< Situations And Revelations Of Passing Notice In Guyana >
Locket # 24:
When Pathoo left our NorthWest District he was a still young; thirtyyish, not
married, a man of strong moral character, I would say. Sister Miriam would
bear me out on that. She wanted to travel to Georgetown to testify on his
behalf, but she too old to travel.
She knew him as a boy at the school run by the nuns. She treated him like a
son, watched him push off and paddle back home every day. Pathoo was shy,
she said, but when he raised his head you only had to look in his eyes to find
honesty in his character.
She inspired him to start up the river taxi business, ferrying old people and
children, morning and afternoon. People in our District had only good things
to say about Pathoo, the boat operator. How he helped with running errands,
doing favours, in sickness or in need. All you had to do was leave a bandanna
or a white cloth on a pole to alert him. And I will say this, Pathoo is a man of
courage.
One morning he decided to move to Georgetown. I couldn’t understand this
decision; he was doing fine right here.
A big businessman ‒ Mr. Sawh, they called him ‒ somehow put it in his head
he could make more money if he moved to Georgetown and worked for him.
Running river taxi was small time work for small people.
Who was this Mr. Sawh? And what business he starting, “recruiting” people
from our District? Nobody knew.
Pathoo left instructions I should take over his river boat operation. Didn’t even
stop by to give me a chance to discourage him.
He was away in the city for about nine months. We heard he was doing alright.
First time in his life outside our river ways.
Imagine the shock when the steamer arrived at Morawhanna with newspapers,
with Pathoo’s face splash on the front page, accused of kidnap and sexual
assault.
Our Pathoo. Never had a river boat accident. No problems with women,
watering the lettuce, as far as I know.
His job was to drive Mr. Sawh around. Dress up in shirtjac, wait for instructions
calm and polite.
From Boat operator to Mr. Sawh’s chauffeur ‒ hard to believe. And don’t ask
me how he got a driver’s license, how he turn chauffeur so fast.
They said Mr. Sawh liked boasting to his friends how he was the first to employ
a “Toshao” in that capacity; showing off, look how generous he was, how
trusting of our indigenous people.
It was more complicated. Mr. Sawh valued Pathoo’s silence. Drive, see nothing,
hear nothing. Sometimes he asked Pathoo to step beyond the call of duty.
People in Georgetown always running some overtime business, or doing some
behind the screen business. Mr. Sawh had an outside woman. After their
rendezvous at a certain hotel Pathoo would ferry the woman away discreetly,
then come back for his boss.
But you can’t organize something like that in Georgetown without somebody,
at some point, noticing what going on and connecting the dots. And adding
their own dots.
Mr. Sawh’s hotel rendezvous lady was suddenly reported missing. She turned
up days later, “rescued”, battered, straggly haired and “sexually assaulted”,
according to police investigators. I could see how Pathoo got caught in the
middle of all the mystery and suspicion.
They kept him in jail over thirty days. The case was always still under
investigation. Sister Miriam kept asking, but we had nothing to tell her. She
urged us to speak to our District representative. Pathoo had no one to defend
him. Travel to Georgetown, do something.
Then one morning he was back. Wanted me to pick him up at the Morawhanna
stelling.
It was good to see him. It was raining that day; he was standing alone, two
bags close to his ankles; watching the corials glide to shore; maybe wondering,
what possessed him? to leave this place? his home all these years?
Every man and his woman claimed they knew what happened in Georgetown
with the case.
The matter got “dissolved”, victim declined to proceed with the charges. No,
no, the case was “dismissed”, victim left the country. Nah, nah, all parties
get paid to just forget the whole thing, that’s how they do it in Georgetown.
Pathoo didn’t have anything to say. It was as if he had developed a new skill,
erasing any unpleasant experience rightaway.
In the following days I helped him transport tools, utensils, materials for
building, other stuff.
I offered to help him build whatever he was building. He said he didn’t need
any help. He didn’t want back his boat business. He didn’t want to see Sister
Miriam. The parakeets he would take back, and his dog.
I decided to just leave him alone.
**
During our last conversation he was in the same mood, the same bottle with
the cork tight. I had crossed the river meaning to talk about his boat. I was
feeling a little guilty.
The boat was still his property. I didn’t want him to think since I operating
the transport I had taken over his business. If he wanted, he could take it
back.
I wondered if maybe we should upgrade the transport, put in a new horse
power motor. People were happy how we chugged along the river, but other
boat operators were moving faster. Maybe we should move with the times.
In the middle of explaining this, he shouted, “You know what? They have evil
people in Georgetown. Just one life we have.” Okay. Evil people in
Georgetown. Just one life.
He continued as though all this time he was waiting for the words to assemble
in the right place.
He was at a cricket ground, he said (now this was before his incarceration) in
the stands, watching this Test match. Mr. Sawh, the businessman was there
(accompanied by his bodyguard, a big black fellow).
You? watching cricket? Since when? He gave me a fierce look. This was no
joking matter.
Somebody in the seats above him threw an object that hit him in the back of
his head. An empty plastic water bottle.
He looked around to make eye contact with the bottle thrower. Couldn’t tell
who it was. People looked away, pretending they didn’t see what happened.
He picked up the plastic bottle, and stood glaring at the crowd. Unless he
had a target he knew he couldn’t toss it back. His face must have burned
with rage.
He made a show of crushing the bottle, so everybody could see what serious
pain his hands could inflict, face to face with any bottle thrower. He sat down;
he changed his mind. He left his seat and went back to the car to wait for
his boss.
This incident continuing in his head, running hot or cold! It was not right what
happened, I agreed. I was glad he talked about it, glad he trusted me to
understand. But what did he expect? people didn’t know the kind of man he
was. And working for Mr. Sawh couldn’t change how people saw him.
I said, with new interest, The strangest thing happened couple mornings ago.
A police party came looking for him. Gliding up quiet, mist over the river,
like they planned to raid his home.
I’m sure Pathoo heard them. Where we live, at that hour in the morning, you
could hear a paddle dip in the river.
They saw me getting ready to move. Asked if I’d seen Pathoo. Said people
in Georgetown wanted to get in touch with him. The shirtjac fellow, looking
like the person in charge, told me to contact “the authorities” immediately if
I had any information about his whereabouts.
His chest bare, his limbs relaxed, Pathoo had just finished his breakfast ‒ tea,
fruit, soft-boiled eggs. He had things to take care of in the backlands. He can
tug the tail of a jaguar in those backlands.
He made a gesture with his hands (the hands done with driving car in the city)
as if flicking the news away.
Yes, he heard people were looking for him. Let them come, let them try
anything, he said. He waiting for them.
J. Matthews
Northwest District, Guyana
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 