<Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >
Locket # 38:
Telling you straight, not me again. Even if the travel service improve, even
when I get old and dying to see Canal District one last time.
Plane delays and cancellations happen all over the world. In New York a storm
could blow in trapping you at the airport, but nothing compared with this.
06.00 hours: Leaving Canal District. They change up how they calling time here,
using numbers and “hours”, like they hoping to pin down people's habits. But
things carrying on the same way, a full day's work starting late and rarely
finishing on time.
07.00 hours: Crossing the river bridge and remembering: I grew tired quick of
back home conversation. There was really not much for me to do.
At the start you catch up on the news and opinions, glad for the lil sun, a
child you never knew who ran to hug you in the kitchen. At some point the
smiles and the talk sound like claptrap. “Claptrap” is my husband’s word for
when your mind reach saturation point and you can’t take anymore.
And don't talk about older relatives telling you everything that happened to
them since you left, and making requests that are completely out of the
question.
In my room the day I arrived I was unpacking and I noticed this tiny lizard on
the window ledge outside crawling, stopping to meditate, then scooting away.
Something like that, anything crawling in my house in New York, would drive
me crazy.
08.00 hours: Georgetown roads. People on bikes, or crammed in these minivans
mouth, teeth and eyes working hard on their face, like they have so much on
their mind. It would scare me if the car suddenly stall and now my worries out
in the open facing their everyday worries.
And let me tell you, living space tighter everywhere now. Somebody always
noticing what you doing. You have your regulars spreading their tail like
peacock, twitching this way that way, wanting everybody to notice what they
saying and doing. Chew and chew, their beef still hard to swallow.
10.00 hours: Airport.
12.00 hours: Sitting in departure lounge, waiting to board.
14.00 hours: Sitting on the plane waiting to depart.
15.00 hours: Back in the departure lounge ‘cause they detect some mechanical
problem they have to fix.
18.00 hours: Still fixing. I can see the plane but I don’t see anybody who look
like they doing any work.
20.00 hours. Plane not going anywhere. They say they flying in another plane
to fly out passengers. They removing bags from the bruk down plane. The man
man on the baggage cart driving so fast I sure he spilling bags all over the
place.
After midnight now. I should tell you, I survived on sugar cake and two soft-boil
eggs which I packed away. We might have all curled up and wasted away if it
wasn’t for this one passenger, this woman from New York.
Hair in braids with wispy strands of grey. And with a belly fat problem. You
don’t know how that does upset me ‒ folds of fat flabby over her midsection,
exposed young people dress style, like the person think she still young.
I don’t understand that. I had two children. I used to struggle every day to keep
my bulge looking reasonable.
This lady had her winter sweater on. Was late October and we heading back to
cold temperatures.
I don't who she was visiting, her accent sound like she was not from here. She
had a voice people could hire for situations like this, loud and making one big
commotion. The other passengers sat stiff and not-involved, exchanging
glances. This lady upbringing was clearly not their upbringing.
A child would start crying, she would stand up, and words would burst out her
pouty face: how she going sue the airline; how the airline responsible for
transport and accommodation if the flight cancel. Is anybody listening? Hello.
Who in charge here?
Eventually they told us we would not be leaving that day. We were now
considered like passengers entering the country again.
But we still here, we never left! No matter. Get passports ready for Customs
and immigration.
They had to call back two officers who must have gone to Georgetown after
the last plane came in. We had to wait till they reach back. Two gentlemen,
frowning or just plain annoyed they were called back for this. In no mood for
courtesies, asking the same stupid questions.
Two lines inching up, inching up. A lady with a duty free bag kept fumbling
for something. The bag drop. A bottle of rum broke and the liquid made a
spreading pool we had to step around.
I don’t like seeing anything spill and left like that, but I would have had to
leave the line to find somebody to clean it up.
Our bags from the plane were dumped in the front lobby in a roped off area.
Two official-looking young people told us they were waiting for the
passenger sheet. They would allow us to step forward one by one, pick our
way through the jumble of bags with address tags to find our own. A crowd
was building up, pointing and trying to spot their luggage.
Canal District people were standing around with only their hand luggage, some
on the phone explaining and complaining, travel clothes ready to fall off their
shoulders and legs barely holding up. Considering the long drive I couldn't
imagine even the kindest relative driving back here. We were on our own.
I walked away and stood by the drop-off area outside. Georgetown far off and
least concerned. Canal District deep in sleep. The airport lights like they
warning, Careful, stranger! don’t take chances back down that dark road at
this hour.
This is when the night crabs climbed all over me. I couldn’t be brave anymore.
I was ready to cry, feet in one place, heart in another. And phone battery
low. I didn’t know if to try calling forward to New York, or back to Canal
District with news.
I thought of my husband. He’s my second husband. He’s an American. We live
on Long Island. I know him ‒ he wouldn’t have left our house for the airport.
Actually he called the airport. They told him the flight was delayed; then
they told him the flight cancel. “You were right,” he said. “You can’t rely on
travel service out of that place.” I pinched him in the stomach to remind him
he could always rely on me to find my way home.
Miss NY lady with the angry braids, still in her winter sweater, the phone in
her hand still hot from outrage, interrupted her conversation to inform
everybody, “Transport coming! Transport coming from Georgetown!” To take
us where? And who paying for this transport?
A car rolled up near where I was taking the gentle breeze on my face, which
is not like New York wind that don’t care how it blow in your face this time
of year.
The driver jump out. Somehow he must have heard passengers were stranded
at the airport. His transport looked like a private car. He removed a baby seat
from the back to the car trunk, then stepped forward, rubbing his palms.
So where you folk coming from? Cuba? You all here like for group shopping
in Georgetown? I didn’t hear the plane come in. Okay, so where you want
to go?
02.00 hours: dead of night and next day. And since this now sounding like
more back home craptrap, I gone.
S. Sharma-Reilly
New York, USA
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 