Tag: Guyana Fiction

         

     < Situations And Revelations Of Passing Notice In Guyana >

       Locket # 23:

       Yes, call me young, impulsive, and lacking “morals”; but my parents taught
       me to discipline myself if I wanted to get anywhere in the world. In school it
       was hard on account of Mrs. Bradshaw’s daughters. Verona, the eldest, was in
       my final year class (her sister was a form below.)

       They were bright students, but not good-looking girls. Mrs. Bradshaw was not
       good-looking either, but she had this great rear view, which she passed on to
       her daughters.

       Fellows would talk about one day getting close to Verona’s rear view, but every-
       one knew that would never happen. Mrs. Bradshaw’s girls had only one thing
       on their mind: good test and exam marks; on their best behaviour, at all times.

       This is why I hung out with Verona. I had good test scores, I envied her discipline
       and forward thinking; but I wanted to get close to her rear view.

       Months before finals, everybody looking ahead, university or job, I told my
       parents I was joining a “study group”, all day Saturday sessions. They thought
       I was doing this at school. Instead I went by Verona’s house.

       We spent the whole morning and afternoon “studying”. If my parents had found
       out, they would have slaughtered me ‒ for lying to them; for choosing to hang 
       out with people they didn’t know (never mind Mr. Bradshaw was some fancy
       city lawyer, and the house was in Queenstown).

       From the start, Mrs. Bradshaw was pleased a young man had chosen to “study”
       with her eldest daughter, at her house.

       She’d wander in, do a half-circle at the dining table, surveying the books and
       bowed heads. She’d ask (stopping by my chair) How is everything going? Urging
       us to take a break for lunch. She surprised us one day with plates of Indian
       food, which tasted okay, I have to say.

       I soon realized there was no “man” in the house. No sons in sight, and no Mr.
       Bradshaw around. It seemed he had moved out, or was asked to leave, I wasn’t
       sure. It was none of my business, and Verona and her sister carried on
       regardless.

       Verona never spoke about her father, but in Georgetown you can’t help hearing
       about other people’s business.

       Fellows said Mr. Bradshaw was one of our big-shot lawyers who along with
       their friends think they run everything in the country. He and his wife were
       “separated”; he was living with another woman, his secretary, a younger
       woman.

       I didn’t know all this for fact, but I felt for Mrs. Bradshaw. It must have burned
       her, how she delivered and raised two children, only to watch Mr. Bradshaw
       suddenly take up with some younger woman.

       I noticed when she came to the dining table Mrs. Bradshaw would stand next to
       me. How is everybody doing? Rajiv, you alright? I felt the closeness of her body,
       tight and trim inside nice fabrics; in good shape despite swelling and delivering
       babies twice.

       I admired the way she maintained herself, how she taught the girls to focus,
       focus! on the road ahead; ignore all the garbage, the noise and slackness in
       Georgetown
      

       One afternoon she came really close, left thigh touching; she placed her left
       hand on my shoulder. So what you all studying today? Rajiv? Verona had slipped
       away to the bathroom. 

       The fingers on my shoulder gripped, pressed. I felt heat from the thigh through
       the fabric. We have a test next Monday. Have to get ready, I said. And then I
       lost control.

       My right arm went round her waist, friendly like. Thanks for letting me study
       here, Mrs. Bradshaw. I hope I’m not intruding. Her fingers pressed harder, my
       hand slipped down to the buttocks. (When last did anyone touch her like that?)
       She flinched, but said nothing. The bathroom door opened, Mrs. Bradshaw
       moved away, and the courage in my impulse melted.

       As it turned out, our study sessions brought rewards. Verona’s results were so
       good, she went off to Barbados (studying law; I think big shot Mr. Bradshaw
       pulled some strings.) I took off for New York (idled for a bit, but now I’m
       enrolled full time in college.)

       So you see, it pays to control your impulses, take your studies seriously; all the
       good things they tell you in school. 

       Only one thing, though. I won’t have come this far if it wasn’t for my hands on
       Mrs. Bradshaw’s buttocks, that first space probe.

       Sounds weird, I know, but I’m saying now: I joined the study group to get really 
       close to Verona’s rear view, which led me all the way to the Bradshaw dining
       table, where I discovered “the source”, the mother of my desire, my schoolboy
       fantasies; over which back then night and day I exercised supreme, yes,
       supreme! control.

                                                       *

 

       People in this country like to hide things away in a vault ‒ foreign currency,
       papers, whatever ‒ all kind of stuff get stacked away; every Harry and Harilall
       holding back things they don’t want other people to find out.

       Here’s a little chapter I keep in my vault.

       So I come home for vacation last year, and I’m having a good time with my
       cousin Ishoof; he has a nice car. This morning he had to go to Queenstown to
       fix his internet service bill. The building was on the same street as the
       Bradshaws, a block away.

       I told him I’d “explore” the neighborhood while he was inside, and off I went,
       meaning to drop by the Bradshaw house, say hello and stuff. 

       She was outside, in sunglasses and broad-rim straw hat, stooping and poking
       away at flower pots. I couldn’t believe I was back in Georgetown. People now
       had nothing better to do on Saturdays but poke around flower pots.

       You should have seen the look on her face. Eh eh, what you doing here?

       Up the front steps, the trowel left back in the dirt; inside, the sun hat tossed
       on a chair, Sit down, sit down! I touched the tablecloth on the dining table,
       the launch pad of my success, Verona’s success.

       There was so much wonderful news. Verona was in Barbados, studying law, and
       doing well. How come you didn’t stay in touch? She said she never heard from
       you once.

       I saw snapshots of Verona, looking different (not looking better, despite the
       hairstyles). Her sister had found a job in the city. Mr. Bradshaw, still good for
       nothing, and finally convinced nobody was planning to sneak up the back steps
       and squat on his private property, had agreed to divorce proceedings.

       And today, at this hour, look who showed up! out of the blue, Verona’s “study”
       mate; catching her at home all by herself. Look at you! You have a nice little
       beard.

       She got up to fix me a glass of lemonade. She came over and gave what started
       as a congratulations! massage on the shoulders. I got up to give her what
       started as a Thankyou! (for letting me “study” at your dining table) hug.

       Actually, I was searching through memory for the moment back when my hand
       had strayed down her back to the buttocks. It was there! the promise, still
       there! still drawn to each other after all this time.

       This time I grabbed hold. Felt a little pull back, a little hesitation (maybe 
       wondering, how real was this desire for her?) Then she took my hand as if now
       she wanted to show me the rest of the house, the rooms past the dining table.

       [There was a One moment, please. Dash to check the front door locks. And I
       pulled out my phone to text Ishoof, Wait for me, don’t fucking leave.]

       The bedroom had that midday neatness and readiness for night time, for a
       couple tired and needing rest after a long work day.

       Her chat speeded up as she undressed, for whose benefit I couldn’t tell; about
       Mr. Bradshaw, with whom she had known only brief happiness; who only
       wanted a Mrs. Bradshaw installed in the house to bear and rear, in the kitchen,
       in the bedroom; and when he done, jumped straight into his long sleeve
       pyjamas.

       Oh God! The long sleeve pyjamas (my pants on the floor at my ankles looked
       bewildered) if she ever married again, after all she was “still young”, never!
       never to a man who liked long sleeve pyjamas!

       At this point I told her to shut up, I’d heard enough. I didn’t stop by just to
       light candles outside her vault.

       Actually, I spoke in her ear, I don’t want to hear another word about Mr.
       Bradshaw. I thought that made me sound more mature, not like the nervous
       schoolboy she remembered; plus it would make us feel like equals, you
       understand.

       I moved the twin pillows from the headboard to the center of the bed, and
       pushed her down gently. I was not the pyjama man who took her on vacation
       only once, and that was on their honeymoon. In fact, this was going to be the
       best fucking vacation she ever had! (Just to help her feel a lil’ revenge, you
       understand.)

       After the last Jesus! comeJesus! I rolled off on my back and was catching my
       breath, staring up at the ceiling, until the thought “old enough to be your
       mother” start poking at me; started me wondering how I should say (meaning
       no offence but) I had to leave; and it wasn’t like we did something really bad.

       And who knows, it could be the start of something different in her life generally.
       Otherwise, would be more of the same, hot mornings with the sunglasses and
       the flower pots; her days stuck in repeat.

       I am back in New York. When fellows here start bragging about homeruns 
       they scored, the best sex they ever had, I smile a little smile and spin my
       safe lock.

       This “revelation” thing here is just in case you hear people in Georgetown 
       talking, the same crocus bag crab shit, about people they don’t know and
       never met. Later.

       R. Ragoobarsingh
       Georgetown, Guyana
       New York, USA

 

 

 

          

      < Situations And Revelations Of Passing Notice In Guyana >

       Locket #22   

       Heard there was a vacancy at the Georgetown hospital morgue. Usually you 
       hear about these things, you don’t always read a notice inviting applications for
       the work.

       My good friend Archie works there. Maybe he getting ready to leave; he hasn't
       said anything to me.

       We’re from the days of knowledge and order; respect for people deserving of
       respect. Past fifty now, we moving along through the next ten, and taking no
       chances; bracing for impact.

       These Georgetown people, with their vehicular lawlessness, have no patience 
       with someone not their age. Going down Regent Street, through that pounding
       noise called music, you taking a chance with your life on a bicycle; like nobody
       teaching manners anymore in the home and in schools.

       We understand the times, how out of the blue the end might show up with a
       message from the morgue.

       Archie’s father was the morgue attendant back in his day. When he got old he
       thought his son would want to take over the work. At that time father and son
       weren’t seeing eye to eye; plus Archie swore he wasn’t going to follow his
       father’s footsteps.

       For this morgue work, it’s usually one person, the same fellow doing the same
       thing year after year. They only think of a replacement when he pass away or
       retire. Today no young person would want this work, at least I don’t think so.

       I met this fellow from the Congo (don’t ask me how he land up here) who said
       he would rather go back home than take that job. Never explained why.

       And these days they asking for “qualifications”, for almost everything, like at
       least “secondary” schooling.

       Archie’s father (he was a tall, skinny man, looking like he had little appetite
       for food, and none for argument) had only “primary” when he started. After
       many years they must have moved him up. I could just see him coming home
       one afternoon and telling his family now he “permanent”.

       If you fly back home with “foreign” training and you apply, the locals in
       Georgetown might give you a hard time. They don’t like that you went away
       and improve yourself. They’ll steeups at your good intentions, shoo you away
       with their whippy pride sticks.

       Archie and I started “secondary” school, but he fell away and strayed, ignoring
       advice to mend his ways. Went to the gold fields, came back; worked on the
       North West steamer, stopped. At one stage, his sister told me, he was catching
       and selling crabs in the North West District; and he had a child with an
      Amerindian woman.

       Then his father died and left specific instructions about tending his gravesite
       in the Georgetown burial ground, Le Repentir.

       You probably heard about our Le Repentir cemetery, how vegetation and bush
       take over; how tree root drilling through and cracking the tombs as if jungle life
       returning to the city. A staggering sight, if you had relatives buried there.

       Back in his day Archie’s father used to cycle home on the roadway cutting
       through Le Repentir, with the tall-standing palms and blue sky. He said it was
       like passing though a valley of peace and forgiveness.

       If you felt stressed out after a day at work, passing through late afternoon you
       reach home the same way you left in the morning, fresh and ready.

       For many years, was like you driving or pelting through walls of vegetation,
       eyes straight ahead, agitated.

       Archie came home to visit one day and his mother told him she could no longer 
       locate where his father was buried. You would not believe what Archie did next.

       Went straight to the hospital, told them he was the son of the old morgue
       attendant. Said he knew everything about morgue work because has father
       taught him (which wasn’t true). Enquired if there was an opening.

       Whoever was in charge decided to take him on. Maybe out respect for his father.
       I don’t think they cared so long as somebody was doing the work.

       It don’t sound all that complicated. The pay is nothing to shout about. Your
       “office” could get overcrowded, if you know what I mean, and a call to duty on
       a night of cutlass-chopping might sour you up inside.

       No "morals" necessary. There is nothing at the morgue you might feel tempted
       to steal.

                                                        +                                                                            

       But hear this, according to Archie, along with the gloves, a certain “disposition”
       is required. The dead in this country have something they want to say before
       they reach “totality”. Let me explain.

       Just like when bodies arrive at a hospital, doctors and nurses have a way of
       handling and dealing with them, so when bodies reach Archie at the morgue,
       the treatment is different.

       On the trays they waiting for the next stage, the ground and shovel, the
       leaving ceremony. But some people here don’t always rush to claim remains. 
       And most don’t have a clue they might be hours away from blankness and ever
       afterness. (Others, you just glad they gone.)

       Archie would hear sounds from the tray drawers, like breath in a rush, coming
       from a distance.

       At first he pretended not to notice. It took him awhile to admit it was an alert.
       Some kind of transmission was about to take place.

       So he worked out a strategy. Lock the door right away, turn off the lights, pull
       out the tray with the sound; then sit motionless, his back to the trays, eyes
       closed, like in some kind of sight and sound insulation. After these steps he was
       ready.

       He heard voices from the trays, blaming or pleading, sounding faraway. First,
       hundreds of voices, all talking at the same time, jostling to be heard over each
       other. Then one voice broke through over the rest, sounding faint, like the
       person trying to speak but catching their breath after the effort to break
       through.

       He would wait, wait and hold! hold! The breathing from the tray slowed, then
       then settled down and became words. What he heard brought tears to
       his eyes.

       Just one twitch of his muscle, or some noise from outside, and the transmission
       ceased.

                                                         +   

       So what did the transits on the trays say to Archie? You know, he never gave
       me a straight answer. Only that he finding himself in “a strange situation” at
       the morgue. There was a strangeness to his work days, but he was getting
       used to it.

       I looked at the hard-life lines on his face, and I listened long enough to know
       he wasn’t making all this up.

       He started paying attention to his work clothes, keeping it clean and neat (like
       his work place, he said) and befitting a man of higher, hidden purpose. He
       massages his wrist and checks his wrist watch frequently.

       He used to be loud and vulgar, now he speaks softly. And I noticed he always
       end our conversation with the same three words, makes no difference.

       I decided not to pressure him when he stopped by my house (he’s a Guinness
       Stout man, using a glass now). Didn’t make jokes like, So what’s the latest
       you hear from the trays? And I didn’t ask him if he ever once heard from his
       father.

       Some situations you need to handle delicately, you know what I mean.

       I gave him his right to silence, to close himself off from others. I don’t think
       anybody else know about his “situation”. In any case, what could he say that
       would convince anyone?

       I look at it this way. At the end of life some kind of accountancy (I call it
       accountancy) takes place. Not the day to day explaining, which is like a pot of
       fart beans and fabrication, because people here don’t have the stomach to
       admit guilt or shame. Every man jack want you to believe they completely
       innocent.

       So at the end point on the morgue tray, all that’s left is some last breath
       attempt to explain what really happened, in one clean confession. They gone, 
       but like they searching now for a new balance, life and no life.

       So you see why this morgue attendant work important.

       It’s not for everybody, unless like people here you feel caught in the swirling
       currents, the waste of years past; and you desperate for something to hold
       on to, a floating log with title, anything.

       John Burch-Smith
       Georgetown, Guyana

 

 

  

        < Situations And Revelations Of Passing Notice In Guyana >  

         Locket #21   

         They announced her death on the radio. I was shocked. Mrs. Chote from Canal
         District. 

         I didn't even know she had fallen ill, or if she was in hospital. They said they
         were going to cremate the body. It would be laid out for viewing the next
         morning.

         I used to live in Canal District, then I moved to Georgetown. I knew Mrs. Chote
         when people were whispering behind her back, Five children? In this day and
         age? Or saying, What you expect? They like cows.

         The question uppermost in my mind was, how she managed to maintain her
         body weight. Five is a lot, but somehow Mrs. Chote didn’t get fat and fatter
         after each child.

         I decided to travel from Georgetown to pay my respects. I told my son (he
         drove me there) she was an old friend.

         Her face in the coffin looked peaceful as if her life work was over (like we
         have any choice). I didn't ask anyone how she died. I prefer to think one
         day she just stopped walking. From the time I knew her she was always
         walking.

         They had white plastic chairs under a tent, flowers and everything set out nice.
         Looked like they planned some kind of ceremony. I didn't know her as a Hindu
         person. All these years she was just Mrs. Chote.

         Her children were all there. I didn’t recognize them at first. Grown now, big
         men and women, with children of their own. I didn't expect them to remember
         me, but in the little time I sat there, three of them came up and introduced
         themselves. Hardat, Haimdat and Indra.

         Ma always talked about you. She said you were her best friend. That was
         Indra. Pushing her sadness pushed aside for a moment to greet me with warmth.
         Short and pretty like her mother.

         Mrs. Chote and I would meet when she came to Georgetown. We always talked
         about those three. Hardat, Haimdat and Indra. Her survivors now.

        "I wanted my children to succeed, but only three of them listened to me. The
         others take after their father." You could say Mrs. Chote had confidence in her
         genes.

         From the moment she felt the new child showing she was making plans. If she
         realized the child took after the father, she was measuring the months ahead.
         She had designs.

         She stayed with her husband, Mr. Sag Belly who snores; wake her up in the
         middle of the night, handling and wanting. “I wait till he slide off, turn on
         my side, try and get back to sleep.” That gave me a good laugh. As simple as
         that.

         When she was young she took a job in the city, in Queenstown, working in the
         house of a lawyer. She said she noticed how the family seemed so concerned
         with raising their two children to be proper and successful. The daughter
         would become a lady, the son a gentleman.

         "They were different from my family in the District. On the bus going home I
          used to think, I want my children to be successful." Her children (the ones
          who take after her) would grow up and leave their mark in the District.

          When the family she worked for her gave her a bicycle they didn’t want
          anymore (the children were moving around Georgetown in a motor car) she
          found a way to transport it all the way to Canal District.

          With one idea. As soon as he was finished with school, her son would start
          up a bicycle business. No cane field sweating for him. That was Hardat.

          Her husband complained, but the boy loved his mother and he listened to her.
          He learned everything. From patching tubes, to fixing chains. To fixing and
          selling his first bike. One sale led to two, two to four. In no time at all, he
          had his own bicycle business, fixing and selling bikes to people in the District.

          He brought the first two motorbikes to the District. Had them shiny and
          leaning outside his shop. Two bikes become four. Next thing you know,
          anything to do with wheels, contact Mrs. Chote son. Spare parts, accessories,
          whatever you want.

          Child # 2 took after the father. Mrs. Chote didn't talk much about him. He was
          his father's child. Child # 3 was another boy. Haimdat. As soon as he finished
          school she had a "profession" waiting for him.

          The well-off family in that residential neighbourhood, whose children went to
          Queens College, had family portraits framed on the walls and tables. She
          decide Haimdat from the day he left school would take up camera work.

          She bought him a camera, and sent him out to take photos. Family gatherings,
          funerals and weddings. She arranged the pictures in an album, and sent him
          off to offer them for sale.

          "I told him, when you take the photos you must make them relax and hold their
           head up. The boy must feel like a prince, the girl like a princess. And catch
           them sometimes when they think nobody looking."

           People really liked the albums. She told everybody in the District her son was
           a “professional”. He don’t just point and click. And don’t waste time with cell
           phone camera. He knew how to frame pictures, make a nice family album.
. 
           Haimdat became the Photo Album man in the District. Mrs. Chote’s son. For
           any occasion. "Professional" work.

           "Life does follow the laws of Mother nature. If you're the mother, you decide
            what’s best. If they listen to you, they do well," she said. I didn't argue with
            her.

            She didn't talk much about her parents, and about the other children, how
            life turn out for them. Her darlings seemed happy. She was filled with
            contentment and pride.
                                                                  *

            Indra was her last child. A child of circumstances.

            Mrs. Chote's husband was giving her problems. He had this accident. It put
            him out of action for a good little while. She had to keep him comfortable,
            cleaning up, attending to his moods. All of a sudden she felt unsettled, for
            the first time, in her own home.

            She used to travel to Georgetown quite a bit during that time. Told her
            children she was going to see an old school friend. She stopped by me, but
            she was visiting someone, a private arrangement. For the first time in her
            life, she said, she felt real pleasure ‒ gratification, yes, with this man.

            I don't think anybody suspect anything. Nobody would believe Mrs. Chote
            ever felt lonely, would take her friendly nature outside the District (heart
            in the right place) for a taste of difference in Georgetown.

            But knowledge and ignorance does share the same bed, backs to each other.
            I know from experience.

            Anyway, when Indra came Mrs. Chote was so relieved ‒ at least the child
            resembled her mother. I don’t know if Mrs. Chote ever told her who the
            real father was. (She didn’t tell me.)

            Indra was different. She got a job in a Georgetown bank. Moved up and got
            a desk. When her mother found out she was going around with the bank
            manager, a married man in Georgetown, she worried day and night.

            She gave me an address, and asked me to keep an eye on her. “I can’t talk
            to her anymore. She tells me, I’m old enough to live my own life.”

            But that wasn’t my responsibility. Besides, I didn’t know how to “keep an
            eye” on anybody much less Indra.

            That morning Indra moved around the tent, greeting people with her bank
            official pronunciation. From her clothes, her bracelets jangling when she
            raised her arm, it seemed she was in charge. Still not married.

            At one point I caught her looking at me, probably wondering how much her
            mother’s “best friend” knew about her family. And why Mrs. Chote would
            take someone like me into her confidence.

            I didn’t see Haimdat taking pictures.

            All this drama. People going about their business, they think they know
            what they're doing. And you there trying to mind your own till you get
            tangled up.

            Near twelve o'clock, outside the tent ‒ relatives, neighbours, friends (who
            only knew Mrs. Chote, the good mother) fanning themselves and looking
            around ‒ her husband showed up, at least I think it was him. Moving slowly
            from person to group, shaking hands; his face set like he decide now to
            frown in grief for the rest of his life.

            Before I left to go back to Georgetown, I went up to the coffin. Last respects.

            Her eyes and lips still shut, her hair brushed back. In the blink of a second I
            thought I saw her smile, and in my head I heard her say, Eh Eh, so you come?
            I have one story to tell you.

            Real drama in this world, yes. Crave and plan all you want, then lie down
            again, like Mrs. Chote waiting for her fire. You can't move or hide all your
            life. 

            Waveney MacPherson
            Georgetown, Guyana

 

                                                                  

 

  

         < 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

  

 

        

        < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >
  
        Locket #15

        My name is Oviola Baptiste, and I was born in Linden. I moved to George-
        town, and lived for awhile with a good for nothing man, who I had to chase
        away 'cause he wasn't doing anything for me; only waiting for me to come
        home from Stabroek, where I had an umbrella stall. Never stop to think I
        would be tired and only want to fall in the bed and sleep. 

        I had to ask him over and over, "Which half of Not now! you don't understand?"
        I had to restrict him to early mornings, which was not my best time. He
        think because since he stiff and ready, dark or dawn I should open up my
        stall.
       
        I just let him have his two minute merry-go-round ride, and remind him
        I had work to do.

        Anyway, I used to be a Stabroek market vendor. Now I am an entrepreneur.
        Darling, you know how long it take me to learn to pronounce that word.
        Aunt-tripen-noor. I stop using it now. Is easier to tell people I own a
        restaurant.

        How it start? Went up to New York to buy a big set of Polo Shirts. At
        wholesale price. The plan was to bring them back and sell them outside
        Stabroek.

        Was real horrors going and coming. You have to pass through Piarco,
        Trinidad. Nosy like Rosie, they give you and your luggage real hell.

        Anyway, this time  ̶  was in December, Christmas coming up  ̶  I land in New
        York, staying at a lady in Brooklyn who I thought was a family friend. She had
        her front room shiny furniture with the plastic wrapping on it, like she want
        to preserve it in showroom condition.

        I ask her, Why all this plastic cover on the chairs? Who want to come in your
        house and sit on plastic?  You can't preserve furniture like fruit in a glass jar
        for Christmas cake.

        I don't think she appreciate my comments.

        Anyway, on my way down town to get the Polo shirts, somehow I lose my US
        dollars. Had it in an envelope in my bag. I reach in the bag only to find my
        purse gone, the envelope gone. To this day I still don't know how it disappear.
        Must have been on the train, all the jostling and squeezing.

        I was so embarrassed and confused. Standing there, searching the bag over
        and over; looking around, wondering what to do now.

        This is when the good Lord intervene. I tell you, strange things does happen
        in this world, but if you're a good person, the good Lord does look out for
        you.   

        I was passing this Wendy's, and my eye catch this man sitting at a table
        looking out through the glass. I swear was someone I knew from back home.
        I turn back, went inside to him: I was just passing and saw you through the
        window. I know you. From Linden in Guyana, right?.

        He didn't say a word, just sat staring at me. Making this big slurping sound
        from his soda cup, like he down to the ice cubes but he still hoping to
        drain up more soda.

        I explain how I came up here to purchase merchandise, but couldn't find my
        purse; like somebody pick pocket it on the subway. And I was wondering
        if he could help me out.

        To which he took one last big slurp from the soda cup and said to me in a
        Jamaican accent, Yes he was Jamaican! and he says, "I have a little propo-
        sition for you."

        And before I could turn away he said he would give me five hundred dollars.
        500 Dollars. All I had to do was stand outside on the pavement and hold a
        big shopping bag. For four hours. Don't ask no questions. Just stand on the
        pavement holding this bag.

        Well, first I thought he was crazy. But he was well-dressed, gold rings on his
        fingers (looked like they worth more than the Polo shirts). And he sounded
        real serious.

        To make a long story short I said okay. It was a deal. And guess what? I got
        the 500 dollars.   

        Four hours I out there in that cold, holding this big shopping bag; near a bus 
        stop, like I waiting for the bus. Wind in my face, fingers icing.

        Every now and then he'd come outside with a cup of coffee. Sometimes he
        took the bag, reached inside, pulled out a package, and walked off.

        The packages were gift wrapped, with Christmas holiday paper, and the bag
        was heavy, really heavy. He told me keep holding it, don't rest it on the
        ground. I didn't ask no questions.

        When it was over, almost all the package gone, he came outside for the 
        last time; gave me my money, in hundred dollar bills, and he said, "You did
        well, you are a good soldier."

        I didn't waste any time. Headed straight to the subway, came back to Brooklyn.
        Next day catch the plane and flew back to Guyana. My running Polo shirt
        days were over.

        But hear this: standing out there in the cold, people and transport hurrying
        past, not knowing what to expect, two things pop in my head. Stayed in my 
        head up to this day.  

        First, this is not the reason you came into this world, Oviola, to stand here
        holding a bag. You could faint and drop down right here and nobody would
        care. And second, you could own your own place, your own restaurant, just
        like the Wendy's across the road.

        Yes, my future was in my hands. I always liked cooking, and food preparation.
        That was what I know to do. 

        Well, now you see me here, I have a really good business going. Start up
        first with a little shack shop, but I'm here now. I doing okay.

        People like what I cook, specially the taxi drivers. They tired of lo mein
        fried rice. I have a good take-out box system for lunch time specials.
        They dash in and pick up, motor running outside. You could also phone in
        your order, and get quick bike delivery. 

        My secret recipe is what bringing the customers back. My sauces, the
        way I use onions and garlic. And my homemade ice cream is a winner.

        Got my girls working, got my suppliers of local seasoning. Nice, clean
        entrance. Everything modernized and organized. And I ready for any
        gunman who think he can just waltz into your establishment and rip up all
        the lettuce you grow.

        Yes, PickiPicki restaurant in Georgetown. Best service, best quality food.
        I have plans to branch out: soon you going to hear about PickiPicki in Linden.
        PickiPicki in Bartica.

        Because, look, I not saying I understand everything what going on in this
        country, and to be honest I don't expect much from anybody here; but at
        some point you have to clear your space and arrange yourself.

        If you find you just there waiting and waiting, make your move  ̶  put your
        porcupine on and watch your numbers. Don't ask me what that mean. I
        heard somebody say that on the subway, I know what it mean.

        I have one daughter, yes. The father gone his way long ago. She's doing 
        very well, thank you. Still going through her frisky filly stage. I tell her
        already, is twenty four hours in a day. Men does blow hot and cold. When 
        they come with their feel-feely fingers, wanting to ripple your canal,
        slide them in but only if the timing is right.

        Now, you have to excuse me.

         Oviola Baptiste
         Georgetown, Guyana

 

 

         < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

          Locket #14
 
         "Guyana is in your DNA," my Mom said to me. Ridiculous. You don't know
         what you're talking about, I said "Well, you might be connected in other
         ways. You were born there." So! I was just a tiny girl when we moved  
         away.

         We visited my Grandpa in Georgetown the summer before I started college.
         I wanted to tell him the good news. I was accepted because of him. Well,
         not exactly. My grades were good too. But I think it was my college essay
         that got me in.

         My guidance counselor had given us guidelines. "Choose something that
         matters to you, or someone you care about." I told my Mom I couldn't think
         of anything. She mentioned how when she was in high school in Guyana,
         they were told to write an essay on someone they considered a hero. She
         chose grandpa.

         Why did she choose him? I asked. Not for anything he did, she said. He was
         a dreamer. What did he dream about.  Buildings. Designing buildings. He
         worked as a manager in his father's department store, but his real wish was
         to become an architect.

         She told me his story and straightaway I knew what my college essay would
         be. "Let the experience flow through the writing," they advise you. Well,
         the writing flowed, but the real experience came after I got my acceptance
         letter.

         I told my Mom I wanted to visit grandpa. I felt bad writing about him and
         about Georgetown, but barely knowing them.

         When we got there, it rained a lot the first two days. Mom told him he ought
         to spend time on designs for expanded roadways and functioning canals. He
         laughed but I think she touched a nerve.

         Builders today had no sense of beauty, he complained. When he was growing
         up Georgetown was known as the Garden City. They had these cool, airy 
         wooden buildings and well kept public gardens.

         Now the houses of the new well-to-do, anxious and weak in spirit, were
         like fortresses, with paved driveways and shiny metal gates. Exteriors on
         display.

              Mom made fun of him one evening, shouting from the kitchen, in her only
        daughter who-loves-her-dad way: "That's all he likes to talk about. His designs.
        Not about the problems with vegetation. What's the point building a fabulous
        homes; bush all around, odorous habits, water rising when it rains."

        Grandpa smiled. His buildings, he said, would fire the imagination with
        pride. People would want to take care of the surroundings so the beauty of
        their homes would shine.

                                                                          **                      **

        But that wasn't what my essay was about. I wrote about a girl who played
        piano. And the Russian official he played chess with on Saturday afternoons. 
        
         Mom said you had a high school sweetheart who changed your life? I asked
        him. "She wasn't my girlfriend." Far from it. And he gave his version of what
        Mom told me.

        The family lived on the other side of the street where he grew up. Two doors
        away. The Stevenson family. The father was a police officer. The mother
        more or less stayed home.

        The girl came straight home from school and began piano lessons; supervised,
        apparently, by her mother, who must have seen a piano future in her.

        First, practicing her scales, building her confidence. Then she practiced a
        short piece by (it turned out) Mozart. Over and over.

        At home from school one day he heard her playing and he was riveted. His
        temperament, his outlook on the world was altered. He was no longer
        himself.

        No, he wasn't now a fan of classical music. He didn't know what became of
        the girl.

        "You have to imagine Georgetown, at three o'clock in the afternoon. The city
        getting ready to shut commercial and office doors. Right at that point, in
        that interval, this girl is at work on the piano."

        He rushed home from school just to listen to her play the Mozart piano piece.
        He felt as if a mysterious tranquility had descended on the world. And in that
        world a boyhood heaven.

        The experience lodged like a presence inside him. Up to this day he stops 
        what he's doing at three in the afternoon, only in Georgetown, to listen to
        Mozart. Sounds kind of weird, I know. I believed him.

                                                **                        **

        The Russian chess player was actually a Consulate official who came to his
        high school with a gift of six chess sets. He stayed long enough to give a
        dazzling display, taking on six opponents at the same time. Grandpa was the
        only student who won  ̶  the Russian made a bad move at a crucial moment,
        or so it seemed  ̶  and he was invited to drop by the embassy on weekends
        for games.

        Grandpa took up his offer. Every Saturday afternoon he'd ring the residence
        bell, and play chess with the consul. Two, three hours of chess.

        He remembered how quiet, almost noise-proof the room was; the polished
        floors, the sparse furnishings. The Russian smoked and studied the board from
        some unknown, faraway place. So absolutely himself.  Grandpa played and
        wanted to find a path to that place.

        When he emerged from the building his mind was still firing. He saw the
        city's straight lines and open spaces; he pictured new structures, new
        shapes, new windows for light and the ocean breeze. He was filled with
        designing excitement. 

        The thought came to him: he'd go abroad, study architecture. If there was
        someone of that profession here he was probably the only representative.
        His father refused to entertain the thought. How far do you think you'll get 
        with that? Tossing away with those words a boy's feeling of his destiny.

        Mom with her big mouth told him about my college plans, how I hoped to
        study architecture. That opened up the flood gates. Grandpa asked me if I
        liked drawing, and what I enjoyed doing best with my hands. I told him I
        took Art and Music classes in high school.

        He wanted to show me the city's Main Street where the Russian consulate
        used to be, next to an old Catholic cathedral that had burnt down. The
        years and the buildings didn't exist anymore. Commerce in painted stone
        and glass, passive models from other countries, had taken over and was
        sucking up all the air, he said.

        While we were packing to go home he showed me two sketch books filled
        with drafts. His designs for entire communities. For the Amerindians in
        the forest, the savannah residents, and for villages off the public roads
        with coconut trees as backdrop. He had it all worked out. Habitats of
        Beauty for a Confident Nation, I noticed he'd titled it.

        He wanted me to take the sketch books, look them over. I told him I couldn't
        do that. I won't know what to do with them. I wasn't even sure architecture
        was really what I wanted to study. He turned away and tried to sound not
        too disappointed.

        I was happy we met. He never came across as a grumpy old man with aches
        and unchanged opinions and reveries; wanting to be loved and remembered 
        by his youngest of kin (who has her grandpa's eyes).  

        Maybe some day out of the blue I will encounter someone like Grandpa's
        piano player, or his chess partner. Someone who quiets the world, whose
        devotion to dreams transfers in me "the searcher's self-belief" (my English
        teacher's words). Suddenly there I am, alone and away. My first big life
        experience! 

        Who knows, one day I might look up at a building, feel its power, as grandpa
        says, and think: I could put one up like that.

        Anyway, that's what my college essay was about. Not exactly all of the
        above. We'll see what comes next.

        Tatiana Gonsalves
        Georgetown, Guyana
        Texas, USA

 

          

          < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

        Locket #13

        I stopped on my way past her home the other day. I usually wave and ask
        how she's doing. I thought she would want to hear the news. I had just come
        back from Georgetown where all the talk was about the videotape of a
        Pastor caught in a compromising bedroom situation.

        "Sprawled between two naked women," I told her. "A videotape is on the
        internet. That means people all round the world seeing it."

        She was in her verandah chair, her arms neatly folded, looking out at the
        afternoon sky. I didn't want to appear like a passing street vendor of gossip,
        so I added. "Is true what you said. These church men really wicked."

        What people in Georgetown and around the world would not know is that
        Mrs. Bunbury had first hand knowledge of the wickedness of our pastors.

        Years before this Georgetown videotape, we had a Pastor Brown and his
        Church of Divine Principle, here in Canal District; who, depending on your
        point of view, helped save or fracture the lives of several women.

        Mrs. Bunbury was among the women fractured. Or saved, depending on your
        point of view. She and her daughter Agnes.

        "I bet the women of his church still support him," she said, shouting at her
        her dog to be quiet. "Some women will kneel for the devil they know. I gone,"
        I said, preparing to move on.

        I thought she might toss a verse after me, from the Bible, about judgment
        day in the courtroom of the Lord. "Okay, then," she said, nothing more; as 
        if quietly tracing the hours to sunset, and the start of her night; cicadas
        in quavers outside.

                                                    ~ * ~

        Pastor Brown lived in Georgetown but operated his church in Canal District.
        Mrs. Bunbury was a strong church-goer, after her husband passed. Took
        her daughter Agnes with her. 

        Agnes was one of my best students. An active, pretty girl, eager to learn. 
        I would not have gotten close to her mother, had I not observed a change
        in her behavior. From patient to petulant; to chatting when she should be
        listening.

        I got her interested in Library studies; maybe going off somewhere to get
        a degree and coming back to take over from the hair-pinned ladies at the
        Public Library in Georgetown.

        Losing focus, falling behind in homework assignments, in her final year, I
        considered a danger sign. Discipline, at every junction, discipline! I say to
        them.

        I met her mother one day, and mentioned the behaviour change, only to
        learn of Pastor Brown (balding reader from the Holy Book) and the big wedge
        he'd driven between Agnes and our high hopes for her.

                                                    ~ * ~

        This came about when the Pastor offered to take Agnes to Barbados "as his 
        secretary", to a conference on church leadership, he said. It was her first
        trip outside the country. When she returned she seemed quick to temper.
        Confining herself to her room, I learnt. Slow to start and complete household
        chores.

        A strict but communicative parent, Mrs. Bunbury could not understand. Agnes
        was "answering back". She was no longer the good girl we knew.

        The explanation emerged one evening. At the dinner table. After Agnes
        had not bowed her head in prayer, and seemed to be waiting to begin.
        Daughter and mother had lived trusting each other. Now, perhaps tired of
        holding things in, her daughter revealed the swelling on her chest.

        That trip with the Pastor? She had been "seduced", she said. In the Barbados
        hotel. He talked to her, prayed with her, talked some more until she
        removed her clothes; caved to his pressing. Doing things she had never
        imagined doing. With him. With the room lights on.

        Her bright, bare limbs facing his insistent older man's nakedness  ̶  it must
        have been frightening.  She cried in a towel, fiercely and completely. She
        emptied her stomach of shock and embarrassment. She spent hours 
        stretched out (first time) in the hotel bathroom tub of warm water.

        No, she hadn't spoken to anyone about it. Until now. No, she didn't think
        she was pregnant. Didn't think she was?  She was definitely not pregnant.
        
        At some point the conversation halted. It happened, alright? Agnes said,
        as if a mound of the past had settled over it. She left the table, and Mrs. 
        Bunbury said she felt a pain heating up her head. She believed right there
        and then she was having her first "nervous breakdown", and could no
        longer tell her daughter anything.                                                  
                 
                                                  ~ * ~

        "But how could this happen?" she asked me over and over. I cautioned her
         not to act rashly. Her daughter had been made physically aware of her age,
         and the many faces of authority. 

        Had Agnes returned in visible distress, her eyes frequently filling with tears,
        it might have made sense to confront the Pastor. What would be the point of
        inflaming the matter now? As adults we had responsibilities.

        I promised to keep Agnes focused at school. I encouraged her to be patient,
        to refrain from any kind of "punishment". No fits of haranguing to ferret out
        new disclosure.

        Agnes came through despite our fears. We were surprised and relieved her
        application to the university in Jamaica had been accepted. Then came the
        second thrust of the wedge.

        She informed her mother Pastor Brown had offered to cover her first year
        expenses. The wheels were already in motion.  And while her mother and I
        fretted, not sure what this meant  ̶   why hadn't she simply turned down his
        offer?  ̶  Agnes announced she was all set to travel; her body eager to own and
        explore its future; fierce bright feelings lighting the way.   

                                                                               ~ * ~         
   

        Far from the city and the internet, Canal District has its network of news and
        furtive activity. For instance, it was common knowledge that Pastor Brown
        administered to the special needs of some church members, women whose
        husbands or partners showed no interest in church-going.

        Mrs. Bunbury's had felt no need to be "administered" after her husband died,
        but she knew of two women who approached Pastor Brown with an unusual
        problem. Their husbands wanted intimacy the moment they returned from
        Sunday Service. In the middle of the afternoon.

        Indifferent to summons of the spirit (and always expecting to be fed) they
        demanded instant undressing.

        The women balked, fearful this craving might become a Sunday habit. Which
        led to argument and abuse; and feeling betrayed nights as husbands strayed.

        Pastor Brown stepped in offering spiritual counsel. He spoke on Sundays
        about the importance of family bond. He organized a group for Tuesday
        evening Bible Studies. He arranged private sessions for anyone who needed
        "a consultant". By appointment. Behind secure doors.

        Mrs. Bunbury learnt about these closed meetings when Mrs. Joseph, one of
        the participants, came to visit. The private sessions, she said, were a mixture
        of pleasure and gratitude and prayer. Complete undressing was not required.
        The pastor's manhood like his words filled her up, Mrs. Joseph said, lowering
        her voice to a confidential giggle.             

        The real purpose of her visit, she said, was this. After the Barbados hotel
        revelations, Mrs. Bunbury chose to stay away from Sunday service. Agnes had
        sworn she wasn't going back. It would have been awkward sitting, listening
        as Pastor Brown (perspiring taker of schoolgirl innocence) quoted scripture;
        laid out the meaning of gospel story.

        Now everyone was wondering why her attendance had lapsed. Pastor Brown
        had called her name last Sunday, alerting the flock to Sister Bunbury's
        absence. Asking if anyone had been in touch with her.

        So here she was. Showing sisterly concern. Sharing sentiments she must have
        sworn to keep secret. And speaking with such rushing certainty, Mrs. Bunbury
        herself might do well, she implied, to consider making similar arrangements.

        What was slope-shoulder Pastor Brown after now? And who else, Mrs. Bunbury
        wondered aloud, among the full-bosomed church regulars came to him for
        consultation? The loudest singer? The eyes tightest shut?

        She sent back word she was doing fine. She was no longer interested in  
        attending Sunday service. The visitors stopped coming. And Pastor Brown,
        not daring to show his face at her gate, stopped mentioning her name on
        Sundays.

                                                   ~ * ~

        I couldn't help but admire her strength, the dignity she maintains after the
        loss first of her husband, then her only child. I offered comfort, careful not
        to seem willing and ready to be her new saviour and tutor. Outside the
        support of her relatives I don't know how she manages; how she feels when
        she wakes every morning, no snoring head on the pillow beside her.

                                                  ~ * ~

 
            One last thrust of the wedge came in December when Agnes was expected
        back home. Upon arriving in Jamaica she had sent word she had settled in.
        Then nothing. Until Mrs. Bunbury heard she had dropped out of the university.
        She was living with a Rastafarian. On a farm. And she was bearing his first
        child.

        Over the years there was little communication. Agnes sent word only at
        Christmas. Told her mother not to worry, everything was fine.

        She sent photos, of her second, then third child.  She promised one day to
        bring the children to see their grandmother. I saw photos of little girls in
        braids, unsmiling faces quietly looking at the camera. 

        Mrs. Bunbury didn't share the full contents of Agnes's letters except to say
        Agnes had changed her first name. "At least she's staying in touch," I said,
        leaving it at that.

        She has taken shelter from Pastor Brown and his flock of Sisters. And from
        people like me offering to help her understand how her only child, raised
        with a stern love, could toss away a sure, safe upward path. And just like
        that submit to faith in a man and his island ways. His farming retreat. His
        child bearing.

        How does the parent mind reel in such precipitous behavior? this craving to
        be some other? you might ask. 

        For now Mrs. Bunbury lives in the pages of her Bible. The words flow through
        her eyes and quiets her pain. And so, I suppose, all life flows. Through
        Georgetown or London. Canal District. Babel on the internet.

        No place in the world, though, like Canal District. Sunday afternoons; that
        time of day; day of need.  

        V. Hemphell
        Canal District, Guyana