The Ex

I know about the young technician family from talks we had the last time he been here. His mother and father live in a village far, far east of the Berbice River, in a village so small, so anonymous, it hiding behind God back, as we does say.

The last time he been here he tell me that he mother lonely and he set she up with computer and Internet to keep she busy. When she come to town he does take she around and about, she examining every dress and shoe and still not buying, he waiting patiently and wanting to laugh at the long-suffering expression o’ the sales guy.

On Thursday, when I ask about she, he say again that she lonely, that she ain’t got no friends where she live.

I say, “Maybe what she can do is form a group with the other village women and do things together.”

He stop twiddling with options and connection settings and turn to tell me, “Those women are the most subjugated in Guyana. They are cane-cutters’ wives. People say that suicide in Berbice high but they don’t stop to examine why.

All the cane-cutters brag amongst theyself what good treatment their wives give them. All of them exaggerate, stretch the truth, make the others jealous, and of course, this spur on the others. And they go home and demand even better treatment because the others are getting it, and they’re not.”

And them po’ li’l children in the cane-cutting village don’t know anything else, they think cane-cutting is the only career choice they have. They does say they want to be cane-cutter ‘cause cane-cutting pay ‘a lot of money’.

“When me and my brother been in school,” the technician say, “somebody ask what we want to be and we say cane-cutter.”

They father ain’t a cane-cutter though, and maybe that is why they go on to university. He brother doing he Phd. Abroad.

The technician say, “When I come to town to study at the university I used to live next door to a cane-cutter. I would sit in my veranda and hear and see everything. This man used to torment his wife. When he come home from work his wife had to follow him foot to foot. They had an outside bathroom and toilet. I see she stand up waiting outside the bathroom, she had to hand him his towel after he finish bathing, and pick up all his clothes that he drop on the ground.

One day, she cook bora and rice for his dinner and he didn’t like how it taste. He fling it away and beat she. He tell she that of all the cane-cutters, he does get the worse treatment from he wife at home.”

Plenty cane-cutters’ wives commit suicide. And plenty cane cutters too.

The women watch tv the whole day, watch soap-opera when they finish they housework. And they live soap-opera lives, jump from husband to brother-in-law, to friend of brother-in-law. Cane-cutters commit suicide when they wives leave them.

“Y’know what,” I say, “Them men got very low opinion o’ theyself. That’s why they ill-treat they women. And you see all them women jumping from man to man, romance to romance? Is not just love they looking for. They want somebody to make them feel good, and this way they can feel good ‘bout theyself.”

Romance is a high for them just like the rum is a high for they husband.

The technician fiddle and twiddle, fix what he got to fix. No charges, he say, is the ISP responsibility to see that they working good for customers. I give he some fruits and he say he gon share it with a co-worker.

Was just so good to gyaff...chat...with such a gentle soul, one with goals and dreams and no cynical thoughts ‘bout women.

Guyana-Gyal

Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Guyana-Gyal Little lizard

Little lizard on the floor, please don’t bite me toe.

Little grey lizard, two inches, you look so scary at night with you stripy black tail.

Shoo, g’wan, go on, go ‘way. When me was a li’l gyal, people say that if a lizard bite me, it ain’t letting go ‘til thunder roll.

But the way things goin’ with this weather, it don’t look like no boomin’ and rollin’ in the sky gon happen soon…so go on, find you own home, leave me alone.

Ha, I know, I know, I can squash you with one toe. But fears, me dear, ain’t that easy to un-learn, and in one weak second can return quick and burn.

Psst, little grey lizzie, I ain’t really scared o’ you, was just the memory of fear trying to come back, taunting me...but if you want the truth, I rather be nervous around you than be afraid of things like...

...awk...go awayyyy...

Guyana-Gyal

Guyana-Gyal

letter

Dear Car Manufacturers Abroad,

I notice in them ads on tee vee that when you test you cars you test them in very sterile conditions, in cool, spacious grey rooms and you have air bags and all sorts of unrealistic things.

Well Dear Car Manufacturers Abroad, I challenge you to come and test you cars in Real Life Conditions.

Come to a place what got potholes so huge that even if you gear down into first gear and go slow slow slow, you car rock up so much that all when you go to sleep that night you brain still a-knockin’ and a-shakin’ and you still hear clink clank clunk.

Yes, come to a place where potholes so wide they go on for big stretches ‘til they join up with other potholes. Some potholes so deep you can’t call them potholes, you got to call them cauldron holes.

Huh, talkin’ about holes, I ain’t gon even tell you what ---holes we call them who drive mini-buses and taxis, no no, I can’t tell you, decent people like you might blush.

Dear Car Manufacturers Abroad, if I scare you off from coming here to test you cars, maybe you can send me a car? I gon test it for you.

A nice, zippy BIG red car gon do me just fine…big yes, can’t let it sink and stay in a cauldron hole…send a car with a really good A.C. unit to keep me cool ‘cause the place so hot I seeing mirage all over the place. Yes, mirage…I swear I see traffic lights not working. Not one, not one around town. And I swear I see vine growing on one light. Must be a mirage because the place so hot.

Okay Dear Car Manufacturers Abroad, I await your reply patiently.

Yours,

Thoroughly shook up after driving into town a while ago [my brain still going kadang kadang],

Guyana Gyal

The ex

“You want something to write about?” Cousin Dee ask. “Write about this.”

If you didn’t know she, you woulda think she serious like a judge. But me, I could see the amusement deep in the back o’ she eyes.

She proceed to tell we ‘bout she ex-husband and he turmoil with women.

[According to my mother the ex was a handsome man. Tall and slim with the lightest brown eyes.]

The foreign woman he do the business marriage with did adore he. He bring she to Guyana, to he old village where he and Dee use to live. And when he and he foreign wife walk down the road she hug he up and kiss he up in the middle o’ the road.

Big scandal in a small country village!

“What happen to them?” I ask Dee.

She say, “Them bruk up. He say she nag too much. She want to have his children. And he ain’t want anymore. He say he got two daughters a’ready. He get fed up and leave she.”

After the business-then real-marriage bruk up, he try to make up back with Dee. Nah, no, nope, no way she say.

[What a good thing she turn he down, 'cause she meet a nice guy in New York, and she happy now].

Well, anyway, the ex meet another girl Abroad...another Guyanese girl from Corentyne...deep rural Guyana.

This girl went bazodee...totally crazy...for he. She too want he babies.

He say no. No more babies. And when she insist he tell she he gon leave.

Miss Corentyne promptly journey back to Guyana, travel to she old village to see a obeah man.

Obeah is magic from Africa but some East Indians practice it...or pretend to practice it.

Miss Corentyne went to see a East Indian obeah man to keep she lover and to have he babies.

Dee say, “The obeah man give she all kind o’ things to put ‘round the home and in the car too. The car crash with he. Then all kind o’ strange things start to happen to he.”

“What kind o' things?” I ask.

“I don’t know, just strange things,” Dee say. “So he sisters come to Guyana to see a obeah man to make them strange things stop. And they end up going to the same obeah man that the gyal been to.”

“Hahaha, how them know is the same man, Dee?” I ask.

“Me ain’t know, all me know, was the same man. And he tell them where and where in the home and car he did tell the gyal to put the obeah things.”

The sisters return to Abroad and tell they brother. And when they look, they find all kind o’ things put around the house.”

“What kind o’ things?” I want to know.

Dee say, “Obeah things, me ain’t know. Li’l things. They take the things and throw them ‘way. He tell a friend 'She went to a obeah man! How can I trust her?' And he left the gyal. He marry somebody else now.”

How Dee know all this?

She and he sisters does gyaff on the phone. And Dee and he does talk too.

She say, “Life too short and them girls need to know they father. They can’t wait ‘til he dead then they gon cry and say if they did only talk to he and get to know he.”

Guyana Gyal

Guyana gyal

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

A little rant

I wish somebody would tell we new neighbours that it ain’t polite to stare like dawg focusing on bone.

The house where them Brazilians use to live. A group o’ Guyanese fellas move into the house next door, They don’t ever, never ever come out to show they face to say hello, but when I go through we back door I does feel them staring...and when I look, I see they shadow at they window, staring, staring from behind insect screen and iron grill, in between the louvre windows.

I don’t know if them is good boys who don’t know better...or they just plain bad...I don’t know if they do it to intimidate...

The only other time I experience this weird kinda staring was from a drug-addict down the street from me in Jamaica.

I don’t know how other women feel ‘bout men staring at them like that but it make me uncomfortable. I think I need a burka.

I don’t know what men think ‘bout other men behaving like that.

All I know is, if they show they face I would say hello. Just to be good neighbour. But they don’t ever show they face.

Hm, maybe they in purdah.

Guyana gyal

Thursday, January 19, 2006 Guyana-Gyal

Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Letter to Opportunity Guyana-Gyal

Dear Opportunity,

I writing you to let you know, you can’t keep a good gyal down. You think I don’t know what you up to? You who come knocking and then run away like a li’l bad boy who ring people bell and run.

Well, I ain’t waiting for you no more...as a matter of fac’, I ain’t even answering your knock. I gon just make the best of what I got.

First, I gon examine what I got. Plenty mosquitoes at night after a li’l rainfall in the day.

Ha. You think that you, Opportunity, gon stop me from working by sending mosquitoes to jook me poor delicate self? Let them bite, man, let them bite. When they get fat and full up with blood...splat...I kill them dead. Then!

I gon save them in a bottle and sell them as goldfish food. Al Gore gon be proud of me. No carbon emission happening here. Bill Gates gon be proud of me. I cleaning the world, getting rid of things that spread sickness. G8 gon be proud of me. Third World gyal trying to build life in country that get debt-write off.

Now, next thing I got. Blackouts. Yesterday and the night before we had long ones.

You think you gon send blackouts to stop me, eh Opportunity? You just wait. When I find a way to market blackouts Abroad, I gon be rich, rich, rich, and you gon be the one begging me to knock at your door.

Put that pepper in your pot and make pepperpot, Opportunity.

Yours merrily, G.G.
Guyana-Gyal

Circus

One day, while my computer been sick, I been in town. Rain been falling as if the devil and he millions of demons and all them bats outta hell been weeing on we.

I had to deliver some papers at the lawyer office. I turn to pick up an umbrella on the back seat o’ the car. Only to find I did leave the two good ones at home. All I had was them two bad ones in the car.

One had holes. It used to be black but now it got the colour of ash.

The other one still black. But now it snarling.

You ever see that movie with Jim Carey and the li’l dawg and the mask? Remember when the li’l dawg put on the mask he suddenly get long, dangerous fangs and he claws them grow sharp? Remember? Well, that is how this umbrella look. Two or three spokes escape from the hem and stick out, long and savage.

Now, lemme tell you, I got a weakness for umbrellas...I don’t mean them ordinary ones you buy here. I mean them designer ones, the kind I see in fashion magazines, in ads on tee vee and so on...I especially like them plastic, see-through ones that come down loooowww in front…some clear and some o’ them pale pink or blue or lemon.

I like umbrellas the way plenty girls like shoes and clothes.

Besides, I always think, umbrella is a functional thing yes, but why shouldn’t people make functional things in a creative way too? Why not create beauty with ordinary objects?

Mm-hm, all this I think ‘bout umbrella, so you can imagine how I feel stuck with this snarling one.

As I try to cross the road I look around. Nobody else had one snarling like mine. I see wobbly umbrellas, faded umbrellas. I see some looking like they catching a cold. Some look like they on they last days. But not one body had a snarling, aggressive one.

I tell myself, “Hm, I living in a 3rd world country so is okay to look shoddy.”

I tell myself, “If any thief attack me, I gon strike he in the eye with them spokes.”

I cross the road, drop off the papers at the lawyer, go back out, stand at the roadside and wait for the traffic to ease up so I can cross again.

Suddenly, I hear a voice coming from my left. A man voice.

It say, “Watch that antique umbrella deh.” [Look at that antique umbrella there].

I thought I hear what I hear. But I had to hear it again.

I ain’t turn me head, I ain’t know who I talking to but I ask, “What?”

The voice reach right in front of me now. It belong to a thin-face, lean, black fella driving a minibus. He looking straight ahead, driving slow in the heavy traffic. He face dry and expressionless. And he repeat, “Watch that antique umbrella deh.”

Y’know, when we was li’l children, my mother used to say, “Watch people and you gon never be bored.”

And somewhere I did read, “All the world’s a circus.”

Heh.

Never thought I would be the clown one day, complete with umbrella.

I laugh so hard that people on the other side o’ the road hear me above them cars beepin’ an’ bawpin’.

Guyana-Gyal

Thursday, April 20, 2006

Two grumpy men

My mother get a job for we carpenter man, for him to do repairs on the home of Mr. Charran, an accountant we know, he come from the same village as my father.

Mr. Charran is a grouchy, sixty-something year ol' geezer who can be charming when he choose. He tetchy with folks who work for he...but not with his secretary Gloria, a model-slim, pretty black girl. Gloria say she just don’t bother with him, and he know that he can’t get anybody else to work for he as patiently and long-suffering as she.

Well! When the carpenter man hear about the job, he hem and haw, he not sure if he should take it. He tell my mother that a year or two ago he did work on Mr. Charran office.....and Mr. Charran talk to he in a way that he ain’t appreciate.

The carpenter man is a proud man; he walk with he back straight and he head up. He ain’t no li’l boy; he is a big man of fifty-nine; he know he job and he do it like a perfectionist. As far as he is concerned, everybody got they profession...some learn from books, some learn from hammer and nails. As far as he is concerned, people must talk to people like them is people. He always telling we about who and who disrespect him, and that he ain’t ever doing work for this person or that person again. I keep wondering when he gon run out of people to work for.

[To be honest, in Guyana, if you ain’t a lawyer, a doctor or accountant...or a businessman making wads of money...some folks really do talk to you any which way but polite. They gruff, they brusque, they ruff.]

The carpenter man tell my mother that when Mr. Charran talk to he ruff two years ago, he ask Mr. Charran, "That is how you does talk to people?"

Mr. Charran stop. He look at the carpenter man. Then he say, "Yes, that is how I talk to people, but I don't mean anything by it at all...that is how I talk to everybody all the time, it’s not anything personal."

My mother crack up when she hear Mr. Charran admit that. She say she woulda love to see he face.

The carpenter man decide he gon take the job. He say, "But if he tell me anything, I gon cuss he."

My mother say, "No, don’t do that. Remember I got the job for you and I would end up looking bad."

Heh. The carpenter man gon have a mouthful to tell we, wait and see...

Guyana gyal

the Amerindian girl Guyana-Gyal

It is the story of the Amerindian girl who did marry a camoudie, a snake that does wrap around man or animal; it can squeeze the life outta you and swallow you wholesale.
The girl, a’ Arawak girl, was beautiful; plenty, plenty men did want to marry she but she refuse. Even pigeon who offer to marry she, she refuse. Then one day, a handsome young man come to ask for she, he arrive with four horses, golden harness and bridle. Right away, the girl say Yes.
Wedding day, everything was glitter and gold, and the handsome groom bring a dress of golden threads for he bride. After the wedding, they set off for the groom home. On the way, he embrace he wife and... ...the wagon turn into a pond and the horses dissolve into water which fill the pond...and the groom become a camoudie.

The girl swim and swim ‘round and ‘round the pond to get away but the camoudie grabble she and wrap around she. She holler and scream for help but nobody ain’t come to rescue she. Finally, all them young men who she did refuse to marry come and surround the pond. They feel sorry for she but couldn’t help, the camoudie been wrap ‘round she so tight. And they tell she how she is getting she right punishment for refusing them in the first place, for choosing that strange, handsome man who gon soon swallow she.