< Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >
Locket #11
It took me over two weeks to piece together the mysterious connection
between this English woman, and my uncle Toolsie. I am beginning to think
I could make a good investigator. Maybe I could join the police force. Become
a detective. Joke. There are no women detectives in this country, far as I
know. I had to "interview" this Georgetown taxi driver, and other people,
to get the full picture.
This Englishwoman comes to Georgetown, checks in at a hotel in Alberttown.
Traveling alone, her first visit to Guyana, but she seems familiar with names
and places.
The very next day she enquires at the front desk about transportation to
Canal District. Dressed in pantsuit and sunshades, she spoke softly but
intensely. She was told about our minibuses. She wanted something more
private and direct. A taximan outside agreed to take her. According to him
she directed every turn of the way.
They had barely taken off when she told him to stop at a house number along
Lamaha street. Her mother, she says, came out to join her first husband who
worked for the British Administration in the 1960s, during the last years
before our Independence.
She pulls out a photo from a brown envelope. "This is the building, see? This
is where she lived. Are we on the right street?" She snaps a photo with her
camera. "And where's the train line? Isn't there a train service?"
They move on; they get to the Berbice River. She's mumbling, reading from
a notebook in her lap, looking up through the window.
Same thing happens. "Where's the ferry? Are we taking the ferry". No more
ferry, the driver tells her, we're crossing the bridge. She asks to be taken to
the old ferry docking point. Takes a picture, looking around, her hand on her
hat as if ready for an uninvited gust of wind.
They cross and the taximan is told to find a village in Canal Poulder. They
drive past roadside shacks, cars hurtling the other way. He's in relatively
unfamiliar territory, grew up in Demerara. But she is determined to locate
"Mr. Toolsie", my uncle. She evidently assumed that just showing up in a
village, and asking for someone would bring results.
Her driver grows impatient now with the frequent stopping and moving. He's
starting to think this is one confused tourist lady. And though he's confident
he will be paid for his services, he's never had a passenger acting so weird.
She's really anxious, though, to locate my uncle.
They make several enquiries, "I am looking for a Mr. Toolsie," she says, in her
clear, chirpy accent. "I think he lives in this village". Toolsie is a familiar first
name; the "Mr." throws everybody off at first.
Finally she finds her man; or rather finds where he hangs out; at a rum shop,
now a "beer garden", that also sells lunchtime snacks. He isn't there at the
moment, but at this point the driver hints he's had enough. It's after midday.
Sun still raging. He needs to gas up his vehicle, get some fluids and food; he
wants to get back to Georgetown.
The lady starting to wilt, too, under her hot weather hat. It's been a long
morning, running around the coast of this country. Nodding her head, as if
she too had had enough, she was ready to abandon her mission as abruptly
it started.
So now she's gone; and the regulars at the beer garden swat at the mosquitoes
and wonder: what is the connection between Uncle Toolsie and all these
white women coming to the District? There has to be some connection.
Some nights Uncle Toolsie starts up rambling about the days before
Independence. He talks about the house in Lamaha Street where he worked
as a handyman. Fridays and Mondays. Occupied by British people. Very nice
people.
He claims an arrangement was made with "the mistress". After the Friday
yard work, she'd indicate she will visit the Canal District. He should meet
her at the steamer stelling. Which he did faithfully.
They'd take a hire car to his village, turn off the main road, walk along a
worn foot path, turn off into the fields. There, according to Uncle Toolsie
in full flow after six or seven drinks, outlandish behavior followed.
She takes the cutlass from him and starts one wild slashing at the cane stalks.
Slash slash. Slashing and screaming, "So this is what it feels like. This he
cannot do himself." Slash slash. Stopping to catch her breath, wipe her brow.
Slash slash. I could see her, clothes damp with sweat, face and arms livid,
hair coming loose. Did she say anything when she got back to Georgetown,
disheveled but glowing?
At some point, all worked up, the slashing stops. She turns to my uncle: "Alright
then, let's see what the big tool can do today."
Out of the blue Uncle Toolsie would slap the table with a cutlass. Who brings
a cutlass into a beer garden? Who sings and carries on, telling people now he
wants to be called "big tool"? If you were there you'd have to laugh, or tell
him to stop his nonsense.
Rum can make you a sad, delirious man, deserving of sympathy. Uncle goes
home to his wife in that wretched state. I could get to the bottom of all this
by talking to my Aunt. She complains about his drinking, and how a man who
knows to wield a cutlass should know how to open a sardine can without
cutting his finger. I could ask questions, but I would have to draw the line at
tales of sweet joy in the cane fields.
So let's see now. English woman comes to Guyana with a notebook (we can
assume it's her mother's old Georgetown journal) retracing steps. What was
her purpose? Just verifying certain pages in her family history?
About O my God! her mother who had "meetings" with a man named Toolsie,
who just happens to be my uncle! who drinks on weekends in a beer garden
like a laid off worker; the object of coarse jokes; his only friend a cane field
cutlass.
Weird! like from some other dimension; like from the plantation days ̶
stories of whispered arrangements, voice commands, gratitude paid.
I really not born to play detective. You need curiosity and patience. You
have to be sniffing round the baggage people carry. I am only twenty four,
slender, burning. Besides, in this country there are so many real issues
needing investigation. Many unsolved cases that in all likelihood will stay
forever unsolved.
Some things ̶ like fever, temper, blinds ̶ you better off not touching. Look
around. The grass growing, serpents oil and stretch sun bathing. Everywhere
people going about their business. At the slightest slight they cut and pouting.
Why dwell? Best leave alone.
Melissa Madramootoo
Canal District, Guyana
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 