Irene's tree

Christmas come and done but I still smiling about Irene and she tree. Only today, I been laughing again, remembering.

Irene is Rehana big sister’s best friend, now twenty-five years old. Them girls grow up in a village two rivers away. Any way you choose to travel across is fun.

To cross the first river you either grit you teeth and ride in a small passengers speed boat…or you go over on the long, wide floating metal bridge. The bridge so strong that cars and trucks and tractors drive on it. The bridge so long that when you stand at one end, you only view is metal, water, sky.

To cross the second river, you either pray and huddle in a speed boat that slap river waves so fast the spit dry on you teeth…or you take the Slow Ferry that so slooow you can almost reach Miami in a plane during that time. In some parts of that second river all you see is brown water kissing blue sky.

But never mind that these girls live so far…they hip and swish and they know things. They read books, they watch tee vee. Last week, me and Rehana, we cleaning girl, been talking about recycling and making new treasures out of old scraps.

Rehana say, “Y’know, all me life that I know me sister friend Irene, since we little, and grow up, she been dreaming of having a Christmas tree. Every Christmas, Irene would talk about this tree, how she want a Christmas tree.”

Teenage Irene study and become a nurse. Like every East Indian gyal, she continue living with she parents…she would leave only after she marry.

Why she never buy a Christmas tree is a puzzle to me. Wasn’t as if she did poor. She was a glamour gyal, glorifying in tons of colourful makeup that she pay for with she own money. Maybe, to Irene, like to plenty Guyanese for a long time, a Christmas tree was a foreign concept…was something you only see in films or read about.

Then suddenly one night, just before Christmas, the people in the village see the most spectaculous thing. The biggest, brightest, showiest Christmas tree they ever lay they eyes on, in Irene verandah. But every daytime, the tree would disappear.

Not long after the tree appear, Rehana go to Irene home for some reason or the other. “What you do with the tree?” she ask Irene.

Irene say, “Tell you sister to come visit and I gon tell she about me tree.”

Irene say she find a big dead branch and cover it with aluminium foil from head to toe. She chook it in a pot that she cover with foil then she string lights all over the tree, inside and out, twine it, wrap it, string it. She drape some fake fir on it too. At night, it look stunning. But in the day, she hide it in she bedroom.

Rehana tell me, “To this day my father does remember Irene and the Christmas tree, and how he does laugh.”

Irene marry, migrate to Canada where she best friend, Rehana sister, living too.

Been...

...washing purple insults (compliments?) off the car...partying...dozing...basking in the sunlight and cool wind on the seawall...visiting friends...paying bills...going for walks...cleaning up the house for Eid...

And in the meantime, look what happen here!

Thank you Media Critic. I really appreciate. (Especially since some o' them 'educated' folks here so biased against we local lingua, and they can't hear the music in the way we talk and they think that this way of communicating is only for telling rough jokes...)

Stairway to...?

Two li’l ole ladies push aside Cousin Analis friend Yvonne, to ride on it. People racing to the glittering new mall, just like what they got Abroad, to ride on it.

Progress, dolled up with glitz and glass and steel and chrome, come to Guyana. Progress sneak up and bring a escalator, the very first escalator. Moving steps. The only mobile steps many folks here ever see before is ladders.

People lift they foot, pull back, lift they foot, put it down, wobble, wobble all the way up, not sure how to use it, my cousin tell me.

“Aye cuz, suppose they get a power cut if I happen to be on it?” I ask. “I got to wait for lights to come back on? Or I should walk up? Giggle giggle.”

“You fool!”

Progress arrive, yes.

I don't know why, I got a strange urge to listen to Led Zepplin Stairway to heaven.

Priorities

Some like it steaming hot, some like it ice-cold...and all li’l chil’ren here at one time or another snitch it from they mummy kitchen cupboard, put it in a saucer and eat it raw...that is, without mixing it in cow-milk. Ovaltine. Brown powder that make a malty, milky drink, add sugar if you want it sweet. In Merica, they got the syrup-sweet chocolate one. But like chil’dren with true Guyana blood, my ‘Merican nephews like the malty flavour.

A couple of evenings ago, my li’lest nephew, three years old, been sipping he Ovaltine, watching tee vee with he daddy. Some news come on about a finneral. The li’l boy chile drink, watch, take in everything.

Later that night, he ask he daddy about the finneral. He daddy, me second brother, explain matter-of-factly about dying, meeting Allah, and going in a hole...getting buried.

Li’l boy chile ask, “Everybody got to die?”

“Yes.”

“And everybody got to go in the hole?”

“Yes, everybody.”

“Mummy too?”

“Yes, mummy too.”

Li' boy pause. Think.

Pause. Think.

“Who go make my Ovaltine?”

Stop!

Hour after hour, pounding on and on and on like a nag, no, like a clap-hand crusader on a Sunday afternoon with a microphone, blasting into sleep - this rain, since eleven last night, it just ain’t easing up.

Fear of flood creepin’ back.

Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

I don’t normally ask for anything, I leave that to chil’ren. But this year, I decide to put shame aside and ask for a gift, seeing that this year I behave perfectly good…awright, awright, that might be stretching the truth a li’l bit…I behave good enough, I is human after all, unlike you.

Santa, can I have traffic lights ‘round town? Yes, I know I asking for much, I ain’t asking for a li’l thing like a bicycle...huh...no point asking for a bicycle, them lawless minibus drivers gon just floops me off me seat like fluff off they windscream.

And oh, just one more li'l thing...can you make them traffic lights steal-proof? (I only guessing that people thief them...how else they disappear some time now?)

Santa, I know you must be wondering what’s in it for you, why you should bring gift to a po’ country like this? Santa, ask not what Guyana can do for you, ask what you can do for Guyana.

But anyway, if you really want something from Guyana, just think, when all your reindeer go on strike...because that is the in-thing these days y’know, everybody joining union...when Rudolph and the whole troupe go on strike, you can use we minibus drivers. Yyyes, I ain’t lying to you, we minibus drivers know how to make them buses fly.

And Santa, this is the good part...when you done with them drivers you can leave they bahind to freeze in the North Pole while you bask in the sun here, drink cokenut water and knock back fish curry and roti.

Yours almost sincerely, seeing that I ain’t believe in no overweight, fiktishus ole man, G.G.

P.S. If you can't do this, lemme know, 'cause when them fake healers from Abroad come again to Guyana, I gon ask them. They does make the blind see, the deaf hear, the mute talk, the lame walk, the constipated...well, you get the message, eh?

Monday

pssst...

i know is monday but...

(whisper) i feel real happy.

sorry, yes, i know is (brrr) monday.

normal blogging coming again soon...

and how you feelin' today?

Celebratin'

In Guyana, your bir’day mean you share out li’l treats to friends…teacakes, chocolates, some kinda goodies…

Have some sweet ‘n’ milky fudge, Auntie M. style, with love, from me to all o’ you…

And happy bir’day to you too, Gela.

Yay for laffs

In a strange cold place in England, Nor [plus a bad word], it got a boy...okay, awright, a man...who can take a stone and turn it into a funny story. He got a Private Secret Diary that tell about life in Nor [plus a bad word].

Many a graaah and blaaagh day I does sneak in and read that private, secret diary. The people what comment there, they a li'l odd too. So I does really get some good laffs. And y'know they say laffter is the best med'cine...

Well, because he make me laff, and because he can’t even get a dead goose from he neighbour, po’ thing, I want he to win the best UK Blog in The 2006 Weblog Award. Beside, he hottest competition is...shudderrrr...politics...brrrr...

Today is the last voting day. So all who love laffter, vote for JonnyB.

Opportunities? Abound?

Wha'z the name of that wicked king who get condemned in Hades to push a boulder up a hill, and when it reach the top, it roll down again…and…ah yes, Sisyphus.

I must be the Guyanese Sisyphus I decide as I crawl down them 20-something backdoor steps to check the leak in the water tank…then crawl upstairs again.

When they say water is life, oh boy lemme tell you, this water got a sneaky mind of his own. The water wait until I switch on the pump, it wait until I pump life-affirming liquid from downstairs tank to upstairs tank…then it sneak back down, from upstairs to downstairs it creep.

As for the hole in the downstairs tank! That certainly ain’t got no prostrate problem, it spout in a gleeful arc so merry, the healthiest of men gon envy.

Mosquitoes breeding like shameless hussies down in the pool of water that collect under the tank, t’ank goodness for the sun-heat that dry it up.

The Li'l Capitalist in me can’t hold back sheself. “You missing out on a li’l entrepreneurial thing here,” she squealing. “Water is the new gold…oil…export it. Or start a Sadistic Tour, bring all them sados from Abroad, think gyal, think…you can even work a li'l history into the Tour, just like a Real Professional Guide, accent and all...Guyana means Land Of Many Wahders. Lawng ago, in the Sevendies, wahder used to flow into homes withawout the use of tanks but then all the wells collapsed and They never repaired them...or so my Mawmah says."

Li'l Capitalist pause to let this sink in then holler, "Oh…how about a Gym, get people working up they arms and legs clapping mosquitoes.”

I sink down on the settee to contemplate all this. But she who hesitates is lost. The only capitalist who gon be benefiting here today is the Plumber.

Vote early! Vote often!

Y’know that fella in the B.C. cartoon, the fella with the one leg and wood leg? He got a dictionary. The dictionary define ‘lackadaisical’ as when you short o’ one daisical.

Well Caribeen people, it look like we lacking a daisical…either that, or we ain’t know that Georgia, a sistah blogger, is on the shortlist for the Weblog Awards, and we ain’t voting much.

Yes. Caribbean Free Radio, “The Caribbean's first podcast - almost live from Trinidad & Tobago!” is in the runnings for The 2006 Best Latino, Caribbean or South American Weblog Awards

Yes, yes, I know, we need we very own Caribeen category, better yet, we own competition…but right now, we need to vote for we Caribeen gyal. Get that daisical moving! Vote early! Vote often!

The lunatic up on the wall

When my mother hear about the loonie on the seawall she urge me most vigorously, “Next time, walk with a stick!”

When my sister hear, she say, “Yeh, and if anybody pester you, push the stick hhhhard in they chest.” Then she laugh a laugh that roll over, under the seas, through the phone line from Merica, into me half-hearing left ear. “Hahaha, but you so puny I can’t see you managing that.”

When Rehana we cleaning gyal hear what happen, she ask, “But why you keep on walking? Why you didn’t just turn and go the other way? Or jump off the wall?”

Was Sunday morning, just after six. I been walking on the seawall, humming, “It’s a beautiful dayyyy, the sun is shiiining…” Sun wasn’t shining but a frolicky, gray wind been whipping life into everything, puffing up them waves on one side o’ the wall, lifting woodsy scent from the grass and scrub on the other side.

“No one’s gonna stop me nowwww,” I hum.

Up ahead I spy a scraggly, short fella, he bending, searching, waving something, quarelling away to Invisible Person on the sea side of the wall. All them dreadful news about loonies attacking citizen here, there, in the market, in the street, stabbing at me thoughts now. Please don't let he harm me please please please, I pray.

As he approach I turn me face away. Y’know how li’l children does think, if they hide they face from you and they can’t see you, then you can’t see them? So I ain’t look at he - if I don’t notice he, he won’t notice me.

Anyway, I reason to meself, the loonie ain’t bother anybody else that he pass on the wall…so he ain’t gon bother me, and this ain’t the first time I pass loonies on the wall.

Suddenly I hear, "Stop. Don't move, don't say nothing." The wretch blocking me path. He staring fierce at me, he holding up he shield...what it is, I ain't know...a piece of a car bumper? A tea-coloured hard plastic frame that look like glass?

He repeat, “Don’t move. Don’t say a word.”

I, Eternal Coward, freeze. I ain’t run. I ain’t jump off the wall. I fold me arms, face the sea.

I turn slightly to observe loonie. He shorter than me; twenty-something years old but he look like a dry up, dark stick; a small pink sore shining above he top lip; he hair knot up like tiny li’l peppercorn. He mutter, muttering, not seeing me but holding out one hand to warn me, don’t move. He bending, searching, staring down at the sea side of the wall. Gawd help me, I feel amused.

Suddenly, he ask, “Where he deh?” [Where is he?] “You see he, you see he?”

I point west, in the direction that he been heading, and I answer. “He gone that way, I see he goin’ that way. You better let me pass before he come for me too.”

And he move aside to let me go. All this happen in one minute. I didn’t exist for he anymore, he focusing on Invisible Man, hunting, muttering away.

When I tell me very best friend in the whole wide world what happen on the wall, he say, “The loonie knew a soul sister when he first saw you, G.G.”

Thankful

Water tank still got incontinence but at least we got a tank full o' water.

We house lights been pretending to be Christmas lights, surge bright, on, cut to black, off, on Thursday night, off on off on off, I ain't know watt hit we that night, must be Murphy. That night, the wind musta been pretendin' to be Mr. Wolf, huffin' an' puffin' to blow something down.

Next day, the power company fix a loose connection. But the whole day after that? A power cut. Couldn't sew, couldn't write, t'ank goodness for McCarthy's Bar, no, I ain't been drinking in no Irish Pub, I read Pete McCarthy book. What else to do put pretend to tour Ireland on a soggy Saturday dark with rain?

But I give t'anks now...we got water, we got lights.

I got to give t'anks too, to Dawn, for giving me a space to share my voice.

And to Jesse for that flattering review.

And t'anks too, to Bob for his interest in my blog. Bob does host THE COUNTDOWN, a internet radio show on MiPoRadio. He want to record a tale or two from my blog.

T'ank you all merry bloggahs too for stickin' around.

Which remind me! Oh Lawd, I give some serious t'anks too that the mad fella on the seawall let me go yesterday mornin'......

....Rrrrushing throughhhh...

Oh me dear darlin’ Sweet Man take me away from all this…not that I got a Sweet Man…a Sugar Daddy…or want one or need one but if me had one, that is what me woulda been cryin’ now.

But instead of a Sweet man it look like that bleddy man Murphy decide to pass through here, he properly like here, he been lingering around these past couple o’ days, jook two, three holes in we water tank and the leak taking days to fix. Murphy make me stub me toe so hard it nearly buss…but to be fair, that toe-knocking incident must be Mr. Nobody fault. Mr. Nobody leave a small table in a unusual place in the living room, right near the telephone.

Plenty more kanga-banga happening here, and I got too much more to do but Lawd have mercy, I too scared to complain, I always think that worserer gon happen if I complain…that bleddy Murphy gon make sure o' that.

I should run away in that mini-bus what name “Too Bless to Stress.” Too Blessed to be Stressed. But by the time that bus fly ’round the corner with me …we buses think them is angels, have wings, can flyyyy…I gon really feel as if I gone round the bend.

Ow Lawd somebody knocking at the gate and the phone ringing…how them two, Gate Knocker and Phone Ringer, always in cahoots I just ain’t know…

Mother-daughter chatter

Last night we get a power cut. I light the bergamot candle - a gift from Ireland, and I switch on the battery lamp, leave them on the dining table. Me and me mother retreat to the verandah.

In the noisy light of neighbours generators we sit, doing lovely mother-daughter things - we clap mosquitoes, we compare size and splats.

"Blah blah blah," I say. "Blah blah blah? Blah?" No answer. Sometimes, for reasons I can't figure out, my mother does tune me out. I look at she. "You not listening," I accuse.

"Yes, yes, I listening," she say.

"Blah blah blaheity blah," I blab. "Blah blah blah. And blah blah and more blah. Blah blah blah?"

I look at she.

She eyes got that look…like she gone far, far away. She trying to escape, I know this, she not listening. I decide to test me theory.

"And the cat eat the rat and the sugar melt in the sea," I say. Silence. "You not listening!"

"Yes, yes, I listening, I hear every word."

"What I say?"

''The cat and the rat eat the sugar."

"Blah blah blah," I say. "Blah blah and more blah." I look at she again. She eyes got that far away, glazed look again.

Some people just don't learn to listen, I tell you!