<Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >
Locket # 41
I was watching my youngest child the other day. He old enough now to be
doing things with his hands. Right now he’s hooked on his play station, using
his thumbs and staring at the screen. It won’t be long before he old enough
to transfer his finger press to the cell phone.
How times change. How fast times changing now.
Back in my Georgetown youth days I had fun rolling a tyre up and down our
village street. The one dream I had was to drive a fire engine unit. Putting
on the helmet, saddling up, and driving to the scene of the conflagration,
my sirens clearing the road.
When I was done with high school, I promptly sign up to join the Georgetown
Fire Service. I nearly didn’t get accepted.
I barely pass the “physical agility” part of the training. The instructor kept
saying I too “chubby” for the work. A whole house could burn down while
you still hooking up the hose. He made me run round the block in Alberttown
with a roll up hose to pass one test.
But he knew my father, they went to school together. I told him my father
taught me driving skills. I know Georgetown roadways backward and forward,
and I always wanted to be behind the big wheel.
I persevered. I stayed through my probation, till they assigned me as truck
driver.
I still on the job, still keep up with the training; but the dream part, feeling
like an emperor at the wheel, that part gone. Driving though Georgetown is
breaking my spirit.
At one point it was the filthiest city in the world. The Stabroek Market, the
centre of the city, piles of rubbish and smells to high heaven. The city
cemetery overrun with bush. And at night the cardboard vagrants sleeping on
the pavement, still there next morning, ragged and sprawled to high heaven.
I get agitated. Honestly, I don’t know who to blame.
It would take more than “clean up campaigns” so I can drive and not notice
wretchedness left and right. More than men with brooms or a machete crew
with plastic bags. Something like a Garbage Service, a Cemetery Maintenance
Service is needed. People trained and ready to keep things clean and tidy all
the time.
Other people seem to be making ends meet. They use their hands to cook and
bake ‒ make something, set up a tray and sell! ‒ while I here under this
“dream”, hands on the fire truck wheel, sirens wailing.
I thought of asking for a transfer, like to the fire station at the airport. They
don’t give “transfers” just like that. In any case, I couldn’t see myself
hanging around the airport waiting for an emergency event as the planes land
or take off.
Georgetown is still a wood-frame house town for the most part. Used to be
people were responsible and careful. They knew what could happen if fire
break out. Over the years they putting up these three, four five-storey
buildings. I don’t even think they have sprinkler systems like in New York.
Besides, our fire trucks not like them big rigs you see in movies. God only
knows what would happen if our boys try saving anybody from top floors.
Our truck tank could hold about 450 gallons of water. Once that run out,
fire fighting from the unit done.
The last fire we had, we got there late. The owner of the building said he
called, but somehow the message didn’t get through. It took us 30 minutes
to get there.
Sirens does have a weird effect on our car people. I had to wait till traffic
in front decide to turn or speed up.
I had to help find a hydrant, clear the thick grass all round it, open the rusty
hydrant head, and listen. I couldn’t hear anything coming, water pressure
low.
We had next to turn to the nearby canal. Thank God it wasn’t silted up.
All the while pushing back “public spirited” people (so the newspapers say)
grabbing the hose, wanting to help “quench” the flames. This time the
hose didn’t spring leaks.
*
I was on a plane heading to Trinidad the other day to visit a friend. This man
beside me from Georgetown was heading back to New York. He living there
now, works with the city’s Sanitation Department.
He went on about opportunities there, how his salary was near what our
Government Ministers making. And if I like driving vehicles so much, I should
come up to New York, try my hand. Find a better source of income, he said.
About my chances, I would have problems breaking into the Fire Service over
there, no matter how much “experience” I bring from Georgetown. Native
barriers, he said. Still, I could try for City Transport, the big buses; or Airport
taxi work. Native barriers there too.
If things didn’t work out I could do some hire car work. Cars passed him every
day with signs saying DRIVERS WANTED.
I noticed how he paused, letting his words sink in, so certain what he was
telling me was big news, since I was getting off the plane in Trinidad.
Push come to shove, he said, I could apply to pick up and drive school children
to school in a yellow bus. Rules and barriers and paperwork everywhere, but
ways could be found to get around them, he said. You have to be bold.
A part of me listened, not asking questions, wondering if any higher levels
waiting for me in Georgetown. I was still this hands-on-the-fire wheel person.
I couldn’t see myself doing anything else.
Our Fire Service is supposed to be updating and upgrading. According to our
newspapers, the hydrants overdue for “rehabilitation”. Well, I here driving
and driving, and I don’t see any rehabilitating yet.
A building up in flames. Our truck on the way but progress slow on the road.
My foot shifting start-stop on the pedals. I does just shut off the siren. I tell
myself, the bucket brigade done reach the fire before me. I can’t save
everything every time.
Sometimes I feel like a camel rider bouncing along. Georgetown roadways are
my desert sands, and I just there bouncing forward. Tight grip on the wheel
‘cause these days it feel like the sands drifting and the camel lurching.
My wife think is some kind of “depression” forming. Telling me I should see a
doctor, get some prescription pills for the problem. She don’t understand, this
is not some medical problem, and I don’t need any medication. This thing, is
like a growing frustration, bothering me inside, on and off duty.
I know, I should stop complaining. Georgetown people quick to find fault.
Alright, I done complaining.
The fellow on the plane, hosing me down with words in the tiny plane space, I
don't know why but I didn't trust him. He leaned on the armrest toward me,
and he told me he saw this man on a pavement in New York City, an artist man,
drawing faces. You sit down for five minutes and in quick time he did a portrait
of you. The man was very good.
If you ask me, that portrait man probably reach the end of his line; his unit run
clear out of turn space. Shove come, and nothing left. At least he not at a
front window in a rocking chair in Georgetown, looking out.
Still it set me wondering, as I filled out the immigration form, if maybe I got
myself in a wrong turn situation, stuck in Georgetown with this one dream, this
one ‘Occupation’; and what could happen if I move out from under this dream.
Move some place else while I still have time. Before I get so stuck I can’t start
over or do anything else with my life.
Tyrone Armstrong
Georgetown, Guyana
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 