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     < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

      Locket # 6

      Young, naive and a bit idealistic is how I arrived in Guyana, excited to be
      chosen to work with other volunteers helping struggling nations (in the 
      case of Guyana an ex-colony. I was assigned to a secondary school in the
      Canal District and quickly succumbed to the landscape  ̶  the luminous
      mornings, crossing the river, sandals, foot paths, the breeze on my skin;
      night time insect noise and total dark.

      At the school I endeavored to teach Shakespeare to the girls and boys,
      really wonderful children; lives of pure hopefulness amidst the cane fields
      (which still look like venues of joyless labour). They came neatly dressed,
      in colourful uniforms, to classrooms with limited resources.

      [I should tell you I met someone there, Miss Hempell, who had been
      teaching in the district for years. An avid book-reader, she had read "The
      Second Sex" by Simone De Beauvoir.

      This a book I had heard of, but had never got around to reading. She
      offered to lend me her copy if I promised to return it. She didn't have much
      to say about it. I couldn't tell what it did for Miss Hempell except to keep
      her tight-bodied and unmarried, strands of grey hair bristling through her
      braids. Much respected, though, and fondly spoken of by students and
      parents in the district.]

      Anyway, I introduced my students, first, to "Romeo and Juliet". They had
      heard of Shakespeare but had never read any of his plays. I pirate-copied
      scenes from the play. I tried to get them thinking about the issues facing
      the two lovers.

        We talked about Juliet's suicide plan. (I found out too late that death by
      poisoning is a rather delicate subject in the District. Suicide comes close
      to what I'm sure they think about but rarely "discuss".) In general they
      were not too forthcoming. Good virtues on the surface, with watchful if
      not always focused eyes.

      I tried next to get them excited about writing. I made them start a
      "journal" in their exercise books, putting down their thoughts and feelings.
      Find a place, I told them, a quiet place, in the cane fields (look out for
      snakes!), along the canals; take a cycle ride to the nearest sea front (they
      seemed rather amused by these suggestions). I told them to write about
      their dreams, what worries them about the world.

      One student who was proficient at this (and whom I grew very fond of) was
      Yasmin Deodat. Here, for instance, is what she said to me:

      I work hard. I study hard. At home they are happy when you tell them how 
      well I am doing. They think that with you as my teacher I will be the best
      in the class, and one day the best at anything in the world. I will go places
      and make them proud. There are things I do not talk to my mother about.
      Like what is happening to my body. I am slender, no hips. My breasts don't
      want to grow larger. I would like someone to take me seriously, caress me,
      tell me I am desirable. I want to know how I will be desired  ̶  will I be
      cradled? mauled? plucked like a flower?

      Unusual? To say the least. That Yasmin would put that down and fold it
      away seemed unusual. 

      The day before I left for home, a group of students came with a farewell
      gift: their exercise books, wrapped and tied neatly with pink ribbon;
      containing their schoolgirl fears and fantasies. "If we kept them someone
      might find them, then we'd be embarrassed, Miss," they told me. A bit 
      overwhelming, I must say.

      We made a pact, students and teacher forever friends. I promised I'd keep
      the journals. Years later when they were happily married I'd come back to
      Canal District (I don't know why I assumed they would all still be there).
      We'd relive the follies of those innocent years; shrieks and giggles!

                                      **                                 **

       I heard nothing from anyone until a message came through from Margaret,
       my replacement in Canal District, saying that Yasmin had disappeared. Off
       the face of the earth. It sounded far-fetched. Canal District isn't the sort
       of place you disappear off.

       Some of the girls were known to gravitate toward overly friendly male
       teachers, neatly dressed, bush goat nibblers, if you ask me. Yasmin could
       have run away, to Suriname (which is next door to Guyana). Certainly not
       off the face of the earth. Feet too timid for that range of possibility, I
       thought.

       Naturally I reached for Yasmin's exercise book. I discovered it was now a
       top secret document, with passages blacked out, "redacted", as they say.
       Each section, clearly dated, began with the same wistful line (from
       "Romeo and Juliet", I realized) "If love be rough with you, be rough with
       love." She wanted me to look inside her soul; she would not, however,
       reveal every stitch of contemplation. 

       There is this about her mother sending her to spend a weekend with an 
       uncle in Georgetown. He's a pastor of a Presbyterian Church in town. One
       morning she wakes up and sees him through a bedroom door getting
       dressed:

       Maybe they forgot for a moment there was a relative in the house. I had
       not slept well, the bed was so strange. His children were fast asleep. I
       saw him standing naked, his back toward me, like a boy getting dressed
       by his mother. But that mother was my aunt, she sat on the bed, she
       dried his body with a towel. I didn't want them to catch me staring. I
       must have stood there for eternity, and in that time she dropped the
       towel, leaned forward, and seemed to concentrate on his crotch, moving
       her head [lines crossed out; then:]

       What kind of church leader is Uncle Ram? What sort of boy grows up to
       be a man wanting devotions like that in the morning from a woman? I
       don't know if my mother does this with Pa. [lines blacked out] These are
       not the fireflies I want in my head.

       I turned the next page and the next. Here's a section where her mother
       takes her to Georgetown to visit the same uncle, hospitalized on account
       of a chest complaint. She avoided looking at him, she said, refused to bow
       her head when they said a prayer. At the hospital entrance she turned
       back, went up to his room, surprising him; she came close to his bed, and
       whispered in his ear:

       I know what you are. You are being punished. You should learn to live like
       a man. Stop making people kneel and pray; grow up, and stop making
       Auntie dry your skin and do head swell things for you in the morning.

       You're probably wondering why I am telling you all this; why I have gone to
       all this trouble to reveal what was intended as private (dare I say intimate)
       disclosure. I don't mean to expose Yasmin, nor to accuse or blame anybody. 
       For young women in that land of old cane  love is without meaning. The
       green fades, the fields get flattened; child to mother to grandmother are
       bonded about, sown or bored to death. And true love saves its breath, I'm
       certain avid Beauvoir reader Miss Hempell would testify. 

       I should tell you, as an endnote, that I did receive a postcard from Yasmin,
       its source Venezuela (so at least she wasn't "abducted"). It said : I am here
       because I found a way over the wall, and a waterway that brought me here.
       I'm not sure know what to make of that. It continued (lines plucked from
       Romeo and Juliet), "If in thy wisdom thou can give no help, do thou but call
      my resolution wise."

       Well, so far I have respected Jasmine's "resolution". I don't think I've betrayed
       her in any terrible snitchy way. While the whole of Canal District and the
       country might still be searching for her  ̶  consumed with fear and conjecture,
       wanting her back where she belongs  ̶  I would like to think she is doing just
       fine.

       She must have realized that keeping journals and secrets, with parents and
       uncles and teachers all around, were the baby steps to the edge of the 
       spring board. The pounding heart, the start of new life, now I think she
       knows.

       I'll clear space in my room in case one day her "waterway" directs her to my
       door (unless there's someone else she's listening to). Trust is so elusive. I
       just hope she gets this right.

       Penny Nobbs
       Essex, England.

       < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

        Locket # 5

        Straight from secondary school, August holidays, I joined the staff of one of
        our newspapers; my dream was to become a correspondent. Mr. Mulch, an
        editor there, told me first off the newspaper didn't have money to hire and
        send people anywhere as "correspondents". I had to lower my ceiling beams.       
           
        My school teacher uncle had sent me to him  ̶  he called him "Mulchie", like
        they were old school friends  ̶  with the recommendation 'the boy is good at
        English Composition'.

        Usually they didn't take on people with no qualifications, Mr. Mulch said,
        but that was alright; look how far he'd reach and he didn't have paper
        qualifications either. He laughed as if that was supposed to be a joke just
        between us.
   
        He assured me if I worked hard, build up some experience, show good news
        writing skills, who knows, "things" could work out.

        Later I could go to a college, get newspaper word training; then I could start
        thinking of travel to "far flung" places; investigating and reporting back to his
        readers who lived mostly in the city; and who these days can't seem to find
        time (or some outhouse use, like back in the days?) for newspaper.

        I didn't last long. I gave up after three weeks. Mr. Mulch was a fellow who
        sat at his desk with a view of the street and goodmorning sunlight presiding
        over columns; the only man I know with suspenders holding up his trousers.
        He was difficult to please.

        For instance, after one report I wrote about a woman found strangled and
        possibly assaulted in a bushy area, he accused me of being a skinny fellow
        writing a skinny report. he wanted more "fat" in the writing. With the strangler
        still at large in the country and the police in some form of pursuit, I should
        fix up reports so readers get "the play by play". And don't mention race, the
        victim's name is sufficient. 

           Where was the strangled woman going when she left the house? how she meet
        the man? were they strangers or lovers?  her clothes in disarray like she put
        up a struggle? This could be the crime of the year! Get "proactive" with the
        reader; build up, build up to the dastardly act.

        I have to say this: I don't know in which Oxford or Cambridge drawer he does 
        keep "dastardly" and "far-flung"'; also "cognisant of". Some words and phrases
        show up like regular workers in the columns, acting all sophisticated; doing
        dress-up sentence service, along with adjectives that halt you at every turn
        wanting admiration or salute. Is true what they say: some folk have self worth
        bells to ring; a little knowledge is a fool's big thing.

        I told him I arrived at the strangle scene too late; the police had already covered
        up the body. Did you talk to relatives and friends about the victim? (A statement
        from a neighbour, "Everybody did warn she about he", eventually found its way in
        the article; he didn't get that off my report.)

        He wanted blood, "fat" and spoken fears. And he wanted a photo of the man who
        found the body, standing at the spot of the "dastardly" act; looking out at the
        reader with blank face, his finger pointing down at the spot in the bush where
        the victim was strangled.

        I told him the man might not cooperate (he probably wondering if now he in real
        trouble for "pointing"); and besides, where the body was found might not be
        where the actual assault took place.

        He leaned back from his computer screen and caressed the nave of his neck, as if
        already I was a disappointment on the job. "Readers have hot and soft spots," he
        spoke slowly. "You have to reach in, rub the spot."

        Next I wrote a report about a house fire. He changed it up and added this: "A
        large crowd also gathered to get a glimpse of the burning building". I have
        noticed this line appearing in every fire report. According to him people always
        seem to "also gather to get a glimpse".

        I told him that's not what I saw happening. People didn't step out their yard or
        pull over on the road, gathering "to get a glimpse". If anything, they appear out
        of nowhere; they prefer to "stand and stare" like they waiting for more excite-
        ment, spreading flames. Always one eyewitness who know how the whole thing
        started; always the children who should be in school, hanging round, just
        waiting for the fire hose to spring a leak.

            He laughed. "Aw man, you have a lot to learn in this business!"

        As far as he was concerned, to say people "stand and stare" would give readers,
        especially "morning coffee" visitors to the country, the wrong impression; as if
        the general population had nothing better to do with their time. (It just so
        happen a trade delegation from China was visiting that week.) 

        I left him right there in his stuffy, glassed-off cubicle; always reminding people
        what some "far-flung" holy man said about serving with humility; or quoting
        Thucydides like he was the local reincarnation of the man.

        Right there  ̶  with or without his cricket stump!

        My uncle had advised me that at the job interview I should ask "Mulchie" about
        the cricket stump. It was grabbed by a cricketer at the conclusion of some
        famous cricket match vs. England. It somehow found its way into Mr. Mulch
        office; he kept it there like a conversation piece, an object of historical
        importance he preferred instead of a wall painting.

        Every time I went in his office I would sneak a peek, looking for this cricket
        stump. Couldn't locate it anywhere; couldn't even locate a cricket stump bail
        which might have worked better, come to think of it; like a paperweight on
        the desk? so you couldn't help noticing?

        I asked him if he'd read "A House For Mr. Biswas". V.S. Naipaul? He said he'd
        heard the name but the man was not from our country; and in any case
        reading fiction was "outside his remit". 

        Since I had failed miserably as reporter of fires and death by strangulation, he 
        said maybe I should try something "less complicated", like covering sports. 

        I would observe young men in flashy whites with fancy bowling action and Test
        Match travel dreams; hoping like flash in pan to catch a selector's eye. I was also
        to collect end of day scores; identify and separate rising talent from fellows 
        considered still "not ready"; and disgruntled for the rest of their young lives. 

        So let him stay right there! (he probably know how his bread is plaited.)

        I am happy to report that a really really fat lady has set up a vendor spot under
        the tree shade across the road from his window view; selling cooked food, cane
        juice and pastries to company employees at lunch time. Wait till that enterprise,
        and the supporting music box, start build up, build up.

        Sounds like I ungrateful? like I need real ambition? you think I care?

        The times will pass; hair does grow, hairs will fall out. Mr. Mulch will remain 
        there gathering the years to get a glimpse. Right down to his last breath, on his
        death bed; his thick neck stiffening when he realize (only God knows what). 
        You watch.
  

        D. Camoud,
        Georgetown, Guyana