Pomeroon Chip: "We Ready Tuh Go"

A Saturday afternoon in Supenaam:  Taxi rank drivers kick up clouds of dust as they scuffle for prime position behind the wire-mesh fencing.  Words - “Mistress, mistress”, “Chiney, Chiney”, “Psst, Psst”, “Fine man”, "Red" - the melee of sound an attempt to lasso disembarking ferry-passengers as they pass through the ticket collection point.    A short middle-aged man, dark-haired and Chinese in appearance, steps through the open gate and disappears into the throng.   In the haze of dust and heat, Fat Boy shouts: “Come Chiney, mi taxi is over dere.  I gut t’ree banna already.  We ready tuh go.”  He is holding one of the three heavy bags that the passenger had been carrying.   Moments later and Sense-man is walking in the opposite direction.   'Chiney' twists round.  “Hey”, he shouts.  But it is too late.  Sense-man has gone off with the remaining two bags.   

Confused, he returns to Fat Boy: “Bring mi bag.”   

“No man, duh bag is in mi car.  Is he mus’ bring yuh bags!”  

But ‘Chiney’ isn’t having it.  He grabs his bag from Fat Boy’s car.  Holds it at chest height, in both hands, and runs toward the other driver.   With all three suitcases now safely stowed in the boot of Sense-man’s car, ‘Chiney’ breathes a sigh of relief.  “Leh we go man”, he tells the driver.  But as Sense-man makes clear, they aren’t going anywhere: “Is wha’ yuh mean?  I guts to get t’ree more passenger.”  ‘Chiney’ scratches his head.  Barely audible words break through his clenched teeth: "sk...nt", "mudda", "lawd".  Rasta strolls by with his mobile CD/DVD stall.  The latter sings along to the track he’s playing: “She’s my wife, I’m gonna love her.”   'Chiney' begins to relax.  Waits patiently as beads of sweat pool on his forehead, meander down his pock-marked face.

Pomeroon Chips: In the Pitch of Night

3.30am, 29 September 2014

I wake up clammy.  Pour a cold bowl of bucket water over my head and ignore the whine of mosquitoes as I fumble for slither of soap.   Refreshed.  I get dressed, grab a torch and a bottle of water.  The already packed suitcases are parked by the front door.  Keys, passport, purse.  In my handbag.

Out by the stelling the boat is stranded. The Pomeroon river controlled by tides has withdrawn, shrunk into itself; left behind a bed of cloying mud, hardy reeds and broken, discarded husks.   Fire and Fine Man, physically lean. Strong. Pull, lift and heave at the heavy boat until shout of collective "Waah!" launches it into lapping, freeing, water.

I feel my way across the wooden stelling: slippery and wet with dew. My eyes, though open, see nothing but stars. Like a cast of fluorescent sand across the sky, they fail to lighten the pitch of black below.  Tease us like the tickling breeze.

I hold the torch above my head as I sit in the boat. The light meeting the water's undulating surface looks for floating debris: propellor breakers. The commute to Charity is slow; an edging towards. Small Eye drives with caution.  An air of dreamy dark calm, cocoons. In the distance a Baboon breathes deeply. Slowly. Gutturally. Sounds like an ailing overweight man gulping air in sleep.

Pomeroon Chips: The Blue Jumbie

Back at the house Blue asked Bus’ Eye: “Y’all din miss me at duh fete?”  “Nah”, Bus’ Eye says, “Is wha ‘appen?”.  “Streups”, said Blue, “Y’all din miss mi? Y’all din miss mi?  I closin’ mi mout’, story caarn jump out.”  

Moments later he turns to me: “Gyurl, so hear wha’ ‘appen.  I’z invited tuh a fete dun river, so mi polish up mi boots; shine shine til I seed mi face come up gud.”    He had put on his black, wide brim hat, ironed his white suit, sprayed on some cologne and stepped out of his house; all the while “t’rowing back one, two , t’ree tupse” of Demerara rum.   

Standing on the mangrove river bank he had tried to flag down a river taxi.  Boatman had slowed down, come towards him; paused for about 2 seconds, seemingly about to let him on when suddenly “Vrrrooom”, he’d disappeared at full speed down river.  It turns out that Blue had been swaying-swaying from the after-effects of the ‘lil tupse’ and because it was 10pm at night and dark, dark, dark, the taxi driver suddenly thought: “Wait! Is duh Blue or ah Jumbie? Ah Dead Dutch?!”  Not waiting to find out, having forgotten his pointer broom, he sped off in fear of his life.

Blue was not happy.  He had dress up so fine: “No Sagga Boy could’a had style like he.  Streups.”

The Graveyard of Anna Regina

Rain,

And the
Trenches
Spilling over
Drown the dead.

A wading cow grazes
Eats at the cad of grass
Crowding around the edges
Of those concrete blue Tombs

The barely living marshall meagre
Belongings in search of somewhere dry.

Two days after writing this poem, I discovered that Anna Regina was named after Anna and Regina, the two daughters of a Dutch plantation owner.  His daughters drowned in a punt trench by the town's High Bridge. 

Pomeroon Chips: "Duh Clean-Up Lady"

The heat of the day ran down her face; harassed her. She grimaced, her eyes wide, wide open and reddish from the dust. She hollered: "All a' ya dirty skunts!" All the while trudging through the mound of styrofoam boxes, plastic bottles, discarded food and miscellaneous trash that flanked huge empty industrial bins. Her feet bare, her heels cracked, her skin dry, greyish, spoke of hardship. Spoke of hardiness. Spoke of sheer grit. And while she divided her energies between the hawking of abuse and the scooping up of rubbish, her bright yellow T-shirt bellowed: "My God is an awesome God!"

When I turn to pay Ms Welville G$400 for two bunches of ginep, I am quickly apprised: "Don't mind duh 'clean-up' lady, she mad. Plenty, plenty of dem mad in Charity-Amazonia." I smile, thank her, head toward 'duh clean-up lady', lean left, then right to avoid the darts of yuh-modda's-dis and yuh-modda's-dat. Hand her G$500. See a brief gasp of surprise quick-step into raw indignation. "Yuh got anoda G$500? Is duh all yuh gun give me fuh cleaning dis modda skunt dirty market, is duh all?" And while she bends over to scoop up more rubbish, I briskly sidle away. Scuttle off to my waiting boat, find the first blank page in my little black book and start to scribble: "The heat of the day harassed, ran rivulets down her face..."

Pomeroon Chips: The Water-Drummer

A gaggle of startled gaulins soar of a sudden. Distance themselves from the undulating line of Mucca-Mucca. The ordinarily still water becomes choppy; warns of impending rain. No more sibilant sssssshhhhhhing of water parting ways with the sides of our boat, but a drummer's shlap-shlap, tup-tup, shlash-shlash, pap-pap, as though some ancestor with large hands was shaping music-words on the underside of the fibre-glass bow.

Richard Schomburg's Travels in British Guiana

I'm in London. It's Autumn, there's a chill in the air and russet-coloured leaves are falling. I soon discover that I love reading about Guyana from the tranquility of an armchair in the mozzie-free realms of Holland Park.   Today, I'm reading Richard Schomburg's Travels in British Guiana (1840-1844) and it looks like someone else experienced "a critter in mi knickers" scenario.

So I quote:

"As it never rains but it pours [...] another insect took possession of our privates and certain portions of the abdomen [...]. Almost every grass-blade harboured a species of Acarus [...] known by the general name of Bete Rouge which, sticking on to the person passing along, [...] give rise to an intolerable itching and burning sensation. [...] Only a person who has experienced the awful plague [...Hello!!!! that will be me then...] can have a full conception of the sufferings which of an evening convert the longed-for hammock into a real Laurentian grill [...]. And finally, in order that our hands and face should not get off Scot free these were supplied with myriads of mosquitoes."

Pomeroon Chips: Parrots Gather at Dawn

Pregnant clouds and the promise of rain. I'm back in the Pomeroon where plantain birds sing with a deep, tongue-curling rasp: kwick-kwa-krew. I'm back where parrots gather at dawn. Today a round of green against purple, they kwi-kwi-kew-kew without pausing for breathe: a high pitched, quick tempo'd call for stragglers to join them.

It's 5.50am and already 20 degrees. As the sun rises, it's rays glorify the green. Turns swathes of dark green and black mangrove into luminescent mix of lime and verdigris. Each ripple of the river catches rays too. Each shines like a strip of foil carefully laid atop the swathes of green-brown. White garlins cast an elegant shadow: fly down river, inches above the water.

Brother walks to the end of the stelling. His legs bandy with old age. His back still proud. Crouching down on his heels, he leans forward. Scoops up water with cupped hands and begins his morning ritual.

You dancin' like a mongoose

Supenaam-Parika Ferry: Neetram, a man in a black hat with decorative ribbons greets us. Tells us he has "walk all ova duh world": Trinidad, Russia, Cuba, India, China and Barbados. That he is an international pilot. Pulls out a business card to prove it. Pulls out many others. By all accounts he is also a professional masseur, herbal doctor, sea boat captain and submarine engineer. Before we know it he pulls out a guitar. A man of many talents, he breaks into song: "You dancing like a mongoose, your wife wind she hips like a snake, na ne, na ne, bad a na, bad a dey"...

Pomeroon Chip: Ol' Man Nubert

Captain Blue. Self-employed builder of homes for the living and tombs for the dead. Teller of stories. "Yes gyurl plenty Pomeroon people scarred uh jumbie and no banna does wan go identify dead in duh mortuary. Look wah 'appen tuh Ol' Man Nubert. He son open duh door, see'd duh dead starin' back at he, an refuse tuh go in. He tell duh mortuary officer he fadda wearin' a blue shirt and pointin' wid he finger, he say "mus' be de black man far far, over so.""

The spruced up dead body - hair brush', teeth shine' up nice nice - was taken to the Wake where mourners dutifully imbibed copious bottles of rum, ate all the local favourites, played dominos and recalled in slurs of the tongue their fondest memories of Nubert.

At the Church, on the day of the funeral, weeping well-wishers filed past the body and all would have gone well but for Nubert's five-year old grandson. "Buh wait", he shouted in surprise, "Gran'daddy din have nuh teet! An' is wha' 'appen tuh Gran'daddy hair? How it pokin' out he head, straight straight like cow grass?"

Two miles down river and around the same o'clock, Ol' Man Nubert was buried under his new, and rather grand name of Hercules Frederick Carraway.

Pomeroon Chips: Overthrone?

Mrs Westmaas sat on her throne. Baby Cockroach, whose mother clearly taught him good manners, waited patiently outside the loo. The same cannot be said for his Daddy. At double the size, he walked under the door, brazenly sauntered past her foot and wiggled his antennae. Big mistake. With the holler of horror and surprise, slipper moved to hand, hand moved to floor. Slap and he dead. Mrs Westmaas was sorry it had to end this way but doesn't everyone know it is fool-hardy to interrupt a lady while she contemplates life on her throne?

Pomeroon Chips: Beetlemania

The night had been a cool and breezy sedative. Mrs Westmaas had heard strange noises at the back of her mind: loud paps, vooms, dups and fraps fraps. But she dozed on for no amount of fretting could halt the army of night-time mysteries from marching across her floor, from parachuting onto her mosquito net or ab-sailing down her walls. And she took comfort in the knowledge that by morning the noises would long be forgotten.

As the sun threw its rays through the bedroom windows, Mr Westmaas chimed: "Chop, chop Juanie, time to get up". Filled with the happiness of a new day Mr and Mrs Westmaas picked up their reluctant bodies, placed their feet upon the ground and yes, hollered. In unison.

The floor. Red. Was strewn with bodies. Dead bodies. What manner of man can sleep through Beetlemagedon? They must be becoming full blown Pomeroonians.

Pomeroon Chips: Voyage in the Dark

Up until yesterday this was one of my prized novels; a first edition published in 1934, written by Jean Rhys. The cover used to say 'Voyage in the Dark'. Last night it became food for the cockroaches and by this morning tiny bits of poo'd out pellet for the bin.

Pomeroon Chips: Shades of Grey

No bright shards of light this morning. No clear blue sky. Everything out of character, everything a shade of grey. Purple-grey clouds, greeny-grey mangroves, browny-grey river. And then the downpour erasing almost everything from view. Slanted by the wind on occasion but mostly straight and mostly heavy. Relentless. The canals burst their banks, flood the already sodden earth beneath our house, and as crabs emerge, do the sideways dance, frogs break their solemn promise to only sing at night. Flying ants appear from nowhere. Leave a litter of discarded wings, like miniature leaves, a confetti of petals. Little shlips of grey all over the shelves, the dressing table, the dining table, the kitchen table and the floor. The kittens stay huddled in an armchair not sure how to respond to the intemperately wet, the intemperately cool weather.

Pomeroon Chips: Prowling Jumbies

The falling rain wrapped a howl round the unlit house. Sent shivers through the sleeping; drenched their night-time dreams with the prowling jumbies of angry ancestors. But as morning emerged from the fray of night, a sweet cool air tickled at their senses, forgave the sleepers for failing to assuage their pain, for failing to call out their names in show of recognition - Adefela, Afua, Atta, Abba, Amma-Kwakwa, ooooh Amma-Kwakwa! And while the sun continued to withhold its heating rays as though in sad reflection, the sepia of dawn bathed the earth in a soothing cup of calmness.

Life in the Bush

Life in the bush - an ex gold miner tells me: "Boss man ask me fuh get girls. Spanish girls fuh Venezuela: 11, 12, 13, 16. Me show dem a piece a' gold, dem girls gone crazy. For duh whole night cost me ten penny weight of gold." [G$22,000 is equal to one penny weight.]. The widespread abuse of young girls, the nonchalance of the men that use them...it's a raw ugly reality.

The Gas Station

10.55am - Saturday, 27th September.

The sun growing ever hotter demands that all brows are shaded by wide-brimmed hats or caps. But the brown-blue river water cools, so too the speeding boat, creator of a phantom breeze.

As we stop for gas we pass through a shallow opening - the water now a muddy brown. The mangroves in close proximity look like tall old men with long gnarled legs wading through the water. David, the boat driver, gets out of the boat. Gets back in the boat even faster. The gas man's dog, a ginger brown Staffy, snarls a low growl, revealing the wet pink and long white teeth of its ferocious mouth. Guyana's dogs. Real dogs. Most are common or garden Rice-Eaters. And most wild, free and always a little hungry. But loyal too. Ginger-brown hushes when his not-master but friend (the gas man) let's him know, with a short, loud, 'hup, hup', that all is ok.

As I wait in the boat, I watch the river's bank crawl sideways with hundreds of barely visible crabs. Guyana is alive. Always. Even the dead teem with life: visibly transform into something new. A small fish leaves a trail of bubbles in the water. Another popping up to the surface makes a 'shlip' with a flick of its tail.

10 Never Minds

It's strange how a change in environment affects one's vocabulary. Rod has pointed out that I have taken to saying 'never mind'...incessantly.

1. 'Ooooh Lordy! There is a spider the span of a tea cup on my bookshelf! [slight pause] Never mind.
2. OMG! There's a bat in the loo! Never mind.
3. There are hundreds of little ants in the jam. [sigh] Never mind.
4. There is a fish in the washing up bowl! Wtf! Never mind.
5. I'm being torn to shreds. But never mind.
6. My clothes are all knackered. The cupboards are mouldy. Never mind.
7. Someone has nicked my flask but hey ho....[fill in the gaps].
8. Frigging fire ants biting my feet...[grrrr] never mind.
9. The cockroaches have poo'd all over my books. Never mind.
10. My heels, hard as goat's hoof. But never mind.

Mission 1 - Wakapoa

The black water, translucent, spears through the green, brown-tipped rushes. Uniform like the bristles on a brush, the green stretches for miles. The rest is all sky. For a time we, the boat passengers, say nothing. In awe. Mission 1 in Wakapoa is signalled by a giant Comaaka tree: it's outspread branches, welcoming. Awakened from his private reveries, Bolo tastes the water and nods: "It gud. Gud!"

Sheared Politics

Just arrived in Parika. Hubby needs a haircut. But which barber should he go to? 

"Ah" he says, "Gifted Hands, they must be decent!" 

"Oh? How do you work that out?" 

"What? Can't you see the picture of Obama?"

So now you know, don't worry about the quality of the haircut. It's all about shared (sheared) politics!