< Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >
Locket # 33:
I have a Canal District story for your readers. Happened many years ago.
Full disclosure, right off the bat. I was born in that District, but I lived there
only until I was five years old. I don’t remember much. In fact, I had the
vaguest of memories of anything that happened in those years.
I told my wife I was curious about where my life began. I wanted to see the
land. We live in Toronto. She didn’t understand. Our son was about to enter
university. I took him with me, my way of rewarding him for being accepted.
It was meant to be a short trip. I had the name of a contact person in
Georgetown. A friend of a friend of my dad.
He met us at the airport, Prem Ghosh. “Call me Prem,” he said quickly.
Leather sandals, wearing a Havana style shirt, he taught at the local
university. He said he was doing research in sugar estates in the 1930s. “My
dad lived near a sugar estate,” I told him. “He’s writing a book about the
old days. Maybe you two could get connected, share notes and memories.”
He gave me a strange look. He was cautious about “sharing” anything with
anyone. A professor from England came down once, claiming he was doing
research in the same area. “They take your notes and disappear. Next thing
you know, your notes turn up in an article or in one of their books,” he
explained.
It became evident he wasn’t too pleased with my lodging arrangements. I
had made reservations at a Georgetown Hotel. “I know the place. Wood
frame and Demerara windows. The colonials lived there back in the days.
The new owner give it some fancy name ‒ luxury suites ‒ and turn it into
a hotel.” I hope they upgraded the plumbing from the old days, I said. He
didn’t think that funny. “I don’t know why you choose to stay in a place
like that,” he said. Well, I’m not you, I said, then regretted saying that.
I hear there’s a village called Westminster. Wonder what that looks like,
I continued, sensing that humour ran the risk of causing unseen offence.
There was an edginess in Prem.
The following day I was off on the trip to Canal District. Prem had offered
to take me there. Same workday leather sandals and the Havana style
shirt. “My time is yours today.”
He had a plan. First, we’d stop at his workplace at the University; he would
show me around.
I didn’t respond with proper enthusiasm. I had no idea how long the “stop”
would take. I didn’t know there was a campus. I didn’t feel like being
“shown around”. I just wanted to see the District.
I was worried, too, about my son. He decided he wasn’t coming with us.
Less than 24 hours in the country, and he had contacted someone. A girl.
Offering to show him around Georgetown. How, when did this happen?
He was old enough to survive on his own, he protested. I needn’t worry.
It took an eternity getting to the District. The road was crowded with every
imaginable form of transport. Prem’s car had airconditioning, but he was
“saving” it, preferring to lower the side windows and let the coastal breeze
work.
He waved at people he knew. He slowed to make purchases from roadside
vendors under rickety structures. “You notice the fruit variety we have
here? Fresh from the farm.” We continued like this, his toes switching in
anticipation from gas pedal to brakes.
“There is a huge cloud hanging over this country,” he started talking. “The
whole question of domination and resentment.” I had no idea what he
meant. “Certain pathologies from the past have not gone away. Terrible
things going on here, murderous things. But you know, maybe now is not
the right time,” he stopped.
For Prem, I realized, just listening was as good as sympathy. Right now he
had a lot of showing to do. I had questions, not as weighty as “the whole
question” on his mind. I stayed quiet, and adjusted my sunglasses. I let
the scenery outside flash by ‒ coconut trees looking heroic under the sun,
traffic heading the other way as if in flight from the murderous things
going on.
Eventually, off the major road, we drove down a narrow road strip, a canal
running on one side. We stopped in front of a modest dwelling. It was the
home of an estate worker. A man with a massive belly, his face puffy from
comfort or medication. He seemed to be expecting us.
Turned out Prem had arranged a meet and talk with him, followed by a
drive around a sugar estate. It was more than I had come ready for.
The estate drive-around didn't happen. Prem told us he had one important
stop to make; he’d be right back. Took off and never returned.
The Ramdins offered refreshment. The afternoon light faded fast. We
waited.
We talked about my parents, about people my father might have known.
Kumti was busy in the kitchen. In his fifties, his face shiny with delight, Mr.
Ramdin invited me to try the local beer.
We changed conversation ‒ beer brands, a lettuce farm project he wanted
to start, his back problem. “When he complained about his back, they sent
him home,” Kumti looked in. “They told him not to exert himself.” Still no
Prem.
A phone rang. His car had broken down on the main road. He was watching
it being repaired. He didn’t think he would get it back that day. It seemed
we were “stranded” in Canal District.
He asked to speak to me. Why not stay overnight at the Ramdins, he said.
They had a spare bedroom. Not a “luxury suite”, but comfortable. His car
should be ready for a late morning drive back to Georgetown.
As for my son, I shouldn’t worry. He would find a way to contact the young
man, tell him, Your Dad is okay. Spending the night with friends. He wants
you to stay inside the hotel.
I was puzzled by this sudden development. Had he planned for emergencies
like this? His voice with high-pitched urgency somehow made it sound like
a challenge. “Okay,” I told him. I’ll manage. I was adaptable.
The bedsprings felt worn, but sheet and pillows were made ready. “Just
make yourself comfortable,” Kumti said. “We have mosquito coil if you need.
We eat a lot of garlic so mosquitoes don’t bother us.”
I slept in fits and short stretches. Unusual noises woke me, a brief rain
shower on the roof. My cell phone lit up the room and the hour. At five
o-clock, still dark outside, I stood looking through the glass louvre windows,
hearing the first roosters, feeling as if another moment of lost childhood,
like my bare feet on the floor boards, had returned.
Someone appeared from behind a shed at the back. A woman, in
nightclothes, moving unhurriedly toward the backsteps. That profile of face
and hair. It was Kumti. That was her full head of hair, loose around her
shoulders.
There was a bathroom in the house, so this was no trip to an outhouse.
Lifting the hem of her night clothes she climbed the back stairs, fully aware
of where she was, what she was doing. I heard the kitchen door close.
Footsteps to the bathroom. That door latched shut.
Hardly a minute passed, I would say; enough time for me to wonder what on
earth was going on. Then fresh movement. A young man, in short sleeves,
short pants. Just as casually, not worried someone might be watching, he
strolled to the front gate and disappeared on a bicycle.
Kumti prepared a wonderful breakfast, fried fish, plantain and bread slices,
coffee. Her voice percolated a bright morning feeling. The movements I
happened to see through the window, phantoms slinking away in the night,
no longer needed explanation.
With one finger in his ear, unplugging, as if he’d been swimming all night in
bed, her husband emerged. He asked if I slept well. “Very well,” I told him.
Once my head touch the pillow, I out like a light, he said. “Sometimes he
does sleep till midday, now that he not working. I have to wake him up,”
Kumti explained.
Did I want to take a morning shower, she asked, offering a folded towel. And
put back on his yesterday clothes? Wha’ wrong with this woman? her
husband said. She smiled and ignored him. I smiled my solidarity with her.
And that was how my day and my night in Canal District ended, in that
moment, in smiles of understanding.
I wouldn't say I had the time of my life there. And I haven't told you
everything.
Prem didn’t take us back to the airport. Something must have happened, or
maybe nothing happened. We got a driver from the hotel. He said he was
born in Canal District. Spent his childhood there until he moved closer to
Georgetown. Like Prem, he wore a Havana style shirt. But he drove very fast.
I asked, Do you normally drive this fast? hoping to slow him down. “Don’t
worry yourself. I know the road like the back of my hands. These are
hands of a champion.”
My son in the back seat, head buried in his device, couldn’t care less about
car speed. I placed my trust in his lighthearted pilot's arms, set to spot and
dodge any recklessness approaching.
We got to the airport without incident. Hands of a champion.
In the years between that visit and now, a lot has happened. My son went on
to university; did very well. His mother and I have separated. He’s all grown
up, and engaged to a Canadian girl. Her family came from Guyana. I think
the Canal District trip, at least the Georgetown part, helped break him out
of his shell.
I never asked him what happened the night he was all by himself in
Georgetown. A young man is entitled to keep secrets from others. Certain
transactions, like certain breath holding moments kept to oneself,
become vital; in some cases necessary, as you grow older, now that I
recall.
J. Anthony
Toronto, Canada
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 