Georgetown and Up Country - Finding Old Friends - 4 August 2003
Georgetown 2003
Saved from obscurity
Those VSOs, eh? They love to party!
Media Victims
Capital stuff
Trial presentation
Pizza Hut. Tell ëem Mohamed sent ya.
Road, bridge, road, ferry, road ñ itís how you get around, here.
Letís go, to Essequibo
Something went wrong with this submission. The sections attributed to Pat & Helen were clearly mixed up so I have not tried to colour code them. The final 3 paragraphs were, I think, supplied by Mansoor. [Webmeister]
When we were last here, 6 years ago, Georgetown was never high on our list of faves for Guyana. It was always a saga to get to ëtown; arguing prices with drivers of vehicles, being pulled left and right by the conductor of the next transport, getting wet on the boat crossing the Essequibo and finally arriving in one of the less clean and safe parts of the capital. Thereís not so much breeze in Georgetown so it was always a lot hotter than up at our house. Altogether a draining experience.
This time, our arrival had been after an extremely physical and long ride and we were extremely jaded. It did not seem half as bad, though, as it used to. Hippy put it down to the lack of dead dogs floating in the drainage trenches but there was more to it than that. Where there used to be potholed roads strewn with the discarded rotting sections of vegetables and dilapidated wooden houses, there now seemed to be a new thrust of civic pride. The drainage trenches no longer reeked, the grass on the avenues was kempt, delightful old colonial houses had been newly painted. When folk told us that making a phone call simply involved lifting the handset and dialling rather than waiting an hour or so for a line first, you could have knocked us down.
It was good see to that the country had moved on. Even the electricity and water supplies had improved. Ok, there were still blackouts for the odd half hour and the water does not run all day, but it was better than before. It is one of the ironies of this country that whilst there has been heavy rainfall everyday, the trenches are full to the brim and roads in the jungle are returning to swampland - the water pipes are sometimes empty.
I will be honest; I did not expect to see so much positive change. We had spent 2 years here and during that time there was a lot of talk of improvements and none of it had materialised. We have yet to see the supposed tar road up the coast, which had started being built years before we first came here, and works had ceased for the whole two years we were here. OK, it is not up to speed compared with its neighbouring countries but now it is at least moving in the right direction.
In the vain hope that someone may be in at the VSO office we popped round - no joy there, then. We struggled to find somewhere selling phone cards to ring old friends. At the phone centre there was a huge queue and I accepted our fate and joined the end of it only to discover after about 10 minutes of queuing, that I was in the queue for paying bills. Doh! There were 2 free call boxes round the corner. Within seconds we were through to Mansoor and he asked where we were staying and would be round in 10 minutes. Pat gave him the wrong directions by giving the area name as a street name. In fairness to him the street signs here are a little confusing, to an outsider with 2 names on each. Howís a gringo meant to know? Other than the fact that we lived here for two years. As I have said, I was more than a little embarrassed by where we were staying and wished that he had arranged to meet almost anywhere else.
It is hard to describe what it was like seeing Mansoor again. He and his wife, Fazia, had kept us sane on the coast for 2 years, when we got frustrated by the hypocrisies of others, and the mad bureaucracy of the education system (unfortunately much of it an ancient legacy of British colonialism). They were intelligent, witty, open and honest, and two of the best friends we have. Now here we were back in Mansoorís company. I was feeling the whole gambit of emotions - joy, embarrassment (at our choice of accommodation), apprehension (that over the years our friendship would not be the same), sadness (that it had been so long since we had seen him) and an underlying sense of unreality (that we were really here). Mixed up chick, or what?
We had a trip round to see his new mosque and the accommodation they were building. Looks like itíll be a nice complex when it is all completed. He furnished us with a laptop, which I am using now, and made arrangements, if we wanted to, to bed down in his nieceís spare apartment. The hospitality was more than we could have wished for.
His niece, Zeena, seemed unfazed by two strangers from England appearing at minimal notice, and made us welcome. So welcome that it was accompanied by food, as is the custom in Guyana. Offerings of chicken and lamb curry with roti. Good roti at that, rather than the rather greasy lardy things we remember. Her two sons, Khalif and Khalid brought us a steady stream of meals over the next few days. I did my best to fix Kalifís electronic toys as a thank you but working with techno bits of plastic with only a Swiss army knife and a screwdriver did not yield very spectacular results. The bodged radio controlled gizmos limped around in half convincing fashion.
Mansoor had even picked up all our stuff for us, then realising we were cooker-less nipped back to mosque to supply us with some basic pots and a kerosene stove. Our apologies to Fazia, his wife, who was waiting for him to arrive back on the coast ñ he was rather delayed by hospitality duties.
Mansoor, left us fully equipped and in the capable hands of his niece, while he rushed off up to the coast to see his wife and go to his childrenís graduations, before the last boat went across the Essequibo. But not before he let us speak to Fazia, on the phone. In true Guyanese style her first question was ëYou put on weight, girl?í Fazia had always maintained that I was unhealthily thin, and had been on a mission for the 2 years that we lived next to her to redress the situation, and to make me a little ëthickerí (more rounded). Those of you, who know me, will know that I have never been skinny, and have been on and off dieting a lot of my adult life. There is something refreshing about the Guyanese attitude towards weight, to be ëthickí is healthy, and to be the shape that most ëdevelopedí countries aspire to is ëfineí and unhealthy (and they may well be right). Being ëfatí or even ëfat, fatí (very fat) is just what a person is and not seen as an insult. Earlier in the day a bloke had shouted across the street to a lad ëHey, fat boyí, in England this would be an outrageous thing to say, and here it is just a way of distinguishing him from, the tall boy, or the fine boy. It was great to hear Faziaís voice again, and I was looking forward to seeing her later in the week, and catching up on gossip.
I had a few moments of sadness. Their dog had an uncanny resemblance to our now deceased beloved, Mandy. Mandy had had the rather endearing characteristic of wagging her tail with such gusto that the wags snaked down her whole body, and would lower her front legs; bum still wagging in the air to greet us. This dog had the same characteristic. Thankfully, this dog had not learnt to ëtalkí in a ëboo-ingí fashion, as Mandy had, or the tears I choked back would have fallen.
Those VSOs, eh? They love to party!
That evening we decided to go in search of VSOs. We knew of a house where a chain of VSOs had been before and during our previous time here and Pat thought that it would be a good bet that the owners still rented to current VSOs. It was a worth a try anyway, especially as it was only two streets away from where we were staying. I thought it was a bit of a long shot and also felt a little apprehensive about wandering up to strangersí houses unannounced. Pat of course was right, there was a Filipino VSO, Peng, living in their old apartment. But she wasnít in but round at some other VSOís at the back. This is another aspect of Guyanese life; everyone knows what everyone else is doing. The community is so small that word gets around in lightening speed. This of course has pros and cons.We shout up to their house ëInsideí It is kind of a Guyanese thing that you donít walk up to someoneís door and knock, but instead you shout from the gate. Some bemused VSOís, Gerda and Jerome (Anglicised version of Dutch name) came to the door and we gabbled a brief introduction of ourselves and they invited us in. They invited us to a party that evening being held by some other VSOs who were leaving at the end of their placements.
It felt a little like we were gate crashing but I remember things being a little flexií at these kind of dos. There is a kind of openness that develops when you are living away from the norm for a while. Certainly we would have been delighted if any other likeminded soul had simply turned up on our doorstep while we were living here. A brief stop to be furnished with some alcohol (gatecrashers should not appear at a party empty handed), we set off. As with Zeena earlier in the day, no-one seemed in the slightest fazed by our unannounced appearance.
Meanwhile I had fallen in with a lecturer in Hydraulic Engineering and was discussing the land slip that had made the hydro scheme down at Lethem redundant after less than three years. Seems that some folk had pointed out the folly of placing the plant where they did but no one really argued very strongly as it was a free gift from the Chinese government. Canít look a gift horse in the mouth until its broken on Boxing Day, eh? Hippy came over and joined in the chat, fortunately for her, after we had finished on the technological aspects.
He and his wife Brenda were returning to England from their VSO placements, this year and looking forward to temperatures where it is possible to snuggle under a duvet. The couple are from Cropredy, and Brenda claimed that there was something in Patís demeanour that meant he was a Cropredy folk festival attendee. Not sure what that exactly means, but I think it was a compliment. Iím not so sure.
There is quite a media obsession in Guyana. Lots of little television stations produce interview programmes, human interest shows (high school graduations and the like) and rebroadcast American soaps. The newspapers like to cover any and all events. Given a population of under 700,000 and so much reporting going on, there was little chance that we could escape the media bandwagon (especially as it turned out that Mansoor had tipped them off that a couple of mad bikers were coming) and we were invited to interview for both telly and paper. Jamie, the paper journalist, had met us within an hour of arriving in the capital and had arranged for an interview after the weekend. Iíd rather expected that the thrust would be the work of VSO in countries around the world but in fact he was more interested in the ìgood things and bad thingsî angle. Well, it is a tabloid.
As for the TV, we were invited in a rather back door kind of a way. At Gerda and Jeromeís gaff we had bumped into an Anglo-Guyanese (her father had been here with the British Army before independence and married a local later) rock singer called Anna-Maria who has a weekend pop slot on one of the stations. At the party I had a long chat with her and her partner, who was quite charming. We pondered long and hard as to whether to take up the TV offer. We are not really ìvisualî people and although it would be good practice for presentations later on, our previous experiences with Guyanese TV had left us a bit nervous. Iíd been interviewed by a chap who didnít listen to my answers and ended up pretty much offering me up for marriage to eligible Guyanese brides. Hips had been on national TV giving prizes at a graduation where her ìassistantî had consistently handed her the wrong trophies and so prompted harsh words and looks under the glare of the limelight. Sharp eyed locals with long memories may see our latest interview and say to themselves ìWow, that slutty English bloke ended up marrying the hatchet faced bird off the Abram Zuil graduationî. We continue to weigh up the pros and cons.
As with most capitals we managed to ëloseí a week. Getting the sand out of Berthaís orifices took a couple of days. Wallowing in sandy water had deposited a load of sand up against the output shaft seal of the rear drive box. Seemingly some had got into the seal and worn it away a bit. Now a leak had started. Not normally a problem as refilling at regular intervals means that the oil stays fresher, this one was a bit more serious as the oil dumps into the brake drum. As the front brake is not best in emergencies at the moment (awaiting frame and fork repairs) lack of back brakes takes on even greater significance. The sooner we can get Bertha fully sorted the better!
It always worries me, when Pat gives the bike a big clean out, because the mud seems to block up all the leaks and sometimes I feel it helps to hold the whole thing together. Pat was not happy, even if we had parts sent from England there was no guarantee with the Guyanese postage system when they would arrive or even if they arrived at all.
Since we had been sprung once by the police for not having a front number plate and no insurance we thought it wise to rectify this before the next jobs worth policeman hassled us. Within two hours in town centre, we were fully number plated and insured, quite an achievement. The number plate guy was quite an entertainment. The thing was done by hand onto our windshield and while he worked he chatted away. He referred to Britain as ëmy mother countryí and was unimpressed with Blairís subservience to Bush. He talked of ëthe black man is strong, the white man strong in de headí and asserted rightly that sport would be at a loss without black people. Not sure about the validity of white peopleís intelligence though, weíve done some pretty stupid things.
He claimed to listen to the world service each day to catch up the news. Although the world service is still a little pompous, it is one of the best global adverts for Britain, if not the best. That and British councils which provide a lot of education and advice around the world. Few in England probably realise their worth and wonder why they are still funded and begrudge paying their TV licence fee for a world service they never listen to. But I assure you that from Addis to La Paz the BBC and British Council are known and revered. They are worth every penny.
The insurance was a breeze apart from a minor argument about them not being able to insure a foreign vehicle etc. In the end, the girl behind the desk got totally frustrated and simply gave up arguing, completely ignored all the complications of my lack of residency and the bike not apparently being allowed in the country and simply issued me with an insurance certificate for 7 quid. As I left, I promised not to have an accident that might cause her further stress. She simply went back to reading the paper.
VSO staff were involved in a workshop to review policy with regards Guyanaís future development and VSOís role in that, at the plushest hotel in town, the Pegasus (if you are worried about them wasting resources, they usually get places for a knock down price, as the hotel gets kudos out of it). We were planning on just popping in and saying ëHelloí to the director, and tell him that we would be dropping in later in the week, and to check if there was any sensitive topics of conversation to avoid in the interview with the paper. The very nice man, Thomas, invited us to join them for lunch. As we walked into the dining who should we see but a guy that had been a VSO in our time, long ago, RenÈ . Apparently he had done a little lateral movement, into Unicef and had married a Trinidadian since we had left, but looked exactly the same. Being a VSO obviously keeps you young. It was good to see a familiar face as only two of the office staff will be able to remember us. All the rest have changed.
The next day was a little photo shoot with Jamie the journalist, he chose the botanical gardens for a backdrop. As we were in the area, a little trip down memory lane was in order to Georgetown zoo. The zoo itself had never been a stunning example of manís kindness to animals, but we had always been entertained by the non-PC-ness of their hand painted signs. Our particular favourite was:-
YELLOW FOOTED TORTOISE
Endangered species
Easy prey to man
MAKES GOOD EATING
We were highly disappointed to see that although the enclosures had not had a revamp, the signs had. They were now more professional looking printed plastic signs, which were now thoroughly PC and lacked the flavour of Guyanese frankness. I feel that this is something of a loss. More worryingly, there will be a generation of Guyanese who are unaware of the culinary merits of their indigenous species.
We also discovered that day that 8 pages of typing that we had stored on disc had become corrupted somewhere. I doubt that mud drenching and general vibration and sharp shocks on the road from Lethem did it any good at all. But this meant that the next couple of days will be a lot of journal catching up. Carelessly we had ëlostí the whole of Venezuela. No one in town had a way to repair it, so there was nothing for it but to start again. Esther, who joined us in Chile, will testify to how slowly we type. Must get a sidecar and a typist to take with us. A car would be nice. Donít let Bertha hear you.
Friends of Mansoor had said that they were curious about our travels and wanted to chat to us. Mansoor rather sensibly decided to get all these people together and asked us to give a talk, rather than having the different people asking the same things over and over. We were very pleased to oblige. We are aiming to drum up some cash by speaking in the States and Canada when we get there and a bit of a dry run is just what we need to decide upon anecdote selection and general strategy. It was a bit of a ìdryî run, too. Only when Hippy took over and threw in a few choice chatty bits did the ambience change to a relaxed question and answer section.
I was lucky to be doing the more esoteric parts of the talk, good bits, bad bits, some photos and such. So I think I had it easy. Mansoor had invited some ladies over from Trinidad marking for CXC (equivalent of GCSE). They seemed to think that we were adventurous and ëbraveí. I tried to point out that this ëbraveí person is terrified to go on TV, and hasnít got the nerve to take on the responsibility of bringing up children. My attempts to explain there are different forms of bravery and my life is just normal for us - fell on stony ground. Generally, I feel a bit of a fraud when people assume that I am in some way special or more ëbraveí. There are so many things that I have my own hang ups about that I hardly deserve their awe.
It was a very pleasant evening, and it was nice to have a friendly forum for our first talk. Mansoor was very complimentary. I hope that heís knows us well enough to tell us honestly if we were dreadful, rather than do the general Guyanese politeness thing.
The next day we returned to see the only other member of staff at the VSO office that would know us, Roy, the guy in charge of all the resources. It was good to reminisce about VSOís from our era.
Pizza Hut. Tell ëem Mohamed sent ya.
We had been struggling to think of some way of thanking Zeena for her hospitality. I know that the Guyanese thrive on othersí appreciation of their food, but even so we feel better if we can return the favour. We offered to take Zeena and the kids out to Pizza Hut, as a treat, which had the bonus that half the building is a huge playpen. Fazia was coming to town the following day so we may as well make it an extended family affair.
For some reason unknown to me I was left to order, so I just went for a range of pizzas. Pat generally likes the spicy kind of thing so I included a pepperoni pizza. Knowing that this is not actually the first choice of your average Muslim so I went for less ëharamí options for the other two.
I cannot describe how great it was to see Fazia again, and the warmth with which she welcomed me was tangible.For her and I it was almost unbelievable to see each other again. Every couple of minutes she would pinch my cheek to check that I was really there. The Guyanese tend to be more physical people than the reserved English and years back when we were first here I found it hard to adjust to the lack of personal space. That day it felt perfectly natural to be sat arm in arm with my old friend in the middle of pizza hut. Our attempt to treat Zeena, did not work really. Being a dutiful mother she found it hard to relax and enjoy herself and spent her time watching Khalid and Khalif in the play pen. We were going to have to think of a plan B.As we were leaving we were carefully packing up the spare bits of pizza to keep the pork separate from the other pieces when the waitress came up to clear the table. She laughed when she realised our situation. ìDere ainít no pork, in dat. We donít av no pork or beef ëereí.î I should have thought really. There are so many Muslims and Hindus here that it is just easier for places to just serve foods that everyone can eat. I had just spent the last 2 hours steering all the Muslims there i.e. everyone bar Patrick and I out of 7, away from turkey pepperoni. I felt more than a little stupid.
Road, bridge, road, ferry, road ñ itís how you get around, here.
Saturday we packed up our stuff to finally head up the coast. Plan B to nip into town buy a little something. Back at Zeena that boys were finally allowed to sit on the bike. Now once they got on they could we get them off. We had timed it well, if we had done this at the beginning then they would have spent the last week in fantasy motorcycle racing. We really had appreciated Zeenaís hospitality, and hoped that she understood that declining her sumptuous offerings at times was purely on the basis of our stomachs being unaccustomed to Guyanese portions. Those fairies delivering, mangoes, fish curry and fry bakes, poularie, chicken and rice and cook-up secretively to the kitchen everyday for us deserve a little rest. We thank you.
We arranged to leave the next day after a bit of shopping. Mansoor had to get new tyres for his vehicle and Fazia wanted to do a bit of general shopping including buying some books for her children, Javed, Naveed and Safeya. We had, at least, the luxury of a few hours to get all of our stuff together. For once it was an easy job as it was just going to be a case of sticking stuff in the boot of the car. The morning passed in a blur of tyre shops as Mansoor took advice on tyres. A pal of his had advised him to up rate the size of the tyres from 165 to 175 and of course it turned out that this was far too big. Advice sometimes can be hard to filter as we have found with directions, but somehow you always hope that your mates will send you right. Waiting at the tyre place, a bike rolled up and Jamie the journalist presented us with an advance copy of the Sunday Chronicle. It was more than we could have expected, the front page of the Pepperpot ( a supplement of local interest stories) was filled with a skilfully merged picture of Pat at Machu Picchu and one of us and Bertha at the botanical gardens. With a full page write up in the middle of the paper. Although he had got a couple of facts a little twisted it was not bad at all. Our first real publicity on the trip! O.K., we have hardly hit international headlines with a national circulation of about 25 (we decided to stick with our standard style of understated cynicism) but itís the thought that counts. The fact that Jamie had found us in the middle of the capital would be surprising anywhere but here.
It was going to be a mad dash to get to the ferry terminal at Parika in time to ensure a place on the ferry and so as soon as the new rubber was installed, unbeknown to me, Mansoor hooned off for the bridge. I was in the car with Fazi and Mansoor. As we pulled off in was soon apparent that Pat was not following, we slowed up and then assume that he may have headed off on the main roads while we took a short cut. We waited for him at the junction of the main road. He didnít come. I knew that Pat was pretty good with directions and the town being pretty straight forward for a capital city I was sure he could find his own way to Parika. What was more of a concern was that he did not materialise on the road that he should have been on. So Mansoor decided to head back a little way to see if we could find him.I was around the corner having problems getting Bertha to start. For no good reason, Bertha had chosen this moment to have a solenoid glitch.
When I eventually got started, they were long gone and I was not sure how best to proceed. Were they waiting for me round the corner? Had they ploughed on to the bridge with all haste? Would they be worried that I was obviously not following them? All I could do was make my was to the bridge as fast as I could. True to form, Bertha had her next aberration just at this time and began to flood on one of the carbs - a needle had a bit of dirt in or some such. I knew it was not far and so limped along as best I could knowing it would only be a moment of fixing at the bridge.
So what is this bridge I keep going on about? Guyana is divided up by a series of rivers of pretty much Orinoco sized proportions; Berbice, Essequibo and Demerara (Yes, now you know where the sugar comes from, too!) Berbice and Essequibo are traversed only by ferry, but the Demerara has the privilege of having the longest floating bridge in the world across it. I wanted to get a photo of Bertha on this feat of aquatic engineering and so weíd arranged for Helen to go in the car with the camera ñ surely they would be there to meet me, or had they decided to continue with the blast to Parika ferry terminal? Draining the cabs and clearing the float needles took a moment or two but they were still not there when ëtwas done. Resolving to wait for another thirty cars (I have no idea where this completely arbitrary figure came from) to pass the end of the road before I set off, I set about counting. Fortunately for all of us, they turned into the toll lane at number eighteen.
As I suspected, Pat was not looking in the best of moods when we arrived at the bridge.
I waved for them to go ahead as Iíd already pulled the toll fee from my pocket and was salivating over it. I wasnít too sure how long I could keep it between my teeth on the way up to the booth before it would become untenderable. I was sure Mansoor would probably try to pay for me and desperately tried to shout to him through clenched teeth and a soggy 20 Guyana dollars that there really was no need. Iím not sure if he did pay or not but the booth happily proffered a receipt for my offering. The photo session was a bit of a cock up as weíd not really formulated a cunning game plan and backing up traffic on the pontoons is considered pretty poor form. There were huge signs not to stop on the bridge itself, and since overtaking was also prohibited, stopping for a pair of travellers to take a snapshot was hardly sensible. Pat was obviously pretty grumpy, and wanted me to take a photo out of the back of the car. We shall see.
Vreed en Hoop (love the name of these towns) to Parika always used to be a pretty tedious bus journey, jammed in with as many passengers as a minibus could conceivably carry plus another 5 or 6. Amazingly, the journey is only about 20 miles and is on reasonable tar roads giving a journey time of about half an hour. My memory had it down as a good hour and a half of purgatory. Currency lends enchantment for once.
Parika had not changed a bit; still the bustling ferry terminal approached by a kiosk lined with fresh and cooked food stalls. The joy for me was that taking the ìbigî ferry, rather than the passenger-only speed boats meant queuing patiently rather than being tugged by the arm to join the ìfastestî or ìmost comfortableî or whatever of the fleet of locally constructed timber boats with huge engines on the back. Poor Hippy had that privilege as she was travelling express with Fazia to pick the kids up. She reports that even that is a painless experience, now. I tell you, Guyana is coming forward in leaps and bounds. It was all remarkably civilised; the boat could have easily squeezed on an extra person on each bench but did not, one boat filled at a time rather than competing boatmen fighting for business by pulling people from one boat to another, and the provision of a life belt each (which incidentally I realised I had put on inside out half way across the Essequibo).
Now the Essequibo River at Parika is more of a delta really. There is a ludicrous number of islands in it and I remember 8 years ago when I first crossed this river I had presumed wrongly that the land you could see on the other side was the other river bank. Err ñ no! What I could see was merely the first large island we had to navigate around, then a second before you are even in sight of the other side. The water is a mixture of black water from the back country of Guyana and a major load of murky silt being carried out into the Atlantic. At least 8 years on, I knew the wisdom of choosing a comfortable position on the boat. The front ñ too hard on the coccyx as the boat bounces over the waves, the back too wet from splashing of the wake and being lower in the water, and on the Atlantic side you get soaked from the waves. So Fazi saved me a seat midway of the river side ñ perfect.
Having secured a ticket left only a long wait to board. Still, there are extra ferries working now which means that everyone gets to travel on the day that their ticket is issued (there used to be a nepotism based system for securing a place at the front of the queue).
My boat was met at Supenaam stelling by a host of minibus and taxi drivers, not bothering to ask where we wanted to go, but just shouting the names of towns on the coast. This is not an unreasonable approach as there is only one real road on the coast so if a driver shouts ëCharityí the town at the end of the road (not the end of Guyana, but getting close) it is obvious that he goes through everywhere else. As we got to the platform at the top of the stairs, a man was shouting in my ear ëyou said you were coming with me and began directing to his car.í I should point out that neither Fazi nor I had even looked randomly in his direction. I was thankful, that here, I was not a first time visitor to the country. It was have felt very threatening to a newcomer who would not even known where these towns were that they were verbally bombarding them with, let alone what a reasonable fare would be.
We did not join the aggressive chap, but instead joined a rather unassuming man in a waiting. Fazi not one to forget a kindness had chosen the man, not only for his more gentlemanly conduct, but also for the fact that he had had the decency to pick up her kids, when many other taxi drivers had left them of the roadside. We were about to set off when another man joined us in the taxi for ëa short dropí with a tray of eggs. The door did not open fully and as the guy joined us, precariously balancing the eggs on one hand through the narrow gap as he got out, I watched with anxiety.
N.B. The road was indeed as promised, tarmacadam all the way! No longer the dirt and sandy road we remembered.
Just as our arrival in Georgetown was marked by a joyful reunion, as I drove off the ferry at Adventure (yes, the Durrell book ìThree singles to Adventureî really did involve this very ferry crossing to the eponymous village) I was hailed by the former All Guyana drinking champion and senior teacher of Abram Zuil (the school where we had worked for 2 years). Gupti, for it was he, wobbled over and it seemed that he had been imbibing. His cheery face, though, was all I could have wanted to greet me back to the Essequibo Coast. Not atypically for a Guyanese rice farmer, he liked the odd bottle of rum.
Meanwhile, I was ensconced in Guyanese hospitality. Faziís kids had been staying at her mother, Bellaís. It is impossible to be in Bella and Furrozeís home without eating. Faziís sister, Shimaine ensured that the family tradition was maintained until her parents came back from the farm, with the kids. We were fed with a steady stream of tit-bits. Custard, sweets, fruit, juice.
Bella and Furroze are part of the foundations of the coast. They are known by all and as far as I am aware respected by all. Bella is a feisty, intelligent and generous woman and her husband, with a look of Fidel Castro (when wearing his forage cap, that is), is a well educated man who loves music, knows his own mind and relishes a political discussion. Our kind of people!
The children that we remembered as our neighbours, had blossomed into articulate, confident, fun loving, affectionate young people. It was hard to equate the tall ëfine, fineí gregarious girl before me with the chubby babbling toddler I remember. Frankly, she told me that she didnít really recognise me, but she could remember Mandy our dog (shows who is more memorable!). The boys who had been older when we were here, remembered us, and embraced me with the affection of a long lost relative.It felt good to be back amongst friends, although in all honesty it still had an aura of surrealñness about it.
We waited for Mansoor and Pat to get here on the big boat. It was getting late and the children tired. We decided to head up to Capoey, Fazi and Mansoorís place, without them. This was a real milestone for us, we were coming home (kind of). Our house currently empty of tenants looked much the same as we had left it, minus a rather wonderful dog, that was not there to greet us on the very vacant front step.
Pat and Helenís arrival in Guyana was long overdue and we were really elated to receive them. Never was a conversation about the bureaucracy or false intentions (Hypocrisy) in the Education system completed without a lengthy mention of them.
We felt complete and very comfortable to discuss any issue - including the existence of God. We have never given up on convincing them that an Unseen God exists - even though we wonder sometimes how could their conversion improve their characters. They already have all the good qualities religion promises to produce: honest, caring, just, charitable ...(since they would read this I would not complete this list).
Unlike the image they create on screen, their arrival caused quite a stir. The Reporters called with great enthusiasm - unfortunately I was at a marking exercise where I could not receive calls on my cell. My colleague at the office was of no help since we both have little love for reporters. Fortunately, one of the Reporters met the couple (quite by accident) and the rest of the story you know - except that the circulation of the Newspaper exceeds 45,000, the write up has caused me to change my view about reporters positively and the article should be found under www.guyanachronicle.com