I remember back when the trench in my village wasn’t stagnant. I remember when it was rich and vibrant, full of black water and life. The beauty of it still haunts me.
Back then I’d jump in the water without a thought and I wouldn’t rush myself to Emergency Room if I accidentally swallowed some. I remember my lettuce and cabbage banks in the family farm and the feel of mud between my toes as I tended to my crop.
On weekends, fishing trips or “bush cooks” (cook outs) were the norm. As a big pot of soup packed with cassavas, eddoes, plantains, sweet potatoes and eddo leaves bubbled under the mango tree, we ate green mangoes with salt and raw peppers.
Around us there was only land and grass and trees for as far as the eyes could see. There was fresh air, a clear view of the sky and the scents of thyme and basil at war with each other. This is the land I remember and the land I now crave.
Once, in the depths of my village there was this stream. It was crystal clear and ran through an open field. It was a magical place, much like those we believe only exist in fairytales. Now it only lives on in my memory.
Then there was the time when there were no street lights. My grandfather and other men took lanterns to hang on poles. They illuminated the streets, not for themselves, but for their neighbours. After lanterns were taken out it was time for the click of spoons against enamel plates.
Since then our country has grown. We’ve been touched by the great spirit of development. Our trees are cheap women up for sale to the first bidder. Our old English buildings have been replaced by huge (some of them ugly) concrete structures. We have entered the 21st century with a big bang!
In fact, our country has seen so much development since the time of black water trenches in my village that it should be ridiculous that people are still squatting in latrines. It should be even more ridiculous that they still collect newsprint for toilet paper.
My precious trench is dead. The water no longer flows. It is overgrown with bushes in places and there are all sort of unpleasant things lodged in its muddy bed. And who is to blame for this? Well I’m still trying to figure out which fool ordered that trench’s sluice blocked.
Of course, when the sluice was blocked it affected the village’s drainage system. It’s a good thing I no longer need to plant lettuce and cabbages for money because I’d surely starve! Whenever it rains the farm is flooded. Still, some of my uncles farm because the land is their life.
Oh, how I mourn for the beauties forever lost to my village. And how many villages have suffered similar fates? I mourn their loss, my loss, our loss. And I am terrified that one day soon we will no longer remember the things we’ve lost.
I cling to my memories of our land. They are embedded in my Guyanese heart. For no matter where I choose to live I’ll always see that remittances make their way home. And when I need comfort I’ll revisit my memories for this land is mine, this land is home.
Oh men of power! Men of might!
Can you stoop lower? Or give us a more sickening sight?
Oh rulers of my land! Men of woe!
You walk in sand. You breed patriots as foe.
