I referred last week to people, in and out of the country, grilling me about what life in Guyana is like, and although these encounters almost always deal with the well-known negatives, they also almost inevitably turn to aspects of the Guyanese culture that remain valuable to us.
It’s hard to put into words or convey this collection of moods and visions and incidents that all combine to make you pleased with a place. It’s probably more an aura than anything else; it’s a result of convergences that occur over time. Sometimes, in the course of the day, this awareness will suddenly flare up in you in what I call flashes. Coming at you suddenly, sometimes only taking a moment or two, these flashes can explain the essence of the Guyana you love far better than any long-winded explanation replete with rhetoric.
For example: near where I live on the East Coast Demerara, there is a house with a luxurious golden-apple tree in the back yard – you can see it from the main road. I’m driving in the area one day and the traffic stops me alongside the tree. In the yard next to the one with the fruit tree is a small wooden house with a youngster about 5 or 6 sitting on the step, and near to the fence a young girl of about 16 or so is flat on her stomach, stretching through the fence with a long stick. She is straining to reach a beautiful yellow golden-apple lying on the ground under the tree. The stick is a mite short, but by really stretching herself up against the fence, the young girl manages to snare the fruit and gradually works it towards herself. She reaches out and corrals mister golden apple. I’m expecting her to dash a bite in it. Instead, she triumphantly takes it over to the step and hands it to her baby sister. In that moment, in that short flash, you see the warmth of the people.
Irving Street; the middle of the day; heavy traffic. A motor cyclist turns in from a side street. On the pillion is a lady, holding under one arm, one of those wholesale packages of toilet paper – about 48 of them. Under the other arm, she is holding a second huge parcel wrapped in brown paper, holding God knows what. In case you missed the point, the lady is not holding on to the motor cycle or the guy in front; her arms are completely taken over with produce; only gravity is keeping her on the pillion. This means that if the motorcycle hits an unexpected bump (and we know GT is full of those) the woman, with her purchases, would go straight up in the air, and by the time she comes down the motorcycle will have moved forward, and she would land in the road with her purchases. I can imagine rolls of toilet paper all over Irving Street. The motorcycle is going at a rate. It proceeds up Irving Street without incident; perhaps the lady is sitting on some Crazy Glue. You see what’s happening here? The couple don’t own a car; they’re improvising; Guyanese culture.
Vlissengen Road; mid afternoon; busy time. However, traffic is stopped dead on both sides of the road. The traffic lights in operation are ignored. No policemen are around. Nothing moves. I was shocked the first time I saw it. You know what’s happening? About 40 goats in a bunch are heading home from the grassy area to the west. With only two young men herding them, the goats hurry across the two roadways. The only sounds come from the shouts of the two herders and a few braying animals. The goats cross quickly. Traffic resumes. Someone I mention this to later says “it’s a nuisance”. To some degree it is, but what’s striking is that nobody sounds a horn. Nobody shouts the usual imprecations about family. Nobody opens a car door and yells at the herders. I’m willing to bet you would not see such a scene in any big Caribbean town. It tells you that in the middle of the rush, we can still take time to slow down.
Many of us grumble about Sheriff Street. I like it. Lots of space (unlike Regent Street), relatively clean, plenty parking (unlike Regent Street), and a variety of stores. If I didn’t see this one myself, I would doubt it. It’s at the junction where Sheriff Street meets the Railway Road. A guy is walking north, through the traffic light, wheeling a 50-gallon oil drum in his right hand – you know how they do that, on the rim. Conventional enough so far, but then his left hand is holding another 50-gallon oil drum which is resting on a pad on his head. That’s right – on his head. I’m going to leave you to contemplate that one. All I have to say is, “only in Guyana”.
There’s a narrow side road near where I live that people use as a short cut. It has a very narrow and very steep parapet on one side leading to wide trench. On a lamp-post along there, some devious mind has put a sign that says “Parking”. The sign is pointing to left, down the 35-degree parapet, leading to the trench. We have a sense of humour.
Further down that same side road, a small business has put up a sign advertising mauby and coconut water, but the owner ran out of space on the board, so the sign reads:
Mauby Cocon
ut water
Sense of humour abounds in Guyana.
Shortly after my return to Guyana, I’m sitting in a vehicle at night on a quiet road. A lady approaches in the darkness, and as she’s passing the vehicle she says, “good night”. I had lived outside so long I had forgotten that that behaviour is an intrinsic part of this culture. That lady would pass that vehicle 5 nights in a row and say “good night” every time. People come into a waiting-room of total strangers in Guyana and say “good morning” or “good afternoon” as a matter of rote. You would never hear that outside. Living here continuously you might not notice it, but it’s a beautiful practice. I hope it never dies out.
Each of us I know has different “flashes” that coalesce to give you a feeling of comfort, or amusement, or tenderness about this place. They exist underneath the travail. In their totality, in their combination, they form that feeling of association, of place, of home, that we feel nowhere else to the same degree.
