred Lotus.

All too soon it is time to leave the tranquillity of the park behind and head across Georgetown to my second destination of the morning.

Finding a parking space near the market is an adventure in itself. Once the car is safely squeezed into a gap, Ronaldo leads me towards the minibus station. We cross a busy dual carriageway in a manner that appears to involve confidence, good timing and not stopping halfway. Somehow it works.

The station is loud and chaotic. Minibuses come and go constantly and I have absolutely no idea how people know which one to catch, where it is going or when it might leave. Everyone else, however, seems to understand the system perfectly.

Stabroek Market is everything I hoped it would be. Busy, noisy and colourful, it occupies a vast, ageing building where almost anything can be bought. Fabric merchants sit alongside jewellers, butchers, greengrocers and countless other stalls, while narrow aisles disappear in every direction. Everywhere I look there is something competing for my attention.

I always ask before photographing people and their stalls, and almost everyone is happy to oblige.Ronaldo effortlessly guides me through the maze of narrow aisles, somehow knowing exactly where he is going while I simply follow, distracted by yet another photograph around every corner. Without warning, the market suddenly opens onto the waterfront. River taxis sit alongside cargo boats as people, parcels and supplies move constantly between land and water. Just like the minibus station, everyone seems to know exactly which boat they need and where it is going. I simply stand and watch for a while before we continue.

From the river taxis, Ronaldo leads the way back towards the front of the market, passing smaller independent stalls selling all sorts of eclectic things. Several of the ladies running the stalls clearly know him and stop for a chat as we pass. When he explains that I'm a photographer from England, they are delighted to pose with their stalls while I take a few photographs.

A short walk later we emerge back into the sunshine and the vibrant stalls outside. Looking up at the clock tower above us, I find myself wondering how many times my father might have visited this market growing up.

As we make our way back to the car, Ronaldo spots a stall selling Doubles and immediately insists I try one. He tells me it was a childhood favourite, something he would often eat on the way home from school. Carefully wrapped so I can enjoy it back at the hotel, it proves to be another authentic taste of Guyana. Filled with curried lentils between two soft pieces of roti, I can completely understand why it was such a popular after-school snack. These days, though, my tastes have changed a little, and while I'm glad I tried it, it probably won't be replacing my favourite lunch any time soon.

Back at the hotel, I collect my luggage and have one last dinner before setting off for the airport. This time I opt for the Nitsuke Pork Belly. After nearly two weeks of early mornings, rainforest tracks, markets and river journeys, it feels like a rather civilised way to end the trip.

Before I know it, I'm checked in and waiting to board my flight home.

As the aircraft climbs away from the coast, I take one last look out of the window. Below, the mangroves, rivers and Atlantic coastline slowly disappear beneath the clouds. I think about everything I've experienced over the last couple of weeks and all the people I've met.
Before travelling to Guyana, I was warned about poverty, crime and theft, but they were not my experience.