As a young man in West Dem, Guyana, living at Vreed-en-Hoop, going to Saints Stanislaus on a scholarship, I made many trips to my father’s farm in the Pomeroon, sometimes by train, sometimes by bus, linking up with the ferry to Adventure, and then by bus to Charity, and boat to the farm. On the trip to Charity, the main order of business was a series of buses, Guyana-made wooden bodies on imported chassis frames, making the trip back and forth every day, and what a colorful bunch. One that stood out for me was owned and operated by an Indo-Guyanese, Kas, who drove the bus, and handled all the trans business with the help of two on-board young men who did all the heavy lifting, loading and unloading, everything from luggage to the large galvanized milk cans that would go out full in the morning, on the carrier atop the bus, returning empty later that day on the return trip. Kas would simply slow down approaching a stop, and one of the loaders would hang on the ladder at the back of the bus, swing the empty can out by the handle, deposit it gently onto the abundant parapet grass, and Kas would blow his horn for the owner to come and collect it; I never saw him stop once to make the delivery… he would go down to first or second gear, loader would reach out and make the deposit, and Kas would change gears and get back up to speed….smooth as silk.
Kas was not one for small talk, but he knew most passengers by name, and he had a relaxed, unruffled attitude to the diverse situations that would arise every day on that ride between Adventure and Charity; nothing ruffled his feathers. I remember one occasion where a young passenger spent a lot of time critiquing Kas’ driving skills in a loud enough voice that most passengers could hear, although Kas remained totally silent, apparently oblivious to the tantalise. As the bus stopped at that passenger’s destination, the young man came around to the front of the bus, as was the custom, to pay his fare to Kas. On this occasion, however, as the passenger came around to pay him, Kas clearly handed him back his change, minus some coins, and attempted to move off; the young man shouted out the mistake, and Kas shouted back, “Oh yes,” and put his hand out the window with the coins, but also let out the clutch, moving the bus slowly, and with the passenger running to collect and yelling blue murder at Kas. Passengers on the bus were laughing at the back and forth and even pleading with Kas to “pay the boy, nah,” which he eventually did, after a few minutes, by which time the young man was covered in the red dust from the country road. After a few hundred yards, Kas would slow down enough for the passenger to catch up and collect, and then go back to normal speed with a big smile on his face.
Or course there were also private cars operating as taxis on Guyana’s country roads, West Dem and elsewhere, so there was always an advantage to the vehicle in front being able to scoop up any passengers waiting by the roadside; being in front was a bonanza, and the bus would often be zooming along, middle of the road, and calmly ignoring another bus, or one of the taxis, blowing to pass and pick up the waiting passengers. It was a cat-and-mouse game, but with real money involved, so the various manoeuvres connected with that continued, except when policemen were aboard, but even then sometimes the lawman would pretend to not realize the game that was going on plain as day, treating the whole exercise as a charade.
Ultimately, however, that motorized transportation was the lifeline for the people of West Dem, dropping them off in front of their homes, instead of the railway station half-a-mile away, and the people using it learned their own tricks of the trade, coming and going, day or night.
I don’t have any knowledge of how the buses operating on the East Coast or the East Bank did their business, but it would have to be some version of the above…the railway was there but the tracks were hundreds of yards inland, useful for cargo but hard on passengers, particularly young children. The men operating those countryside buses and taxis were often hard-working businessmen, with little time for frivolities, hustling to make a living and not always succeeding. Generally, they were a tough lot, in a very tough business. Kas stood out among them. He had a son (his name eludes me) who operated a smaller bus on the same route. But Kas was clearly the elder statesman of that West Dem bunch, and he had built a sterling reputation as a straight shooter, always looking to help his clientele. I never saw him in anger at any passenger, and day or night he was always neat and clean-shaven. Historically, people like him, who never attain any public office, don’t get enough credit for the part they played in forging a nation, dealing with the range of factors that affected them, not getting rich from it, not even seeing their name on a stamp or a public structure. I don’t know his personal story at all, but I remember him like a gentle beacon, going about his business, quietly and efficiently, serving his clients and his country – Essequibo Bus Man, Kas.
