Author: FarJourney Caribbean

         < Situations And Revelations Of Passing Notice In Guyana >

        Locket # 19:

        Some thoughts you put aside as you grow up like a shield you don't need
        anymore. Some find holes to fill, or erase themselves on arrival. Others wedge
        themselves in your thinking, and at first you think of removing them, then you
        let them stay.

        One day our English teacher, Miss Hemphell, told us our country was a country 
        of fools. Titled and entitled. People who can't read and people who stopped
        reading. The only way to escape was through education. By which she meant
        not just passing exams, but learning as much as we can. About human folly.

        We thought she must have been angry and frustrated at us for not completing
        an assignment. And exaggerating for effect. She expect everybody to be
        perfect.

        At that moment I saw her as a survivor, surrounded by all our foolishness, but
        holding up somehow. What a relief it must be when her day was over, to go
        home and drop everything.

        Miss Hemphell liked giving us new words to help build our vocabulary, words
        like "contingency", "narcissism", "synchronized'.  Words that sounded foreign
        to our day to day lives in Canal District.

        One word that worked itself inside me for a good while was "eureka".

        Miss Hemphell explained what the word meant. She urged us to search for a
        "moment" in our lives to apply these words. 

        No one reported they had found a eureka carrier. We heard of weird things
        that happened, but Canal District was too boring for eureka moments. Besides,
        we had better things we wanted to do (we didn't tell her that).

        Weeks later she said, "If you hang around here waiting for a eureka, you'll die
        waiting." What was she going on with now? "You better off doing something
        simpler. Like trying your luck in the interior. With the porknockers searching
        for gold."  

        Vijay came up behind us after school that afternoon and said, "That English
        teacher always talking nonsense. She only talking like that because she has
        no man her life. And no children. And she getting old." 

        He was all worked up. He swore Miss  Hemphell had looked straight at him
        when she talked about porknockers.  Also, he wanted to impress Vanessa, my
        best friend.

        I said nothing. Vanessa smiled. Her toes were already in his canal. She was eager
        to be impressed.

        Once she said, giggling as if about to break a promise not to say anything,
        that Vijay considered me a sulky person. If I continued with my attitude (and
        considering my small breasts) I would live a lonely, miserable life.

        A breach appeared between us. I made a vow there and then, not to marry
        someone like Vijay; not to develop a squat body with neck folds from
        bearing children like Vanessa. I was learning to be patient; defiant in my own
        way.

        Miss Hemphell said something else that day that flew over all our heads.  
        About the colours around us, the blues, browns, greens. "They turn off and
        on, did you know that?   Sometimes they go hue-less, and they mingle and
        disperse in the atmosphere".

        She was off on a tangent. We looked at each other, wondering what was
        bothering her now.   

        I tried to follow her. Once she said to me, Be prepared, young lady. At the
        fault lines, hands will reach out and make a grab for your legs if you try to
        leap. It sounded like the kind of warning I got from my mother, about boys
        and "consequences", about pride and safety first.

        It was an awkward moment. I should have said, What do you mean, Miss?
        right on the spot. I didn't feel confident enough to open up a line of personal
        conversation.

        I felt there was something else she wanted to teach us. She knew so much,
        but with no constant companion for conversation (as far as we could tell) it
        came out indirectly, in bits and spurts. And she was not the type to get on
        stilts and broadcast how much she knew.

        Grown up, and wiser now, I think, it dawned on me the other day that a 
        eureka moment  ̶  that "suddenly understanding a problem that was previously
        incomprehensible" thing   ̶  might have happened, but not in some dramatic O 
        My God! way. 

        I could have told Miss Hemphell about my father.

        He owns one of those tall buildings you see in Georgetown, and when you
        cycle past you wonder where the owner get the money to put up a monster
        like that, in your neighborhood, and call it Hotel or a Business Establishment,
        with space and prospects to rent.

        Anyway, on weekends Pa used to invite friends and uncles to bring their
        families, hang out in the dining area on the roof of his building. He didn't 
        allow me bring my friends. They wanted to put on clothes, come and pretend
        they were enjoying "luxury".

        One evening I overheard him carrying on like he was this self-made
        "businessman" who worked so hard to get where he was. He was telling 
        someone how his dream of one day owning this building started.

        It had to do with his father, a paunchy, sweaty shop keeper who complained
        about electricity in the District. He was always coughing when I saw him, like
        he had some serious health problem. Saved up all his money, which Pa
        inherited.

        But here's the thing. One day he gathered his children (including Pa) for a trip
        to Georgetown. They were going to visit the Lighthouse near the seawall. "I
        have a buddy working there. He will let us in. They have stairs like a spiral
        winding all the way to the top," he said, overexplaining what could have come
        as a surprise.

        When they got there one of his daughters refused to go inside. She was worried
        she might feel dizzy. Her father shouted at her, "Stay outside since you so
        frighten. Stand right here, and don't move till we come back."

        Pa went ahead of his father and was the first to step out at the top.

        He discovered he could look in every direction; out to the sea, the zinc roofs
        tiny below, the straight line roads stretching for miles. "The only high height
        I ever climb was a coconut tree. But up there, everything was so clear."

        That could have been Pa's eureka moment.

                                                                *

          I live in Edmonton now. I left the District years go for college in Toronto. 
        Graduated, got a job straightaway, lucky me. Spent two years working with
        an Insurance Company. My first real job.

        Some people in the office referred to me as the Asian girl; quiet and punctual,
        with deep, brown eyes and a strange way of speaking.

        One man became more than interested in who I was. At my desk, leaning over
        my shoulder, he said softly, "Shall we go out somewhere?" My response, with a
        smile, threw him off balance, I don't think we shall. He dropped word I might
        be friendly and efficient in the office, but "behind the veil"  ̶  behind what veil?  ̶ 
        there was nothing. I just didn't take them on.

        One day my supervisor who is Canadian asked me to marry him. I said yes. He
        got transferred so we moved to Edmonton.

        I know what you're probably waiting to hear. Most explanations are truth
        deficient, and often get taken the wrong way.

        Back in Canal District, because there was no prior notice or family involvement,
        my decision was heart rattling news, But what is wrong with her? They can
        stay there with that. Though they might eventually come around and accept
        what's done is done.

        Honestly? there are days when I think this man came into the world intended
        for me. Don't laugh. Who hasn't sheltered thoughts like that, about life with
        its twists and turns? the moment like a post to which you tie your canoe?

        We own a small, ranch style home which I love. A son whom I love. I told Jack,
        my husband, one child is enough, I didn't come into this world to be the mother
        in a house of screaming children. He and I are certain of one thing: there's no
        point dwelling on the past (he was married, divorced).

        Sometimes he comes home, tired, it's the end of his day 'bossing' people. We'd
        sit down for dinner and he tells these little stories, about people and what he'd
        observed. He'd sigh and say, "Unbelievable!" as in, How could anyone be so
        careless or naive?

        I'd shake my head and say, Incroyable! borrowing from Miss Hemphell's District
        vocabulary. Incroyable! she'd say, in a low voice, looking through the window,
        as if she needed a moment, a little break from looking at our faces in the
        classroom.

        I woke up one Sunday morning and told him about a dream I had.

        I had flown a helicopter, back to Canal District, landing in a cleared area near
        a cane field, all by myself. I started off on foot to find my parent's home. I
        couldn't find it. I gave up searching and walked back to the helicopter. It was
        not there.

        All that was left were the rotor blades. Some one had dismantled the plane
        and taken away the parts. Everything but the rotor blades.

        That was truly amazing! Jack said. Next time, take me with you, please?
        Then he put his arms around me and we squeezed each other. 

        Moments like that, the sauce pan on the fire, I feel unbelievably trusted and
        loved. The "frisson"  ̶  yes! Miss Hemphell  ̶  of elsewhereness. You can only 
        imagine how good it feels.

        Savi Lalljee-Stewart
        Canal District, Guyana
        Edmonton, Canada

       < Situations And Revelations Of Passing Notice In Guyana >

      Locket # 18:

      Most of my working life I spent in the Georgetown Public Service, trying to 
      maintain standards of order and civility. Retired now, or forced to retire, as
      per requirement you should step aside at age 55 years.

      I am not a bitter man. There is so much here that would make you bitter. But 
      I like a life guard watching over the tides of my years. I try to avoid  bitterness.
      
      Fellows like me must find pastures of comfort and security. You can't stay
      locked away in gloom and resentment till you die.

      We're still a wild coast country. We take it out on our roadways and women.

      Case in point, two corners away on the street where I live there's a house of 
      debauchery, I would call it. Run by Brazilians. In my young days it used to be 
      a nice bottom house lounge, with a bar mirror, glass shelves of alcohol, cool
      jazz.

      People use to drop by in the evening hours. Artist types and expatriates. Late 
      at night you might make the acquaintance of a curvy young lady. And there 
      were rooms upstairs you could retire to with the house-bar owner's permission.
      All tidy and discreet.

      Now? The noise and unseemly behavior, flaming thigh display, transactions
      spilling out in the street  ̶  you have no idea.

      My wife has passed and our children moved away to America. They send me
      cards and barrels. The don't really care what happens here, except what will
      happen to the house when I pass. Well, no same old overwashed shirts for me.
      And I not ready to pass.

      These days my pursuit of comfort takes me to the home of Miss D. That is, "D" as
      in D'Urban or Derriere. She's a school Headmistress. Lives by herself in a house
      with respectability and a tomato garden. (And not enough quiet from her
      neighbors.)

      Before any physical contact, you had to pass her tests: a pre-approved decorum,
      the books and conversation test.

      Most men in Georgetown would be out of their depth. She knows more, so
      fellows boasting they read the newspapers every day wouldn't get far.

      Miss D. likes to entertain company with stories of her humble origins, how hard
      work, prudence and self-restraint helped her rise to her present status.

      The derriere is the finest part of her anatomy, more compelling I would argue
      than her stern front. She's a little overweighty, but the flesh is soft and
      congenial. Her breasts, not ever summoned for infant service, have retained a 
      young woman's bountiful premise.

      She boasts she was "quite a catch" in her adolescent days.

      She lived with her mother off the Public Road on the East Bank, and took walks
      on Sunday afternoon in her Sunday best. I tried to imagine one afternoon
      confusion, drivers slowing, head turning cyclists riding off the road into the
      trench.  

      She could count on one hand the men who got through to the finals. There was
      one Englishman who was successful, she said, adding that she had a "fling" with
      him, and that "it was nothing."

                                                         *

      It  was only after many late afternoons, chatting at her front gate, that I
      managed to receive stage #1 approval. I was invited to come up  ̶  past her
      watch dog ("No, no! be quiet, Confucius. He's a friend.") Up the front steps, and
      out on the verandah for further review.

      My first time inside I drifted over to her bookshelf to steal a peek at titles. The
      Bible, Pride and Prejudice, a French fellow named Montaigne, Jan Carew,
      Shakespeare.

      My schooling left me acquainted with some Shakespeare so I felt confident in
      the quotation department.

         Actually, I stayed quiet, like a maypole, listening, while Miss D. danced round
      and round, about deplorable "services" in this country  ̶  the postal service, the
      commercial banks, vulgarity from civil servants. Radio announcers and elected
      officials mauling the official language.   

      Usually I stopped in on Sunday evenings. Nothing much happened. But I always
      knew when I was given the green light.

      She would rise from her chair and offer custard cream biscuits from a tin and
      something to drink. I was careful to request tea. (She serves only herbal; I don't
      make a fuss). We'd come inside from the verandah where the mosquitoes
      required too much swatting. Once tea was served, I braced.

      She would stand up, and say, looking over the rim of her glasses, Would you like
      to come inside my chamber?

      It knocked me flying over the seawall. Come inside my chamber! So direct, so
      straight to the cave entrance.

      I learned quickly to match directness with directness.

        I followed the derriere's lead, uttering melodious random thoughts  ̶  "Who knows
      what the future holds for us?" "Had we but world enough and time." ̶  dramatic
      words, so she won't make a sudden about turn, changing her mind.

      Inside the chamber, well, I really shouldn't go into detail. Out of respect, you
      follow.

      I will say this, though. That first evening, Miss D. took as much time undressing
      for bed as she probably does dressing for church. Meticulous sweet time. 
      Removing the pins from her hair, the glasses on her nose. Lowering the
      buttocks, swinging the first leg in under the sheet.

      I not joking. No man in his birth clothes should have to wait so long for a
      Georgetown headmistress to Finally, finally! arrive at bare readiness.

      I was tempted to hurry her along (worried about new lift and hold issues in my
      activity department) but I managed to stay in the blocks, so to speak, and avoid
      dismissal for false start, you follow.

      After the brief fury of our fulfilling, I encountered withdrawal trouble.

      I had decided already not to dwell too long in the chamber. Too many objects
      choking up her space, inviting your eye to take notice; her at home preferences,
      the mirror; a shoe box near the bed with no shoes! but something shiny inside.

      And, this. When receiving pleasure Miss D. does scream the house down. Her
      face buried in the pillows. As if worried the dog outside might hear, or the next
      door neighbour might hear. When it's over, she gathers herself quickly  ̶  under
      the covers (traces of powder in between the big twins), glasses back on the nose
       ̶  getting cozy and ready resume conversation. Inside the chamber.

      Our bodies, near and past 50, side by side  ̶  hers, from a quick survey, preserved
      better than mine  ̶  I sorry, this is not Hello, young lovers.

      Consequently, I had to gauge the right moment to completely disengage and get
      dressed. Without causing offence, you follow.

      Only to discover later! that Miss D. carries forward no memory of previous
      proceedings. Not a scratch; not one little Hello, again! leg shake. Even Confucius
      the dog don't remember, and has to be told to stand down, outside the door.

      So it look like I always starting over, starting over with the vetting for bedding
      process. Hell of a thing! Time after all is of the essence. I too old for this.

                                                         *

 
        Some of you probably thinking, all this is pure sinful! libidinousness. I should
      be ashamed of myself. Well, that's very virtuous of you. Pillar of society.

      I am saying, this is wild coast country. Some of us in declining years doing our
      best to live a life of dignified vitality.

      Because let me tell you, as I get older, I make it a point to stay clear of the
      younger generation. The rabbit, the hen and sly mongoose generation. Those
      school girls today in their school skirts, the older ones in employee skirts.

     There's a patience with raising and caring for children we never really mastered
     over the years in this country. So now we have generations who don't care, who
     have no time for "old people".

     They don't appreciate sacrifice. Rules and procedures carry no meaning. They
     just doing whatever they want. 

     Some very clever at situating themselves, shall we say, in the lives of "the elderly"
     when it's to their advantage. I hear too many stories of older men who couldn't
     just by pass the under pants advertisement. You pay a price for that.

     My house cleaning lady from Mahaicony comes in twice a week. Before I started
     visiting Miss D. we had the occasional (what you might call) consensual moment
     at the end of her day. Amicably settled and sealed away.

     One day her daughter, who normally phones to say she's outside waiting in a taxi,
     rang the doorbell. Claiming she just wanted to make sure everything inside was
     "nice and spiffy" and under control.

     I noticed the way she looking around, checking the windows, the furniture. Her
     limbs restless and drawing attention to her road kit  ̶  bangles, cell phone,
     tight pants, heart tattoo on the bubby; her jangling empty headery.

     Right away my climate alarms went off.

     I told her straight not to ring my doorbell again. Call from the car when she's
     ready, but don't come inside this house.

     As the years go by you learn to defend your little heaven on earth; you recognize
     the scent of fortune hunters at the gate with their snare traps and wedgies. Nip
     their presumptuousness.

     Marcus Pompey Jr.
     Georgetown, Guyana

       < Situations And Revelations Of Passing Notice In Guyana >

       Locket # 17

       My "office" is in Georgetown.  You want to contact me, you call a number. 
       A voice tells you to leave your number. I call you back. 

       You tired waiting for "justice"?  you want somebody gone? a husband, your boss,
       somebody you consider "a very bad person"? I take care of it.

       When I get back to you I arrange to meet on the seawall. Not face to face. 
       You sit on the old iron bench near the bandstand, stare out at the sea, and
       we talk business on the phone.

       Next day you return, drop off an envelope with a photo of the target. And 
       $5000.00 US. First installment.

       I don't have the time, and I not inclined, to play games. You can't play games
       with me.

       My work method? 100 percent effective. Snake encounter. Once the element
       is "delivered" (through a breach into the system) the target is on his way into
       the clouds. No guns and blood, no getaway motor cycles.

       Your life scales jangling out of balance?  my office can help set them level
       and straight again. Quiet and perfecto.

       So far my clients are happy with our results. They like to think the "bad person"
       suffered his last hours on earth in hopeless, slow motion. Gives them some
       "payback" satisfaction. 

       My system? Okay, once I have the target photo. I select the location. Next, I
       have to arrange the moment of delivery. Which means scouting the target's
       routines, where he works, what time he leaves his house, to jog, meet with
       friends at a restaurant. His morning or afternoon stroll, if he's an old man.

       All of this takes time (it consumes my weekends). Sometimes clients get anxious.
       They call to find out what's going on. I tell them straight, if you change your
       mind and cancel the agreement, you can have the first installment back (minus
       expenses). Otherwise be patient. And don't contact me again.

       When everything is finally set, my delivery man steps in. His name is Jonathan.
       He is an Amerindian from our Northwest District.

       A few years back I went with a television film crew following a Government
       Minister around. We arrived at Morawhanna and I saw this man moving and
       rolling diesel drums toward the stelling for boat loading. Short, stocky, bare
       chest young man, like me in his early thirties, pushing these drums.

       I was about to roll film on him but he gave me a look that said STOP. And mind
       your own business.  Unusual behavior for a "bushman".  

       Later that afternoon I saw him standing outside a bar like he guarding the air
       around him. I offered to buy him a drink. The man can hold his liquor without
       getting loud.

       He said he was a snake expert. Knew which snakes dangerous, what to do if
       you make contact. I ordered another round and listened.

       He told me once he got rid of a man, a soldier who came up to the Northwest
       with our Defence Force for military training. The man started stopping by his
       house, kept "troubling" his daughter, a girl of seventeen.

       One morning the man was found dead. Snake encounter. Everyone assumed it
       was by accident. In the bush.

       We looked out at the river, at canoes pushing off and quietly gliding away.
       Jonathan sat not twitching or glancing around or staring. But he notices every-
       thing that moves. Behind his smile you can't really tell what he's thinking. He 
       might seem docile, but he's not an ordinary man.

       The thing about snakes, he says, there's no problem once you go about your
       business and leave them alone. The law of the forest. Jonathan is my delivery
       man. He has come face to face with snakes.

       How our partnership got going is not important. When I have a client agreement
       signed up, I summon him to Georgetown. We discuss the where and the when.
       I leave the execution part to him.

          How he completes the agreement I honestly don't know. Once I confirm mission
       accomplished, the target stiff and departed, Jonathan takes the next steamer
       back to the North West. Quiet and perfecto.

       I used to wonder how he operated.  Once I joked with him, You have your blow 
       pipe ready? He gave me that look again, STOP. I don't know if he felt insulted,
       or maybe he was saying some things are not in my interest to know. And I didn't
       want to appear to be meddling in his side of the business.

                                                        *

         Let me advise, I prefer working with "high-end" clients. People with financial
       resources. Who understand the importance of discretion. 

       My first client was a lady who flew in from New York. Her husband was "giving
       her problems". She tried easing her conscience, explaining about the man.
       About property in his name that should be in her name and some outside woman
       he had.

       I stopped her right there. I not interested in client anger and history. Five
       thousand now, Five thousand later. Nice clean US currency, thank you.

       She dropped off the package at the designated spot by the seawall and went
       back to New York. I told her, Next time you coming, bring clothes for a funeral.

       She was really impressed with my work because I got a second call, and a third
       call saying I had been "recommended". Next thing I know the business rolling.

       Jonathan isn't paid in cash. He is not interested in "money" per se.  He would
       send word about things he needed. Tools, boat equipment, household items,
       spare parts.

       [And "The Magnificent Seven", an old Western movie I came across. We watch
        it every time he comes to town. Rocking in the chair and laughing when at
        the end Eli Wallach, the bandidos leader, shot and dying, asks Yul Brynner,
        the gunfighter hired to defend the Mexican villagers, "A man like you, why?
        A place like this, why?"]

       So I make the purchases. Arrange for the goods to be put on the next Northwest
       steamer. That's how tight we move and anchor.    

       You shouldn't think of Jonathan as a cold, heartless person. He's a good man.
       He assumes the targets I chose had done something really bad and deserved
       what he got. I don't think he'll forget how that Defence soldier from Georgetown
      "troubled" his daughter.

       When his wife Sara came to Georgetown for dental treatment, I arranged
       everything. Took care of the accommodation, the bills. I told her not to let
       the dentist do any extraction, no matter what he says. Jonathan was truly
       happy.

       The business makes him feel there's someone in this world who knows him and
       respects his "bush" knowledge. In matters of life or death this man knows how
       to read the tides.

       When he's boarding the Northwest steamer for home, we do our "Magnificent
       Seven" routine. "A man like you, why?" I shout and wave. "A place like this,
       why?" he smiles and shouts back. Partners for life, yes.

                                                      *

       Lately, I have to admit, things have been bothering me. A few niggling things.
       No, I'm not having "qualms", or second thoughts.

       You watch people going about their normal, innocent-looking lives, you can't
       tell what bad things they really responsible for. Sometimes I wonder: what if
       the target didn't deserve his abrupt departure? Was it something he did, or  
       was it something he refused to do?

       I stop. I stay focused: scouting the right place for "delivery", trying out best
       times for Jonathan to make his move.

       So far we've made no mistakes, no second attempt. Done! like clockwork, with
       all-clear midnight chimes.

       I still curious, though, about Jonathan, how he operates. Like, how does he
       make "the insertion"? with a jook or a nick? some kind of brush past cat
       scratch? And what is his equipment?

       I remain in the dark about these technical aspects. When you've in his
       company long enough, you sense deep inside an unforgiving capacity, put it
       that way. Makes you keep a little distance. People assume an Amerindian in
       Georgetown, fellow so quiet, no harm could possibly come from him.

                                                        *                                                                                                                                                     

      The other day this Georgetown businessman who I will not name somehow got
      my office number, and called wanting to "hire my business". Insisting we meet
      person to person.

      I told him no, that wouldn't happen. He got angry. Threatened to "expose" me.
      I told him go ahead. If you know me, expose me. And I told him, Watch your
      step, in case something real bad suddenly happen to you. I throw away the cell
      phone.

      So for the time being, I practicing a little caution. Not accepting any and every
      call. Limiting myself to three, four "agreements" a year.

      I had a photo of Jonathan, bare chest, his hair pulled in a warrior knot behind
      his head; and he's holding up a bushmaster like it's a trophy or his favourite
      house pet. I deleted it. Just in case.

      When I feel ready to proceed as per normal, I'll resume. And if things get
      personal and threatening again, or if suddenly I find I can't sleep at night, I'll
      close up shop.

      People like that businessman, all threat and no class, don't qualify for my
      attention. Plenty young men looking for work, playing Jamaican Gangsta with
      guns  ̶  is them he should call. They always ready for "good money" and next
      day front page news.

      You see this place? Always some big man, with a patch on one eye, and one big
      solution  ̶  the only solution  ̶  for every problem. Poisoning this land with
      delusions and wrongdoing. So I say, yes! bad eye for bad eye, snake tooth with
      snake tooth. 

 
      (Name Withheld)
      Georgetown, Guyana

        < Situations And Revelations Of Passing Notice In Guyana >

       Locket # 16

       I have to get this off my chest, and out my head. About this Pundit who arrive
       in our district, set up shop in our district, and carrying on as if his presence
       is the biggest news since they discover oil off our shores. He claims he's from
       Essequibo, and went to India, and now he's back home with a "life philosophy"
       to save the people.

       Carrying on just like the Mormon boys in white shirt and tie. And people
       believe in this man.

       There's a hunger all cross this country. People want peace, people want 
       answers. They want someone to explain what has happened to their lives.
       This Pundit behaving as if he is the Explainer they been waiting for.

        Is amazing how word start spreading: that this man have special health
        curing powers. This paunchy fellow, bald and wifeless like Gandhi, wearing
        Gandhi spectacles, talking slow like he born with a talent for slow speech,
        has brought new "spiritual knowledge" to the District.  

        Pa was in hospital, he has this problem with diabetes. But ever since my
        mother start "consulting" this Pundit, she swear Pa doing better. Even he
        start believing, swearing that his new "meditation" exercise really working.
        Sometimes ignorance does put a jacket round your shoulders, your only
        friend.

        I argued:  if he was a real Pundit from Essequibo, why he didn't go back
        and set up shop in Essequibo? Why start up here in Canal District?"

        The answer was the same. "Hush. You don't understand the man, so hush."
        All of a sudden he's like some important secret we mustn't ask questions
        about. So I hush. 

        First, he was just an ordinary Pundit, in his fifties I would say; riding a
        bicycle. This bicycle come like a humble start-up project, because
        within two months he invest in a car.

        I argued again: how come all of a sudden he trading up from bicycle to
        motor car? just like that?

        Well, the car is supposed to be for business transactions in Georgetown.

        Business transactions in Georgetown? Why he can't take a minibus like
        everybody else? squeeze up inside like everybody else?

        To which my mother answered, "Which pundit you know, which parson in
        Georgetown for that matter, would "squeeze up" in public transport?"

        So I hush. After all, I can't spend the rest of my life asking questions about
        other people. Speculating about other people. As if I don't have difficulties
        of my own to speculate about. 

                                                  **         

        And I hush again at the news about the bicycle ride to the hospital. He rode
        the bicycle in his pundit garment all the way to the hospital to give blood.

        This lady's daughter got in an accident and needed blood. Guess who heard
        about it  ̶  claiming he felt "felt summoned" to donate  ̶  and took off to the
        rescue. On his bicycle.

        Bicycle to the hospital. Bicycle back. Some people say they saw him on the
        road. Was late afternoon, Phagwah festival. People walking about, face and
        clothes powdered and coloured. And he down the road, using hand signals 
        and riding like the bike saddle and pedals made by Rolls Royce; his garment
        wrap tight and starch white with knowledge.

        That could never happen. The hospital too far. You have to be an Olympic
        pedal pusher defying the heat and the dust; eating up miles and hours to
        get to the nearest medical facility. Not to mention vehicles on the main
        road pelting past with no respect for anything on two feet or two wheels.

        And wouldn't it make sense to take the motor car and rush to the hospital?

        The stupid car, which somebody "donate" to him, just sitting in the driveway,
        because once he got the car, he needed a driveway. Which meant he had to
        move from his old house with the bridge cross the trench, to this new house
        with driveway and shiny metal gate.

        The owner of the new residence was his friend from school days. Now a rice
        mill owner. A mean son of a bitch as far as I'm concerned, who telling every-
        body that now he is a "deeply spiritual person".

        The morning after Pundit move in, they say he was outside blessing the
        papaw trees at the back of the friend's house To keep away poisonous snakes.
        That's what they say.

        Whoever heard of blessing papaw trees to keep snakes out the yard? And 
        where you think the snakes gone after the blessing  ̶   to the backyard of
        the house next door, how you like that?

        This is the sort of nonsense we dealing with in this District.  Even Ma had to
        admit that the story about chasing away snakes was kind of hard to swallow.

        And when you pass the house somebody always washing the car; or sweeping
        the driveway; or weeding and keeping the premises clean. Because now he
        has a little canopy outside, like an outdoor office, where he does "consul- 
        tations": listening with his eyes closed, and talking slow.

        Something as simple as hot flashes, or somebody contemplating suicide,
        got people, who born right here, running to the house for words of healing.
        As if he alone now responsible for their existence.

        When it not raining, he outside under the canopy; in a wicker chair, 
        polishing his spectacles; and his clients there, clutching their bags, like cows
        in the front yard swollen with distress while he there milking and milking.

        I'm telling you, this man playing games people don't have names for yet.

                                                     **                        
                                             

        The other day the neighbor was telling Ma, The pundit don't wear anything
        underneath. He don't wear shorts.

        So now he like the Scottish bagpipe men marching in their kilt. No life
        support underneath. As reported, the neighbor said, by the nurse at the
        hospital where he went that afternoon to give blood. And confirmed later
        by another lady, the house cleaning lady.

        You hear the kind of laugh we bussing? You see the level of "development"
        coming to Canal District?

        But I don't blame Canal people. The streets are narrow, the grass high; crab
        pots does boil over under the hot sun; every night mosquitoes raiding your
        sleep net. How else to cool and cleanse the blood each day?

        There used to be comfort in having a little, knowing a little, but working
        and observing and learning more about the world. Was you in control of
        your life, not fear and foolishness.

        Now this man! like ringworm lodged in the head and stomach; so generous
        with his "knowledge", and expecting generous donation in return.

        But our 6 o'clock is not his 6 o'clock.

        You watch: soon they going start inviting him to a function here, function
        there, just to "say a few words". Then what you think going happen next?                                                 

                                                        **             

       I have to say: over the years I have noticed all kind of people showing up and
       settling in this country. From all parts of the world. Brazilians, Nigerians.
       People like they bypassing Europe and America to get here.

       And the human traffic speeding up ever since they find oil off our shores.

       The oil rigs not even pumping yet and people running coming. And this
       Pundit acting like he too is a run come. Went to India, didn't find it there,
       so now he back here (with a little dysentery, the house cleaning lady say)
       waiting for the flow of milk and money. I sure is that.

       He should have settled in Georgetown, not in Canal District. Near the seawall
       is the perfect place. Set up his little canopy there; watch and wait with 
       snake blessings for the oil platform to rise and float like a castle on the
       horizon.

       Anyway, I done.

       One day somebody else will see through this Pundit and expose what really
       hiding underneath. I may be just a young adult (that is how I see myself)
       but from this point on, my mind gone blank to this man.

       Alright, alright, I hushing.

       M. Ghose
       Canal District, Guyana