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"...

Guyanese Defying Racial Classification.

As my Mr Long-legs opens the door to the Guyana Revenue Authority, we step from bright heat into the cool blue of a room full of people: sitting, milling-around, laughing, gossiping, liming, waiting. Long-legs has a driving-license to renew; and I, faces to enjoy, lips to read. A fine man leans against a counter, fumbles with some papers in his hands. He sucks his teeth, lets out a quick: "Oh skite man!"

His fingers are long, well-manicured. My eyes, following the line of his arm, stop at his face. His black hair close-cropped and curled as tight as a spring in a click pen. His eyes almond shaped: tight lids that meet in epicanthic fold. His nose, unremarkable: low bridge, with small, pointed, upturned tip. His high, broad cheek-bones combined with narrow jaw, pointed chin and full lips that puckered. It was the unexpected combination of features that held my interest. But most striking of all, was his ochre complexion, an earthy brown with unusual tint of yellow; a meld of colour that, as far as human skin goes, appeared new to me.

His being was an example of the Guyanese tendency, willing or otherwise, to defy ‘racial’ classification: the positive outcome of Guyana’s long and complex history. And it is exactly what the world needs. Amerindian? Maybe. A bit Chinese? Maybe. A bit African? Maybe. A bit of Portuguese? Maybe. What about Indian? Maybe. Combination of all. Yes. Maybe. It is the delight I experience on meeting an ‘African’ called Persaud, a ‘Chinese’ called Brathwaite, an ‘Indian’ called De Freitas, a ‘Portuguese’ called Hing and an ‘Amerindian’ called Van Lange. It powerfully reminds - in the way that the earth looks flat, but is actually round - that race is a construct. Guyana I cherish you for this.

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?

Remembrance Day & Edgar Mittelholzer

Guyana (formerly British Guiana), Remembrance Day & Edgar Mittelholzer.

By 1941 95 Guyanese had joined the British forces: 22 went into the RAF, and 42 in the navy. The remaining 31 were recruited for other specialised work. Scores of Guyanese also worked in the merchant navy. In 1943, 32 Guyanese enlisted in the British armed forces, 20 travelled to the UK to serve as munitions workers in factories and 48 (one of whom was the pioneering author Edgar Mittelholzer) joined the Trinidad Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve.

Mittelholzer’s experiences as a naval rating are shrouded in mystery, but his comment that this period was “one of the blackest and most unpleasant interludes” of his life perhaps suggests that the involvement of colonial subjects in the 2nd World War was a complex and ambivalent one. For one, people of colour were not allowed within the TRNVR to rise above the position of naval rating no matter how intelligent or able. In a letter dated 5th July 1942 Mittelholzer describes his Lt. Commander as a ‘monstrous tyrant’, complains about the treatment of the ratings and of their/his wages, which were notoriously low. Below is an excerpt of Mittelholzer’s letter (courtesy of Michael Gilkes) to Captain Denison:

"No, I cannot tolerate this. Shortly after posting this, I shall give myself up for arrest and will come before you for trial. […] It is the price I must pay for having left my civilian comforts to come forward voluntarily and offer services to the Empire. In fact, I shall accept many more such sentences of imprisonment, for I absolutely refuse to give service under such a commanding officer as Lt. Commander Wilkinson, and no matter what suffering I may have to undergo in the future, I shall never be shaken in this resolve."

When informed by the Lt. Commander that he could not leave the navy so “long as he was wearing the King’s uniform”, Mittelholzer “stripped himself naked and walked off the ship”. He was discharged on medical grounds in August 1942, presumably as a result of this incident, and was for some time afterward, kept under naval surveillance.

Mittelholzer, it has to be said, has become a hero of mine. Full of integrity to his end.