Málá ke moti es rákhi jhalke, Like threaded pearls on a string the ash buni jes. gleams droplets.
Yád ke guthe khát bát men ched kareke hoi, In order to string the memories bát ke bartáw ke bháw kareke hai. words needed piercing weighing the worth of their usage.
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Je sánp máre khát khud apne láthi banal apne burhápá men je apne-áp ke láthi bánais, oke láthi páwe men ká láthi khoje ke pari?
Je lálac men phasie sát samundar pár jái garal, besat giral jaise bijli se katal dar phekái ke.
Káhan badhuá kahán chutuwá major, kasur ke ná bát rahá.
Mehnat men moh aur moh men mehnat, ekke dusar men ghuse dunu ke jiye ke sáth rahá.
He who to kill a snake became himself a stick, he who in his old age turned himself into a stick, why would he to find a stick look for a stick?
He who in the grip of the lure crossed the seven seas, then squalled crashed like a branch struck by lightning.
Slave labor, free labor ̶ what's the difference? guilt is not the issue here.
Transfixed by toil, toiling in wonder, toil and wonder could continue to exist hand in glove.
Flights to Paramaribo arrive just past midnight, if you’re coming from New York, on the regional carrier, whose seats and operations these days feel overused and over- worked. There's a nine hour wait in Port-Of-Spain, Trinidad for a connecting flight. To kill time you might consider venturing out via airport taxi; join multilane traffic under a Trinidad sun; catch a beach, “eat a food” or, if it’s Christmas, drink a Ponche de Crème. Take note and measure how close the island has moved toward developed- nation principles and practice.
The flight schedule alone is enough to discourage the unadventurous from discovering Suriname, unless you’re willing to stop over in the Republic of Guyana and risk fractious travel over land, bridges & rivers. You might also need a sense of purpose. A young couple, college-break free, speaking Dutch, wearing sandals and visiting the former colony might find it easier to look forward to quiet settings where familiarity breeds acts of kindness and harmless transgression.
The taxi ride in from the airport past midnight follows a narrow road, headlight-swept and free of anxiety. Visitors from industrial geographies might be excused for thinking they’ve entered a country of “sleepy” communities, stuck in time past, comfortable in village habits; though as you come closer to commercial areas – slowing for “drempels” (speed bumps) – and gas stations and security-lit buildings, a group of young men on motor bikes appear, hanging out (it’s Friday night); shiny crash helmets sitting on small heads, casting them as astral occupiers of night’s dreaming hours.
Next day the radio wakes you with Sranang talk and sentimental song which play on almost every station. It closes you in like elevator doors. For the rest of your stay and depending on your circumstances, you might feel digitally cut off from the world, or at least temporarily disabled; though you may or may not mind.
Over morning coffee paragraphs from the newspapers might leap out at you showing you how things are done here, [2011 AlphaMax Academy, Paramaribo] as for example this, from De Ware Tijd, recently: "The President has often stated since this government took office that he supports a transparent land policy. This has resulted in the sacking of Martinus Sastroredjo as RGB Minister after it became known that his concubine had applied for a large tract of land."
On the streets, under a Suriname sun as bright and brassy as a Trinidad sun, people go about their business, as elsewhere, in cars and in bubbles, leashed to triumphs and failings, of diverse race and creed. There are sudden fierce rain showers which stop abruptly, then skies are clear blue again. If you stay long enough you might hear of crepuscular activity, a twilight gathering of local spirits or conspiracy webs. Individuals who otherwise seem educated and informed will swear that, regardless of how things appear, each resident soul is monitored by unseen forces, by living and dead people.
The outside world has reached over language barriers, and moved deeper inland. The new consuming China with agreements-to-sign and full steaming enterprise has bespectably installed its zonal interests. Street blocks, currently home to many Brazilians, could expand in time and be viewed one day with settled pride as Little Brazil. In the Paramaribo of downtown bumper-to-bumper “progress” you are where you dine, or where you shop.
On the plane, early last year, next to my window seat was a Trinidadian (Lawrance G.) a soft-spoken man with a boxer’s upper body. Looking past 50 yrs, his fingers trembled as he settled his paper cup of coffee, hinting at a creeping vulnerability. He’d started working with an oil company soon after leaving high school in Port of Spain. How that transition straight forward happened he didn’t explain. Nickerie, in an area reportedly rich in oil deposits, was where he (and a team) were now headed on new contract & assignment.
He had travelled around the world, slipping on work boots, hard hat and gloves each day as the company probed and drilled into the earth: to Gabon (the nicest people, despite miles of deprivation); to Venezuela (the President there cares about the poor, despite puffed global moments of ad hominem fist shaking.)
Had he given any thought to How much longer, doing this? His body had endured the rigors of travel and work hazards. What excited him these days, he revealed, was exploring the working parts of the human body.
He reached into his carry-on bag and whipped out his latest purchase, the iPad. Did I own one? No? I should get one. The iPad 2, they say, has sharper screen display. To impress me his fingers brought up for viewing glossy images of organs in the body. He touch-swiped through the heart, liver, organs of reproduction, inserting his own commentary and breaths of marvel.
A world of new information, which in all likelihood could extend his longevity, was now within his reach. And though near enough for pension plan review, he wasn’t thinking of retiring, not just yet. (Though where – in his hands? strong character? – lay the source of that span of energy upholding him over the years.)
So what was my business in Suriname, he wanted to know, now that he had shared information and we were no longer strangers? Why was I going there? To see an old friend, I told him. And to learn about an event he was planning.
The event was the launch of a book, “Msiba, My Love”, by poet, Ivan A. Khayiat, a Guyanese educator who lives in Suriname. (The publication launch seems as ubiquitous these days as the baby shower.)
Khayiat describes it as a “symphonic poem”. It has a coffee-table book readiness – assuming that books are still welcome these days on coffee tables – with high gloss pictures and supportive verse revealing the natural beauty of Suriname, and the ecological damage done to parts of its landscape. And it comes with a companion DVD of evocative images and soundtrack over which voices, in English and Dutch, present the poem in heartfelt cadences.
"Msiba" DVD offers ten minutes of shimmering surfaces. It may be much less than a "symphonic” work, but the launch apparently made for a wonderful, rare evening out for invitees in Paramaribo. The Government of Suriname, it is reported, has adopted the DVD & book as a state gift for visiting dignitaries, impressed no doubt by what it sees as an excellent mix of art photo information and spoken words about the country, framed by knowledgeable, friendly hands.
Finding brave new worlds imagined by Suriname writers and artists might require a long stay, some search and enquiry. There is evidence of activity – workshops, art discourse, exhibitions – facilitated by stakeholders in Holland. A more vibrant, grand platform for exposing creative talent to residents and visitors is certain to be avail- able when the next big cultural event, the regional festival for the Arts (Carifesta), takes place in Suriname in 2013.
In the meantime, Wan Fu Nyun Winti Seti Sranan Bun. So the sharp suits and bill- boards say. – W.W.
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OPHELIA MAROON
Every leaf will return to blaze sharp green all about me through days without night (and yet no star shall be erased.) My gaze is the same as the sun’s; neither smile nor frown. My gown of water is all red and white buds not yet burst like my heart.
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 