< Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >
Locket #7
My best day driving hire car was just last week. The airport run. Usually
I wait outside our Marriot to take passengers to the airport (I own a Range
Rover; second-hand; it still look new). I don't normally hang around at
Arrivals to catch a fare back to the city. Jostling for visitors and grabbing
suitcase is not my style.
This afternoon, after dropping off two departures, I get lucky. This
American guy ̶ he looked sixtyish, movements brisk and neat; name
on the baggage tag hard to pronounce ̶ seeing two white ladies getting
out my car, and maybe thinking my ride was reliable, promptly hired me.
Maybe he was waiting for a friend to pick him up; waiting, waiting, not
seeing the friend.
Anyway, we set off and lo, and behold, he was heading to the Marriot. I just
come from there with departing passengers, I told him. "Oh really," he
said. "Tell you what: you'll be my driver for my stay here."
Things worked out very well for me. But I have to tell you, this fellow
was one strange customer.
Quiet all the way from the airport that first day, until we passing Diamond
Village. "What is that smell?" he asked. Sugar. This area used to be a sugar
estate. Quiet again, studying the view. "Do you know where Agricola
Village is?" We coming up to it soon, right off this main road. "Good,
I want to go there?" No problem, boss.
Actually there was a problem. Agricola is known as an area not safe for
outsiders. I pass it on the main road, but never took anybody in there.
Fellows there hard face, pants always sagging. We have lots of nice
places to see, captain, I said, trying to discourage him.
Next morning, promptly at 9 o'clock I picked him up. His destination
was still Agricola.
"Do you know a place called The House of Flowers," he asked as we turned
off the main road. I start getting worried. Looking for a place with a funny
name and no street address was looking for trouble. Driving slowly through
the village, stopping people to ask about a place called the House of
Flowers was asking for more trouble.
We stopped, enquired, drove a little further in. By which time I swear
the whole village know already 'bout an Indian hire car driver cruising
round with a white man in the back seat.
One last stop, a lady with a child. The American got out to talk to her.
"Maybe it's a flower shop," he said, shouting back at me. "Is there a flower
shop around here?" We were told the only "shop" on that street belonged
to Mr. Massiah. We should go there, talk to him, he know everybody.
I stayed outside, engine running; looking out at houses nearby, so much
overgrown grass both sides of the road; and wondering what I would do
if some fellows ̶ men in singlets, bony boys on bikes ̶ approached the
car, cuss words waiting to fly out their mouth if I only sneeze.
When he came back, he had an address. "We're going to McDoom Village.
Number 12 Mc Doom Village." Which was on the main road. I was so
relieved to get going. "We're going to visit the oldest lady in Guyana.
A Miss B. B for Bailey. Or Bally. She's 102 years old."
**
Now follow this: the American was a New York doctor, a "gerontologist",
studying old people, he said. He'd heard from another doctor about a
patient in an NY nursing home, a Guyanese woman. Left there by her
family. 100 years old. In good health under the circumstances, but
kind of random in the head. She would wake up ranting she didn't want
to be treated by no one except Mr. La Fleur from the House of Flowers
in Guyana.
This Mr. La Fleur, it turn out, used to live in Agricola village; used to
work with a Dr Giglioli, an Italian man who lived here back in the days,
helping people survive malaria.
This Mr. La Fleur had established his own business; he was the "Chemist
and Druggist" of the village. People came from far and wide for his
herbs and medicine; especially people who couldn't afford to travel to
Georgetown for medical attention.
He grew plants; he crushed and mixed leaves, flowers, shavings from plant
roots. His powders and liquids cured all kinda problems from heart to
liver. They say people in that area does live longer than people anywhere
else.
**
All this I piece together from the old lady in Mc Doom Village. I went
inside this time (I had to see who this oldest lady in Guyana was). I stood
like his 'Assistant' and listened with humble interest as the American
explained his sudden presence, talking like he getting ready to perform
major surgery right there in the house.
She confirm that, yes, there was a House of Flowers (it was just the
village name for where Mr. La Fleur lived). Mr. La Fleur's father came
from Haiti. No, she didn't know the Guyanese lady in New York, but she
knew Mr. La Fleur.
He used to dispense his medicine in tiny packets and bottles, with no
labels as such. He used names for them from plants and flowers. You
had to mix it in the foods. Especially soup. Mix it in soup and drink it.
Now here's the important part: Mr. La Fleur kept a book with all his
prescriptions written down with pen knib and ink; kept it in his "office"
and consulted it while the patient talked. This book was what the
American was really looking for. The old lady had no idea who would
have such a book, but she knew there was a book.
And the prescriptions worked because when Mr. La Fleur died, people
couldn't get their regular medicine, and their health problems got worse.
They had to travel to Georgetown. The hospital doctors kept them there,
running tests, prescribing this, prescribing that; but nothing worked.
Some patients refused the hospital treatment, and went home to
Agricola to die. Hell of a thing, I know.
**
At some point I lost interest; I had enough. I left everybody with their
memories and medications and waited outside in the car.
The next day I took him to the Georgetown Hospital; then to one of the
Government Ministries. It was raining that day. He came back to the car
irritated, complaining not about his damp clothes; he was told to sit and
wait. He said he was amazed anything got done in this country. I told
him I could write a book about pain from waiting in this country.
"You're a good man," he smiled at me,"the only functioning institution in
I have seen so far." The only functioning institution. I thought I
deserved a compliment like that. It sounded sincere, so I thanked him.
The morning I took him back to the airport he sat erect and quiet again,
looking out like now he studying our road busyness, the drivers and
walkers and the laws. We slowed down passing through McDoom Village.
You want to stop in and say goodbye to the old lady? I was only playing.
"She knows about the book," he said, "She didn't tell me, but I know she
knows where it is." He didn't sound angry; just disappointed he was going
home empty-handed.
I don't know how he know she know anything. The old lady was nice,
but to me she sounded a little far gone in the verandah chair, her granny
jaws working up and down.
She was looked after by a firm-breast lady who seemed related to the
house; who disappeared inside (we heard a child cry; told not to make
noise); then appeared again, offering us "something to drink"; the
American declined.
You come all this way from America just to ask me about Mr. La Fleur?
Miss B. laughed. She spoke like an old school teacher, in sections you
had to wait then put together. The American helped her words along
in his cheery booming voice. "Looks like I made your day, right? Did I
make you happy today?" Her bones shook with laughing. I swear she
could have choked and died and gone to heaven from just one fit of
laughing.
In gratitude for the help he received the American distributed (US)
20 dollar gifts. I was paid very well for my patience and service.
Just like that you wake up one morning not knowing what will happen.
A man come from America looking for an old lady and an old book, and
you just lucky to be there. You so used to heat, the stink everywhere
of wasted years, days like this come like escape to treasure island.
So the man didn't find what he hoped to find in this forgotten corner of
the world. But he swore he would come back to Agricola. "With a team
of doctors". I gave him a card with my cell number. And I will meet you
at the airport. With a fleet of transport. At which point we shook hands
and laughed a real good laugh.
M. Ajodha
Georgetown, Guyana
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 