GUYANA

Time and Dreams.

2009-07-15T21:02:00.016-04:00

Midday, I should be washing me hair, getting ready to teach but I only want to write while I listen to Beyonce singin’ Ave Maria.

Outside, grass and leaves stand stiff, waiting for rain to make them go all ooh-ahh limbery with lush-green. July is pretending to be the rainy season. May-June rains don’t fall easy no more; this year, them two months shower we with heat and dust. Right now, waiting for rain, everything is so still you can’t even see dust motes dancin’ in any strip o’ sunlight, inside the house.

Inside. Inside. Where you be, where you goin’? And me Inside holler back, Let me out, let me play with words and fiddle with dreams like I used to, in that other time and place.

I don't really tell fellow-citizens about that glorious other-time. It don’t make sense. Mm-hm, mm-hm, they does say, like they ain’t really hearing. Mm-hm, mm-hm, as if writing ain’t a true profession. Can’t blame them. Ad-writers in Guyana does get offered the same piddly wages as feet-dragging store clerks, hm, come to think of it, we ads does look and sound as if these feet-draggers write them. As for media folks here, I don’t know what salary they does receive, and anyway, it seem as though only opinionists and ol' farts who wheeze on about politricks can get honorary anything. Mm-hm, mm-hm, can't talk to people who's dead to the fact that creativity and imagination can lift we outta we slumps, make we shake-up with life like no doctor, lawyer, accountant, politician can make we do.

Last night, I had a vague dream. Psychedelic-painted pianos been all over we streets, like what they got in that place in England, and people been stopping to play.

This morning, me Inside wake up in a swirl o’ worry. Suppose I lose me dreams while you, gyal, get busy with a tangle o’ none-writing work? Suppose me dreams die and there ain’t no song that can bring them back?

Fifteen minutes past noon now.

Oh, Time, dear Time, just for one hour please go a li’l slow, let me sit still this muggy afternoon, dreaming of where I need to be...

CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?!?

2009-07-10T11:31:00.002-04:00

Communication in this ol’ house can proper get bruka-down. Anybody would think that in one house with just two people, this wouldn’t happen.

Heh.

For years I, the good daughter, been teaching my mother all kinda new health tips, things older folks here never learn in their young days. Things like how to NOT ketch the flu - wash hands, don’t touch face.

The other day, I spot a news item in we papers. Ha. I, good daughter, gon pounce ‘pon this opportunity to teach health tip again.

“Aiyeee, mummyyyy, swine flu come to Guyana. You must keep your nose away from your face!”

“Eh?”

I raise me voice, speak slow, stop after each word to let it sink in. “Swine. Flu. In. Guyana. Keep. Your. Nose. Away. From. Your. Face.”

“What?!?”

Sigh. I weary tell my mother to go to Dr. Vaipree to check she ears, but y’know, the older you get, the more stubborn you get. Sigh, if in a’ ordinary home this does happen, what you expect between two big-big nations? Eh?

Free Lunch Day and the circus.

2009-07-08T07:37:00.005-04:00

Hark, hark them dawgs did bark, the circus been in town...oh wait...you couldn’t hear them bark. Police sirens been screaming up and down the road, piercing like countryside-women voices when they quarrelling on neighbours or fambly. Normally, you can hear Zackie, Auntie H. dawg, hollering when a siren wail. Zackie does shet he eyes, raise he head, put he mouth in a’ O and howwwl. Couldn’t hear he last week. Them sirens, two, three, four, been screaming all at once.

Most times, when a police siren howl, I does think, Hmmm, police fetching he wife or gyalfriend to the market to buy she greens. (Look, I ain’t saying that is a fact, I just saying I does think it. Blame the ex-cop who did tell me). Last week though, them sirens wail and wail because the Free Lunch Circus been in town. I don’t know if the police was transporting them performers from the Free Lunch Building to hotels, to-and-fro or what.

As for the media...don’t know what it is about them and politicians...some media folks can proper wag and wiggle with excitement, trying to cosy up to men with power.

What a la-la.

Every year is the exact-same show. One year me Jamaican gal-pal email me from she island: CARICOM is having a meeting here. The media excitement is disgusting. CARICOM is just a free lunch.

Last week, I ketch a glimpse of them performers here on tee vee, Caribbean leaders in shine suits, none in rags, bursting at the seams with pomposity. I ain’t bother to listen. They does regurgitate talk from the previous year. We must integrate or perish.

Before I switch channels, I notice a couple o’ them did look sleepy. Must be because we the hospitable people of Guyana feed them ‘til their belly-skin get so tight, it pull down their eyelids.

They certainly didn’t look hungry. Some o’ them proper look pregnant.

Maybe they need to fast a little, do a li’l Ramadan time, to understand hunger, urgency, and need for action, instead of sitting around the ol’ pot, promising a wicked Caribbean soup full o’ tasty, chunky things like regional integration, skills and goods sharing. The pot must be empty. Because, up to this day, we the ordinary citizens of the Caribbean Community can’t get a whiff of this meal.

Must be a watery alphabet soup from a can that they making.

Early in the 2000’s, one young Caribbean leader, new to the scene, did try to change the recipe. He say, It is time to stop the talk; now we must act. I bet resentment did stew up in some o’ them grey heads.

The other day I say to my mother, Humph, they keep talking about performance and acting together, I bet if they had to ketch each other on a trapeze, they would let each other fall.

Woman without her man is a beast.

2009-07-03T05:41:00.002-04:00

Punctuate that while I go for me walk.

I hope the spur-wing bird don’t fly at me again like some savage dinosaur let loose from a Sci-Fi movie. All because I stand up staring at she in she nest...I am lucky that me is here still, in one piece...

Michael Jackson

2009-06-29T08:24:00.003-04:00

Hat. Coat. Glasses.

The red-hair chile from the far, far foreign land is sitting at we dining table, matching pictures with words, learning English. Quick-quick she work, stumbling only here and there, giggling with girly humour at some private li'l joke or sometimes at a comment I make. I used to worry that she would find me corny because of she pre-teen status. But though she is twelve, she ain’t what we would call force-ripe like them pre-teens on foreign tee vee shows...that is, over-precocious and sassy and rude...none o’ this she ain’t. A lovely child, me friend who introduce me to she does say.

Pants. Blouse. Match, write the words in the blank line.

Gloves.

“Michael Jackson,” I say.

She giggle.

“You like Michael Jackson?”

She nod yes-yes-yes, heart-shape face and green-brown eyes, excited.

“Me too,” I say.

Later I marvel at this...

...how me, she, so different, can appreciate the music of Michael Jackson...how he was able to bridge borders, race, religion, cultures, ages, to reach people. Most creative people can only dream of getting half-way there.

Later, I think too how, although some o’ we may never want to admit it, there is a bit of he in all o’ we. We might colour that bit a different shade, call it another name, but there it is, one bit of the same, from the beginning of time and man.

Only difference is, between he and most o’ we, is that he coulda transcend the pain and sorrow of being human and create amazing works like Earth Song.

My li'l sister.

2009-06-23T15:10:00.006-04:00

When my sister is in the shower, she does sing faux-pera, that is, fake opera.

She does sound like this.

Liquid Lunch

2009-06-18T07:20:00.003-04:00

Been waiting for the right moment to share some Liquid Lunch with you, a gift from Stephen that arrive in the post. First, I did plan, I would loll off one evening in the spare bedroom, and read. I would open them louvre windows lining the east and south walls; pull open them curtains tight-tight to the sides of the windows; smooth dark-blue sky with the one star would cool me mind like breeze cooling the warm room. The crickets-cacophony and guava-tree-rustle would mingle with the music playing quiet-quiet inside.

Then we get the news about me cousin death and the perfect moment dash away. Was as if the clock hands went mad, spinning whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, skipping days, turning hours into seconds and there was no time anymore, only a blur of...whirrrrr...bread slices, cheese grating, mixing with a few drops o’ milk and pepper and shallot and celery that I chop-up fine-fine to make sandwiches for wake-nights, visiting Auntie M. and Uncle J. to comfort them, gyaffing ...chatting...with younger sister of cousin A. who die, and in between, teach English, try to contact artist-friend to plan artsy affair with other creative folks...whir...rr...

...r r...me creative self slow down like clock unwinding.

Two mornings ago, before sun rise, I pick up Liquid Lunch, blues-inspired poetry. Hey! Realisation wash down on me like cool water on hot, dusty skin, them these here ain’t no blues. Sure, they got the rhythm, the style, the word-sounds o’ the blues. But in them these pages is folks jivin’ with music, laughter...and inspiration. Them these pages got cat-fish, slick bones and molasses; women toss off men like they changing lingerie; men chase sweet fine things even though, when they go home, they gon have to duck and dodge pots and pans that their ol’ ladies send flying at their heads; and towards the end, there’s Soul, man, Soul, and a man re-born.

See there now, time do that whiirrrr thing again and I got to skeedaddle, but now I know, Liquid Lunch is the kinda chapbook I can sip-sip any time, or I can guzzle it in one go then return for refills.

Thank you, Stephen.

Now go, folks go, get your own Liquid Lunch ‘cause I ain’t givin’ you mine.

A death. And two goodbyes.

2009-06-14T06:17:00.002-04:00

A month ago my cousin A. die. And not long after, I bid farewell to two people I am fond of – one gone to work on a cruise ship, another gone back to she homeland, Russia.

Wish I was one of those folks whose sadness does make them flow creatively. Not me...the creative part o’ me does slow down.

Now, trying to move, to write again, I feel like iguana when people approach, the ‘guana does freeze, crouch down, low-low-low...

Animal tale.

2009-05-12T09:18:00.002-04:00

The Grimm brothers used to go from village to village, collecting stories. Them tales was full o' warnings, beware of wolves, beware of witches and don't be a babe in the woods, if you go into the wild, know the signs of wickedness, know how to survive.

Now that we gone global, I wonder if them Grimm brothers woulda collect from country to country. Here is one for them.

Had a time when decent people used to drive mini-buses in Guyana. But something change, don’t know exactly what and how, but this is me theory.

It happen one full moon night, which is when madness and crazed beasts does come out. That night, while we the people been fast asleep, some wild peccaries charge into we police-stations. They push down them po’ law-abiding policemen, pawing and tearing them to pieces. Snort-snort, they go, grabbing pen, paper and stamps, and make up their own driving licences. As the full moon fade with the light of day, them peccaries turn into human-looking creatures.

After they learn the lay of the land well, they call all their family out from the jungle. “Look here you stinking beasts, life is good on them roads here. Come. Come drive buses. The kill is everywhere.”

And now, almost every day, a mini-bus driver, tearing down we roads, does kill a child, a cyclist, a pedestrian. Sometimes a whole busload o’ passengers does get hurt.

Coppo, me brother friend, tell me that some mini-bus drivers eyes does be red-red-red. Them eyes is red because, when them drivers take a break for lunch, they does take a break to smoke up dope. Don't know how true this is, it is only what Coppo, me brother friend, tell me. He say that citizens does call one particular route, The Red-Eye Route.

In the meantime, in another land far away, swine flu flare up. To be on the safe side, people in other lands begin to shore up against this flu, making vaccines to fortify citizens. In Guyana too, the Minister of Health announce that he ministry got enough vaccines.

But I been thinking...if flu does spread from animal to people and kill people...we better look out for mini-bus drivers flu starting in Guyana.

A Prince, James Bond, the Dalai Lama...

2009-05-09T06:14:00.002-04:00

...and other Hollywood stars get together on a project recently, to save the rainforests.

And why I care, you want to know?

Because I live in rainforest land.

Because rainforest harbour some of the world most precious, healing plants, and amazing animals. And myths and legends and the people who create them.

I care because, if you fly over we hinterlands, you might see red scars here, there, earth bleeding in the middle of dark-green forest, because of people gouging the land.

Because, Chico Mendes die to save it. But he ain’t die in vain, I hope.

I am glad them celebrity folks do it because, when ordinary folks talk, nobody don’t listen. When celebrities talk, everybody care. Check out more of the story and photos of them celebrity folks, here.

Sleek cell-phones...

2009-04-29T06:40:00.005-04:00

...slippery smooth like wet soap

falling from you hands.

The mo' they fall

the mo' they break,

the mo' they break

the mo' you buy.

Slick, smart cell-phone makers and sellers. I wonder if we can send back all them bruk-up, mash-up, tear-up pieces o' cell-phones to them?

If not, where on earth we gon dump all this e-waste?

When we were children and we swallowed fruit seeds…

2009-04-25T10:14:00.004-04:00

A strange thing happen in Russia recently. Doctors discover a fir plant, two-inches, growing in a fella lung. Apparently, the fella did inhale a seed and it take root in he.

I know one set of people who would never doubt that this can happen.

Li’l Guyanese children.

We learn the possibility of such things right in we yard. Simple child-play teach we faster than school. Like the time me and Cousin Nan been playing war-attackle-break with second big brother, eating sour cherries with salt ‘n’ pepper, racing and hiding and destroying the enemy with handmade wood guns, one boy versus two girls, making pishiewww pishiewww shooting noises with we mouth.

“Awwk, awwwk, I swallow a seed,” Nan gasp. Wasn’t no big thing, was just a small, crushable fruit seed. But war stop.

“It gon grow in you belly,” second big brother say. “It gon grow through you nose and ears...”

Right then and there we believe that boy, no need for scientific proof.

But, as we grow up, new knowledge replace those lessons. I cut up fruits for breakfast, leaving papaya and watermelon seeds in the fruit. My mother believe that them is good for the body, and she got me chewing them now.

We settle down to breakfast at the pink kitchen table. I tell my mother the news about the Russian man. “Mummy, when you was a li’l girl, anybody ever tell you what gon happen to you if you swallow a fruit seed?”

“Yes, it gon grow through we ears and nose…”

“The thought ever scare you?”

“If! It was the most frightening thing you coulda imagine.”

“Is true, how that thing used to terrify me. But if you can have a tree growing in you, what kind of tree you would want?”

“None.”

“No, nooo...just pretend that is possible...what kind you would want?”

“Jasmine.”

“I would want persimmon. Nah, I think I want sapodilla. Sweet, sweet sapodilla. Ha, imagine walking ‘round with fruits coming out from you ears and nose.”

We eat in silence, imagining it.

Then, my mother being my mother, she can’t let the story end like that. She had to ask, “And where the root gon grow through?”

I chew them watermelon seeds to nothing, I ain’t taking no chances.

SPLASH!

2009-04-14T16:39:00.007-04:00

Here, in the land of many waters, splashaaay is the sound o’ young chil’ren playing in ice-cold crik...creek. Water is the colour of liquid-wood, brown-orange from all them tree leaves falling in, blending in, year after year.

Splash is the sound of holiday-teens bathing in a Kato Mountain pool that a li’l waterfall does fill, a pool that look like a piece o’ sky on green earth. Not yet twilight, sun is mellow-yellow, got to bathe before it get too late, before them dot-size cobowra-flies swoop and bite, and leave red marks on pale-brown skin for weeks. Splashaaay before dinner, before we light gas lamp, play board games, before bedtime.

Splash...sploonk...wood paddles hit water as Cousin Nan, friends and me wend we way down Lake Capoie in a canoe, not a hard-plastic or aluminium imported canoe, but one that Amerindians carve from tree trunk with wood planks for seat.

Splash. For somebody who ain’t know to swim, I sure love to be in and around water...some part o’ me must be a mermaid, or as we does say, water-mooma.

Splash Award from both Ieishah and Profacero remind me of all them splashy-places I been.

Thank you Ieishah and Profacero for this:

The Splash award is given to alluring, amusing, bewitching, impressive, and inspiring blogs.

Splash is so cool, I want to Splash some bloggers too:

Cadiz – for being proud, creative American desi, because it is so easy to lose that part o’ weself in another land, thanks to cultural cringe and alienation.

Dan – for bizarre humour like this and this and more...

Daphne – for such style...and for writing so droll I does envy!

GrannyP – speaking of envy, oh man, that laid-back writing style, make me think of being in Gerald Durrell crazy li’l round boat in Corfu. And the way she write about sorrow, grief...

John G – for staying cheerful despite that wicked tree, I ain’t know how he do it. I know plenty people here who does whinge every day yet they have everything.

Pat – another lady with style and class and...ohhh...so full o’ zing for living...and she tell the best love story ever.

Sablonneuse – for sharing the ups and downs of getting older...something that media people tend to ignore, pretend it don’t happen, as if only youth and celebrities matter.

Will – island life ain’t never been this funny…and the boy can write, and there is lotsa things...literature things, teaching things...

Zoe – for sharing pain and laughs about family life, tormenting teens, depression, boyfriend, turtle poo. For not pretending to be perfect while still being ‘an oasis of calm’.

Zooms – for living creatively, for colouring-up a space that does make me feel peaceful.

When you receive this award, you get to:
1. Put the logo on your blog/post.
2. Nominate up to 9 blogs which allure, amuse, bewitch, impress or inspire you.
3. Be sure to link to your nominees within your post.
4. Let them know that they have been splashed by commenting on their blog.
5. Remember to link to the person from whom you received your Splash award.

Awakening

2009-04-07T20:24:00.006-04:00

Check email. Subject: E-invite. Two attachments. Point mouse to one, click-click...

...whoaaaa...

...computer screen buss open on a blue, yellow, green, white scene, a painting by Cousin Lis. Sunflowers stalking a bright sky, heads up in the clouds, breeze twirling-up them petals; every flower doing they own thing, posing in profile, facing front and showing off dark-pregnant middle, turn their back to flaunt green frill.

E-invitation to Lis exhibition in Tampa make me want to jump into the painting, grow me own green stalk, put me leaf-hands on me hips in bold Caribbean-woman stance, look around and exclaim, “But eh-eh, y’all check out this place how it nice!”

This place. So far from that place to where another invitation did kerry me, three or four years ago, a place of dread. Not to say that that other invitation, three or four years ago, was bad-looking. Stark-white, hand-made paper, a dry, pressed flower; no ribbony, frippery, girly-girly thing, that ain’t Lis style. I shoulda been impressed by the simple elegance. Instead, when I open that other invitation three or four years ago, I did feel oppressed. As if, when I open it...blam...something inside me shut close. And a secret room inside me open, where I hide a picture, one that even I couldn’t see well.

Only after the news of she divorce, the picture appear to me clearly. It was a canvas, pitch-dark as night without moonlight, starlight, lamp-light. In the middle of the darkness was a big circle of light. In the circle Lis been. Feeding the beggar-lady who always know the very minute Lis return from ‘Merica. Lis give she a cup o’ milk and a sandwich. Bake chocolate brownies and share out to security guards at neighbours homes. Wash lice from girls heads at orphanage. Chat crap with gal-pals ‘til dunno what o’ clock. Describe to me, two li’l schoolboys walking home, shading together from the sun with a huge water-lily leaf as umbrella. Dream of painting the broom-man.

But for a long time she ain’t paint. Maybe, even within she circle, she been dimming she light to try and match the dullness of the other. Or maybe, she venture too far from she bright self, go too deep into the darkness of the other, trying to fill he with she light. Some folks though, you can shine all you light into them, it ain’t never enough to make them see inside, to mend, to feel good.

After the divorce, I see clear and sharp how he darkness woulda creep closer and closer into she circle of light, and she light woulda shrink small-small, to a pinpoint, and she woulda vanish.

“At least we get back Lis,” I say to my mother who been making sweet chota...pancakes...for breakfast, after the divorce. I thought Lis was with she mamma, sleeping in we guest bedroom.

“I hear you,” she call out from we dining-room.

Eh-eh, she wake up, I laugh.

Wake up and painting again, yes, and showing she art.

I point me mouse at the other attachment of the e-invite. Click-click. The next side of the invitation open up, flower-scene, grey and white, like morning before day-clean, before sunrise.

If you's in Tampa, near Tampa, please check out she exhibition here.

Sugar tongue and oily lips.

2009-03-24T13:57:00.008-04:00

He arrive in the Caribbean, oil-up and sugar-up. And he gain the people trust.

He wasn’t supposed to.

Because most Caribbean folks is a distrustful lot. Don’t trust strangers from Foreign Lands.

Nope, he wasn’t supposed to succeed, because we’s the expert story-weavers, not he. We’s the keepers of folk-tale hero Anancy, half-man, half-spider...before Anancy even done spinning he tale to you, he already convince you to give he anything. Yet we, guardians and students of Anancy, get trapped.

How this happen to we, masters of inducing people worldwide to fly all the way here, to spend time and money in we sun?

He succeed because he got the instincts of a seducer who know how to say exactly what people want to hear. Yes, what people want to hear. A seducer can only woo and win if the listener is willing.

And we was willing, ohhh yyyeah, we was willing and ready when he whisper about things we love and need. Cricket, we love and money, we greatest need.

He finance cricket, all hail the Stanford series. He open bank and business and induce people to invest. He flourish from Texas to Antigua and I ain’t know where else.

Then the shame break out.

Me childhood friend living in England tell me, you shoulda see how they used to fete he in England. She say, you should see how they shame now.

Shame? Why shame?

Two of he men blow whistle, phweeee phweeee, hold up, stop, wait a second, don’t listen to that man, fraudulent things he doing, very deceitful things, with other people money.

He getting investigated now, in he homeland, Merica. Every day in we papers we read updates.

“Is a funny thing, mamma,” I say. “The Merican tee vee news don’t say much about he. I wonder why?”

“Gyal, me nah know.”

“I wonder if he guilty for true? Hm, if he is guilty, they shouldn’t send he to jail.”

“What they should do?”

“Let he loose in the Caribbean. Every West Indian with a bat should wuk it on he batty...”

“Watch you language...”

“Awright...butt...wuk bat on he butt! Oh boy, look how he sweet-talk people by using cricket eh? Caribbean people shoulda hear what Ole Jack used to say.”

Ole Jack wasn’t ole, was just in he fifties, but I call he that to tease he. He was one of me two favourite drivers in me Caribbean Island, television days. He used to give me, producer, the privilege o’ sitting in the front passenger seat. He never want no cameraman or soundman sitting next to he. He would sing long-ago songs to me in a Nat King Cole voice, here I go, here I go, here I goooooo. And when we drive through dusty country-towns, he would say, in faux-Merican accent, like he been reading out loud from a Louis L’Amour book, the town was silent as a ghost, not a sound could be heard but the clanking of the cowboy’s spurs, dust rose dangerously as the cowboy treaded softly down the street...

One day, driving with he and the crew in the big city traffic, I say, “Woo woo, Ole Jack, look at that cute feller driving that car in front...”

First, Ole Jack protest in faux-Merican twang, “Hey kid, do I look old to you?” After I done laugh, he say, “Kid, you see that feller you’re admiring? I can tell just by looking at his expensive suit and car, he’s got sugar-tongue and oily lips. Kid, I’m warning you, beware of those with sugar-tongue and oily lips.”

The English are here, the English are here!

2009-03-19T16:59:00.004-04:00

Huff...

...puff...

...got to practise me English...

...plenty visitors from Engerland is here for cricket, and to be hospitable, we the people must speak in a way that they can understand. Y’see, the truth is, English ain’t really we first language, though some snobby folks here might want to insist it is.

For plenty-plenty people here, the first language is Creolese. Try talking proper English to them. They gon look at you with their eyebrows knit-up to form hill and valley. Then when you talk Creolese, their forehead smooth out like Lake Capoie without wind and they smile bright like today.

If you ain’t want to believe me, ask them language experts (like Lis who got a Masters Degree in this whole business). They recommend that the best method to teach English here is to teach it as a second language.

So I gone to practise me best English, just in case I meet one o’ them folks from Engerland, and they ask me something.

Hm-hm, hmmm...practise...practice...

Teach taught taught
Preach praught praught

Spring sprang sprung
Bring brang brung

Drink drank drunk
Think thank thunk

The phoolish ghish laufed when it herd me.

(Hm, that ain’t look right).

The ghoolish phish laufed...

Sigh, you know what, I's tired of these ‘f’ sounds, I gone to drink some tee (though I prefer to say chai).

The road to Brassiere.

2009-03-17T20:49:00.008-04:00

Sometimes, me two long foot...itchy feet...would kick-up with yearning to dwell in strange lands.

Sometimes.

These feet would dream of standing 'pon Sugar Loaf Mountain while I gaze up at the Corcovado, and Jobim would play in me head, quiet nights of quiet stars. Them feet would traverse all the way to Bahia or Belem, they might stay there a bit, while I teach English as a second language. That was me dream before I return home here, from the Caribbean Island where I was a writer.

These travel-dreaming feet ain’t different from other peoples. We was just born to choochwhy...wander. Greed, need and just plain ol’ fashion faasness...curiosity...drive we to go yonder. That is how Christopher Columbus end up far from Spain. How man end up on the moon. Heh, that is how them cloud-dwelling Arawaks end up on earth - they see a hole in the sky and climb down a big tree.

Man can’t stop roaming. So you can imagine what happen when Guyanese discover open borders between here and the rest o’ South America.

I hear say, in dry season you can walk across the waterless river to Brazil. When rain fall, a small boat take you across. Praises be. Because during them hard days, when food and soap and toothpaste and plenty other basic items was scarce, Guyanese hucksters used to go there, buy goods, sell here. After them hard days was done, people continue going there. Them who can afford it, take plane. But there is a road too.

Was only a matter of time before them Brazilians find their way here.

Me and me first big brother does talk about it, sometimes. Topic start up when he been visiting over a year ago. From he verandah seat, he musta watch them Brazilans walking up and down we road, or I musta drop a comment.

He say, “Ten years from now, this whole place gon change, y’know. Them Brazilians gon bring business...open restaurants and shops and so...”

“Yeah, they doing that already."

“They gon open banks...”

“...and hospitals...”

After he go back to England, we continue the gyaff. “When them Brazilians start to settle there, plenty bad ones gon go too, can’t stop that,” he say.

“Yeah, I know...this is like pioneer town,” I laugh.

“But things gon get better after a while, and them good ones gon go too. Years later, them Brazilians might even become citizens, they gon run for elections. Everybody who is Portuguese gon get a chance to be in guvament. Like Theo, who living in Canada, he can go back to Guyana and get a position...”

“But he ain’t look Portuguese, he look more Indian...”

“Don’t worry about that,” me brother say. “He is Portuguese. He gon get a position. And you see that Portuguese man in P- Village...”

“What Portuguese man in P- ?” This one puzzle me. Most of them folks in P- Village is of African ancestry. I ain’t know any Portuguese living there.

“One night in P- Village, I see a white-white-looking man, he been drunk-drunk-drunk, he fall down in the trench, and if you hear how this man singing, loud-loud-loud, flinging up he hands and splashing in the dirty water! Like he been real happy. Them fellas tell me he does live in P- . All him, he can polish up and get a li’l guvament position because he is Portuguese.”

“Heh, I can get position too, ‘cause I can speak a li’l bit o’ Portuguese.”

“You know, is not a bad thing if them Brazilians do business there. They can clean up Georgetown. I know a Brazilian fella here, he brother does go to Georgetown to do business. He say Georgetown is a dump.”

“Yeah, is true.”

Recently, watching them Brazilians move around, listening to the new neighbours, I been thinking about this conversation. What we gon name the new state, when Guyana become a part of Brazil? Guy-Bra? Yes, that make sense, because, as the famous coffee song about them does go, they’ve got an awful lot of coffee in Brassiere...

Tudo bem.

2009-03-13T10:19:00.011-04:00

“Tudo bem?” I call out in me sing-songest Brazilian accent. Flash a smile as I slip from the back seat of we car, mamma-driver waiting for me to open the gate.

Brazilian chap coming from friends home down the street, is near we car now. He is brown-gold from top to toe…curls, huge eyes, torso, just-developing beer-belly bobbing slightly over shorts, knees, calves, bare feet...plenty o’ them is here, working for gold and diamond.

“Tudo bem,” all’s well, he grin, teeth slightly crookedy with tinges o’ coffee stain. Don’t know why he grin seem charming, musta been because it was warm, and because he eyes crinkle-up at the corners, gold laugh-lines on a twenty-something year old face.

Traitor, the Guyanese immigrant in ‘Merica might holler at me. I does imagine the immigrant keyboard clickety-clacketting rapid with fury, missing the irony of he situation as he type the letter he did send to a newspaper here late last year.

What are the rules in relation to Brazilian nationals coming into Guyana, he did ask. Is there a visa requirement? I would like to know what the government is doing about illegal minerals which are taken out from Guyana to Brazil. Also why is there a bridge which connects us to Brazil? This is very, very bad for Guyana. From my point of view, soon Guyana will be a Portuguese-speaking country instead of an English-speaking one. Georgetown has so many businesses which are owned by Brazilians. Why is the Guyana government allowing these people to come into the country like this?

Hey, I did want to say to the Guyanese-immigrant in ‘Merica...me brothers and sister live in other people countries; me aunties and cousins and uncles too...I hope them Big Countries don’t think that is very, very bad for them. And what about them Guyanese who been living in Brazil plenty-plenty years before Brazilians arrive here? I know that we Guyanese don’t take only the good when we travel, because people is people no matter what they do or where they go.

Them Brazilians bring every shade of id and ego – cooks, restaurant owners, hair-dressers, hotel-keepers and keepers of other businesses rhyming with hotels; dancing girls disappearing with Guyanese men behind stain-up, flimsy curtains in off-the-scene night-spots; drug-users, rapists; girls with bleach-hair and half-bare bums and short-short skirts; quiet young men working ‘n’ saving.

Across the road, before he move away to a different neighbourhood, Brazilian with the crookedy-coffee teeth sit alone at he doorway after work. Play music as the sun move to another place.

On Sunday, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road come from them new Brazilians, drifting high and low with the breeze, like music from a’ open bus or jeep that they cleaning.

And now and then on we radio, Sach Persaud, Guyanese who used to live in Brazil, does sing, Um dia, vou ganhar dinheiro. One day I will make money.

The Planetary Awards

2009-03-09T07:25:00.024-04:00

Dear Everyone, I am hosting a li’l bloggers awards ceremony tonight at this ol’ house by the Atlantic. All of you’s invited.

Performances gon be put on by Mammy Nature she self.

The wind tonight gon be cool, ooh-ooh aah, your arms gon shiver. Such a strong wind it gon be, shaking them brass chimes hanging on we verandah rail, making them ching-ching more loud than usual. Them crickets...no strong breeze ain't stopping them. For you, they gon chirp their super-loud, green song about long, quivering grass and night-brown stems of fern and orchids. Breeze gon blow ‘way all mosquitoes.

Above, in the dark sky, heavy white clouds gon rush by so fast, you might think them is giant sheep racing. Stars gon move quick-quick, you would think them is the lights from shepherds’ lamps, chasing after them sheep.

Even if we get a blackout...powercut, dear guests, nothing gon stop we show.

Welcome to the Planetary Awards, where, thanks to Michelle, I receive this (for beautiful writing...heh):

And now, to share the good vibes, I gon give some awards too (along with crispy, salty, slightly-peppery plantain chips, breadfruit chips and cool mauby drink - bitter enough to fool beer lovers, sweet enough to fool non-beer drinkers).

The Sun and Moon Award

Anna - for finding inspiration and beauty in the balance of Nature.

The Mercury Award

Stephen Bess - for enabling communication and learning through his blog.

The Venus Award

C.M. Walsh - for beautiful writing style.

The Mars Award

Dawn of SureWoman - for fighting spirit and unflinching opposition to the wrongs of this world.

The Jupiter Award

Caroline - for volume, quality and quantity of excellent, thought-provoking content.

The Saturn Award

Bakannal - for dark humour or the ability to weather life's woes with a wry smile.

The Uranus Award

Jacqueline - for reaching beyond the obvious, putting a new twist on ancient materials.

The Neptune Award

Apprentice - for imaginative, creative content linked to photography.

The Pluto Award

Hayden (yes, I know she get this from Michelle, but nothing ain't wrong with getting two) - for penetrating insight, occasional dips into darkness, a tinge of the mystical.

Now, anyone for curry shrimps and roti while we gyaff...chat and laugh and praise-up each other...?

no post post

2009-03-09T05:44:00.004-04:00

help

glugg

glugg

i can't post properly

when i add links, the code and all the cuss words <&$#*> show up

and the 'thing' to select different fonts and size ain't there

^%$#@! no, that is too mild

*%^$#^&#@GFT^%$#@!!!!!!

Gone to seek true love.

2009-03-02T07:24:00.001-04:00

This weekend, as I lay on the settee trying to recover from a major allergy attack, I sneeze so much that I sneeze me head off.

Now, I ain’t know where it went.

Gone to the end of the earth to seek true love, I hope.

Or gone to Bollywood to take part in a glitzy musical.

I hope it come back with some Claritin.

Sweating eyes.

2009-02-23T20:32:00.003-04:00

Eyes sweat. I discover this a few years ago when I been visiting fambly in Florida.

I been cosy-up on the fat settee in me sister and brother-in-law living-room, watching Kal Ho Nah Ho, a light, romantic movie in New York. Brother-in-law pass by. “Are your eyes sweating as yet?” he ask and crack heself up at he joke.

“Huh?”

He explain how one day, me sister and me two li’l nephews, five and seven years old, been watching the movie, sniffling when they reach sad parts. Brother-in-law tease them. Me younger nephew, wiping he eyes, say, “Daddy, I’m not crying, it’s just my eyes sweating.”

Last night me eyes sweat copiously. Couldn’t let me mother see though, I woulda feel shame. Because, tough- talkin’ me, I don’t let me eyes sweat that easy.

Yeah, tough-talkin’ me. Couldn’t keep these eyes from sweating when they light upon them li’l Mumbai chil’ren at the Oscars. Li’l brown boys with black suit and bow ties and the girl-chile in a blue frou-frou frock, a proper li’l girl dress. I mentally will the cameraman to focus even half a minute on she but he didn’t get me signals.

This morning, on MSN chat brother-in-law tell me it is a’ excellent movie. I ain’t see it as yet but I hear about the controversy - who in India ain’t like it yet plenty folks there celebrating now. Online, I read the opinions of Mericans who resent the film and cuss it. I wonder what they make of a Muslim musician going onstage in they country, winning awards so freely.

In one big ocean of division, that is where we seem to live, running into separate islands of beliefs, cultures, unconscious of the fact that what happen in that vast ocean does affect all of we.

Yet, despite that space, despite bad history, India and England pool talent to tell one story. Ocean does unite too as it wash from this shore to yours. When you spin the globe, all you see is one body of water linking lands.

Before the Oscars, one o’ them boy-actors who grow up in a better-off home did get interviewed by NBC on Sunday Morning, they show he playing cricket. This chile, very articulate, speak perfect English, describing he reaction to he first exposure to that hard, mean other life in Mumbai, a life he never know exist before. I wonder how working on this movie gon change he. On stage at the Oscars, he smile been like sea in sunshine. Me eyes sweat.

Then I ketch a glimpse of the smallest boy. He face look like they light a lamp inside he. He couldn’t contain he excitement, it pouring from he big, bright eyes. He remind me of all me nephews. I wonder what he been thinking, what he gon go back and tell he friends and family. What he gon grow up to be. Me eyes sweat a li’l more.

Now---where was I? pt. 2

2009-02-20T08:05:00.006-04:00

You ain’t know you going there until you get there.

Some though, never realise that they’s really, truly in there. In fact, they think that that is what life is all about, they ain’t know it can be different. So they accept it as their kismet, their fate, to be in a place like that, and they do nothing to get out.

Others know but they ain’t got the skill or the will to get out. Inside, they don’t see the bits ‘n’ pieces of paper, plastic and dust huddling behind settees. If they notice, they might think, tomorrow they gon sweep. Tomorrow, of course, is a never-ever time. Outside, they let fall-down green leaves turn brown and dry on the front patio then cobwebs stitch them leaves together to keep them still.

And you got other folks who, on a subconscious level, recognise that this ain’t a good place to be; they do whatever they can to haul theyself out.

Every now and then I slip into that place but I haul meself out. Looking back, I then realise exactly where I been.

Emotionally, everybody experience this place differently. Some eat more than usual; some go into starvation mode. Some just get numb and move through the days in a daze. I experience it on two planes.

On one plane I eat, laugh, play, chat, work on craft, go about me chores as per normal. On another plane I sit quiet on the settee facing the tee vee which is switched off. I stare at the tree outside, thumb and forefinger pinching me top lip, folding it in a crease, unfold. Sometimes, anxiety does nip like them almost-invisible li’l sugar ants. Nip, itch, scratch. Scratchety. I does get scratchety, snapping about li’l things. Pick a fight, any fight.

I ain’t know the name for this place. Ain’t depression or the blues. It is that dull, dreary place where things grind to a halt in your head, things doing nothing, going nowhere. It is that place where fallow-land don’t mean rest until you’s ready to sow, reap again; there, fallow mean dry, hot, empty. Even though outside of your house the rain pouring so hard the land flood.

I guess you can call it the doldrums. Stasis. Limbo-land. I end up there through a series of mishaps, after the visitor enter we house mid-last year. Murphy, he name was, making everything that can go wrong, go wrong. Bad jinn, bad spirit, bad vibes some would say he bring.

While I try...

2009-02-18T11:09:00.003-04:00

...to find the right words to describe where I been, I want to say thank you to them sweet folks who choose me for the Bloggies.

xx Mwah xx

WHERE WAS I? Pt. 1.

2009-02-15T08:00:00.007-04:00

The late-November rain bust down as if somebody did slit the sky every which way – crossways, sideways, longways. Water pound down like sledge hammers on zinc roofs. Mosquitoes, hiding since August from scorching heat, come out like bad gremlins. Yard flood to we ankle before we could say Slip-slap-slippa. We get li’l breaks from the rain for one hour, and if we lucky, half of half of a morning or afternoon.

It was during one o’ these breaks, after the mini-flood in we yard recede, that I venture out to we road. I full-up me lungs with the fresh, cool air and contemplate me fate, wondering how long I gon be housebound.

A jeep pull up, skrrrks, right in front of me, a rough, man-jeep that look as though it see plenty deserts. The driver been jaw-dropping gorgeous, light-tanned an’ lanky with dark hair. I couldn’t breathe no more.

“G’daiye possum,” he say with a smile that flash bright like lightening.

I open me mouth to answer but only a li'l eek come out.

Suddenly, before I could haul out a proper sound from me insides, a thick, black swarm o' mosquitoes, humming like a small plane, buzz down and grab the man.

“Help me,” the man holler.

“Don’t worry Hugh, I got you,” I shout as I grab onto he ankles. What a good thing handsome men don’t have smelly feet because he shoes fall off and barely miss me face..........

I pause in the telling of my story to munch on me roti and stew fish.

“Who was the man? Where them mosquites carry y’all?” my mother ask with a dry expression.

Me and she been eating early dinner at the kitchen table, that faded pink kitchen table that hear every tale conceivable. Teen boys adventures; women complaining about husbands; rice-picking tales and country-life with murders, betrayals, love and idealism; girls about boys tales and Dickens and Chekhov and Readers’ Digest tales. Me wild story, the one that I concoct weeks ago, to tell bloggers where I disappear to all this time, ain’t nothing new to this table.

“He was Hugh Jackman. One o’ them mosquitoes was Maisie the Mozzie, wife of Ozzie the Mozzie. But she is in love with Hugh Jackman and she is a jealous wretch, so she come to take he back to Oz.

“Them mosquitoes fetch we all the way over the Amazon jungle, native Indians try to shoot we down with bow and arrow, but that wouldn’t help we, if you see pirai with long, long teeth in the river, waiting for we. We go all the way across the desert and when we reach the Sydney harbour, them mosquitoes drop me, whaps, in the water and fly go ‘way with Hugh Jackman.”

"Which desert?” my mother ask in the same dry tone.

I shrug. “I dunno...some Australian desert...don’t know the name...”

"If you fly straight south from here, you wouldn’t have to go over any Australian desert, you would end up in Sydney anyway.”

"Man, the trouble with you is, you know too much.”

So where I been all this time then?

The truth is too mundane to talk about.