Letter to Carbon Credits Man

Dear Mr. Carbon Credits Man,

Recently, I been reading a lot about this new way of rewarding people, giving them carbon credits. I ain't too understand how it does work so I writing to ask questions, to learn more. I hope you gon be able to help me.

First question: them wall hangings, etc, that I does make, is mostly hand-embroidered, hand-painted. I does hardly use electricity. I can get carbon credits for that? Granted, the tee vee does keep me company while I embroider, but if I switch it off and listen to them voices in me head instead, I can get credits for that?

Next question: my second big brother who live Abroad did plant plenty trees around here before he migrate. My mother say he kerry he credits with he to 'Merica, but I say nah, them trees live here. I can collect he credits?

Other question: if we newspaper explain clearly to we how this credits system does work, if it explain how we can collect them credits, in what form they come - ice cream (hand-churned), hand-beaten gold mined in places that don't destroy trees, that type of thing – if we newspaper explain all this so we ain't have to go online to understand, therefore we don't use up electricity, we country can collect carbon credits for that?

Well Mr. C.C. Man, that is all for now, stay well and stay happy. I send you bright carbon-free smiles, I brush with hand toothbrush, not electric or battery.

Yours truly,

Guyana Gyal.

P.S. I been going to ask you about carbon credits for communicating via ESP rather than using up precious electricity, but I gon leave that for another time.

The jumbies that hold you...

“You find the rat yet?” Lush Annie ask me over the phone.

“No. But on Monday morning I discover the head of one dead rat in we yard, in dry blood, he whiskas stiff like wire. I never feel such love for them neighbourhood cats before. If you see bleach that I pour to clean the place. And oh, early Monday morning I find a dead lizard in we kitchen. Since then, we ain’t see one hint of the rodent in we house. Musta been a jumbie.”

We snicker. Annie say in she dry, matter-of-fact way, “Aiye, people here proper believe in jumbie, eh?”

Giggle, giggle. “Yes, is true.”

Guyanese blame every event, behaviour or sign that we can’t explain on jumbies…ghosts…dead people spirit. The most frightening of all jumbies is them Dutchman spirits. They get blamed for the most evil acts that nobody can’t find a’ explanation for.

When them Dutch people did own Guyana in, around, and a while after the 1500’s, they used to kill they slaves and bury them with they treasures to guard the treasures forever. Don’t ask me if is true, that is how the story go. But today, it ain’t them po’ slaves spirits that haunt we. It is them bad Dutchman jumbies that torment we. Like I say, don’t ask me if is true, I only telling how the story go.

“Ayie, Annie, you ever hear Monty’s Dutchman story?”

Before I could launch into the tale Annie cut in, “Monty insist that he see a jumbie so he gon believe anything.” Monty is a twenty-four years old computer guy we used to hang out with; he ain’t believe in God but he believe in jumbies.

“More than one time he tell me this story. He say it got a Muslim girl up in Berbice…a young girl, she sweet, sweet, sweet, and how she pretty, he say. And every night a wicked Dutchman jumbie does trouble she, sleep with she. I tell Monty to stop talking nonsense, he say, nooo, is true, the girl father heself sit down one night to keep watch over he daughter and he see for heself. I ask Monty what the father see, and he ain’t tell me.”

Annie say, “You ever notice how Guyanese does say is jumbie when the person got a mental problem?”

“Yes, that is exactly what I been thinking about the other day…like that coloured gyal Lizzie did tell me about…she ever tell you?”

Annie say, “Y’know how long now Liz tell me that story? People say how Cyril Potter haunted.”

Lizzie used to teach at Cyril Potter, a training college for teachers. One of Lizzie students used to cry to she about a Dutchman who does wait ‘til she fall asleep then, according to the gyal, he make love to she. Sometimes, he wake she up and tell she how he love she and can’t wait to take she away and marry she.

“That must be some mental problem she got,” Annie say. “All of them got mental problems and they say is jumbie.”

“Must be problems like that man in A Beautiful Mind…”

“That movie is one o’ my favourites…”

“Yeah, I see it two times.”

“Imagine, that man got to spend the rest of he life ignoring them three people, he does ask other people if they see them too…”

Heh. Try telling this movie to Guyanese. They gon say how the man does see jumbies. They gon even tell you more stories about people who got the same experiences. Neurosis, psychosis, fear...all of them is jumbies that hold you.

Well, I ain’t know what kinda mind I got but I know I ain’t imagine that the pawpaw did get bite up; the glue trap did move; the food from the trap vanish…not once…but two times. So, ignoring Monday morning dead rat and dead lizard like a true Guyanese, I declare it musta been a jumbie.

Oh…by the way…when me was five years old and cousin Sam was four, me and she been playing at the top of we steps that lead into we house…and both me and she at the same time see Ma, we grandmother. Ma been dead and buried a few days before.

Seeing is believing.

“That ain’t no rat,” me England brother say on the phone early Saturday morning. “You all don’t have rats where you live, only mice.”

Where we live. Hmmm. I know we live in a nice place, big homes, accountants, business people, doctors. But that ain’t mean we exempt from rats. I am sure a lawyer or two live around here too.

I so want to believe me brother. I say, hoping he gon convince me otherwise, “But I did see a big one here one time, it had stiff hair and a hard black tail.”

“That was a big mouse. Rats are serious trouble...if people here see them they call the health inspectors. They are so huge they fight cats and dogs. The only place in Guyana I did ever see rats was in Kitty, them rats been so big that them cats been terrified of them.” (A place named Kitty harbouring rats so big they fight cats!)

“You sure?” I ask.

“Yyyes man, you all ain’t got rats.”

“Yee haw, mummy, you hear that, we ain’t got rats around here.”

“That is what you think,” she say. “Ask your brother if he don’t remember when we first move in, it had one so olllld it been bald. It coulda barely walk, it did need a walking stick.”

“Naaah man, you all ain’t got rats,” me brother repeat. Then he say in he dry way, “If you ever see a rat you gon call the police.”

To be honest, we ain’t even see the thing in we house. We only know that one papaw get bite up, and the glue trap move.

My mother say, “I don't know why you getting so worked up about this thing.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you should talk. Look how you does freak out if you see a fly in the house.” Right there and then I plot to ketch a big cow fly (if I see one) and bring it in the house. But I change me mind when she step one foot into the gluey-gooey glue trap. Unfortunately, I ain’t find it funny because I feel sorry for she. She see ning-ning to get the glue off she foot and I see ning-ning to clean the floor.

Saturday afternoon, me Merican brother, laughing, tell we mother on the phone, “Tell she to be careful, it gon bite she toe while she sleep.”

That night we put the food in the wrong place in the rattrap. The thing take the food and run away. I blaze with anger next morning. That thing ain’t know the right way to behave? It ain’t know that it is supposed to go to the right spot on the trap and get sprung?

And as if that eyepass...that insult...that travesty of justice...wasn't enough...

We put the food in the right place on the trap last night. This morning, the food missing, the trap sproing, and nothing get ketch in it. Obviously, the thing grab the food and run away again. Sproing the trap, leave it upside down and run away. I never see such shameless behaviour in me whole life.

So far, we ain’t see hide nor hair of the thing, we ain’t know what it look like, we should put close circuit tee vee, my mother suggest, grinning. I now beginning to think the thing is a jumbie. Ghost. Dead people spirit.

Jumbie does bite people toe?

Friday night hell

I lie on me bed like the man from me childhood village who did die with he eyes open. Stiff. Staring. I ain’t know what that dead man see but I see hell.

Hell. Ning-ning, some people does call it. I see ning-ning two times on Friday night. The first time was more like a recognition that hell exist. And the second time...well...lemme start from the start...

On Friday night I put one glue trap on the kitchen floor, near the stove. In the middle of the glue trap I set a li’l piece of papaw. Trembling with trepidation, intimidation and all other fearfulations, I loll on the settee in the living room, watch tee vee and wait. My mother gone to bed.

I wait some more, I expect to hear squall and struggle soon in the kitchen. If that happen, then like a trueborn coward I would wake my mother to get rid of the thing.

Not a squeak, not a squawk I hear. I nod off. A shout on the tee vee wake me. Time to go to bed anyway.

Tiptoe into dining room. Peep into kitchen. Immediately, horror scream through me mind like the sound from Psycho when the man did stab the lady through the shower curtain.

The glue trap been three feet away from the original position. The li’l piece of papaw gone missing from the middle.

Ning-ning. Hell. If I did want to deny it, I couldn’t, not now. This was evidence, absolute proof that the thing is in we home, what else coulda move the glue board and go with the papaw?

Ayiyeee kakamole, mama mia kakalamba. I flee in disarray to me bed. I lie staring. And if what I see then wasn’t hell, I ain’t know what it was.

The thing appear in me mind as if it been right there up on the white ceiling...it got four legs, two beady malicious black eyes, fur, a long black tail stiff like a whip. As I stare, it grow bigger, bigger. It look like that creature in The Nutcracker Suite - the movie, not the ballet, I never see a real live ballet. I ain’t even want to contemplate what part of the house the thing is hiding. Slow, careful, I get up and hang me mosquito net, tuck in the hem tight tight under me mattress. Whoever did say hell is a place of we own making, meaning, we imagine it, they ain't know squat. Hell look like a rat.

I wake on Saturday morning with suitcases under me eyes. I think I going crackers.

Pest in paradise

A quiet morning walk, nothing to warn me of the pest. No bird in the big tree by the roadside wee on me; no dawg bark at me as I walk in the next neighbourhood; no mad man accost me. I return from the peaceful walk.

“Cockroach bite the papaw,” my mother say.

Oh no, is a brand new papaw my mother buy yesterday, we ain’t even cut it as yet, I forget to put it in the fridge last night, bleddy kakarachas, where you come from, I ain’t see none in the house for ages.

I go in the kitchen to make breakfast...this is we routine...I make the light meals - breakfast, supper, and my mother do lunch.

I look ‘pon the papaw.

Instantly, a series of nervous breakdowns hit me, biff bang thud, bradaps, just so they take me down, piece by piece, ow, somebody hold me, hold me and sop me head with cooool Limacol before I faint.

I look again ‘pon the papaw. Long teeth marks in the gap. On the cupboard top, li’l flecks of papaw lie scatter scatter about.

“Mummyyyyyyyy, that ain’t no bleddy kakroach. Is a...gasp...!”

Another set of nervous breakdowns hit me. “Is that empty house behind we...that is where he come from...”

The house where them Brazilians used to live then they move out and some rude-staring fellas move in then they move out, that house is now deserted. Or so we think. The grass grow high, high, only the good Lawd knows what live there...and one musta sneak into we home, only the good Lawd knows how...when...

“They should pass a law, when houses get empty, the owner should maintain it, keep the yard clean,” I holler. “Then you gon see who own a house and who disown it. All property disputes gon end right there and then...nobody ain't want to pay for what ain't theirs!”

Me sister email. “Be careful,” she say. “It can bite you foot while you sleep.”

Oh Gawd, help me, suppose it feel cold tonight and decide to snuggle up with me while I sleep, ow, ow, hold me, don’t let me fall apart, suppose the entire neighbourhood get afflicted, the whole town, the nation, they gon isolate we, lock we down, damn you Alberrhh Kamoo, damn you, I never know such anxiety and dread ‘til you expose me to the plague in you bleddy book, I shoulda stick with Heidi, then we woulda make goat cheese from the milk of every living creature, ow hold me before I faint.

I wash, I clean, I Lysol the house. Rehanna the cleaning girl wash and clean and bleach.

My mother go to town and buy traps, poison, paste-boards. We ready to do battle with you Mr. Pest, I ain’t care what them animal rights people say, they can defend all them two-legged rats and two-legged snakes and bandits that they want to defend. But you...you...

...ow...I feel another breakdown...lemme go lie down...

The glooms

Oh, if you only know how I feel like Snoopy dancin’ with he eyes shut, head lean back, he ears flappin’ and he arms fling out and he smile stretch from this side to that side!

Joy joy joy feelin’ it ‘cause I had a near escape from the glooms.

These past couple o’ days nothing...No Thing...been going me way, too many power cuts, etc etc etc blah blah blah and the glooms invite me, come here, lose yourself in this swamp-land, sit under this trouble tree and enjoy some whine, the glooms call, come, indulge in bitter-sweeeet self-pity.

But truth to tell, I like to laugh and me laughter join up other people’s laughter and the glooms run away because they hhhhate that merry sound.

And now, though I got a ton of things to fret about, right now this moment all I want to do dance like Snoopy oh happy joy...

Correspondence with Mr. Curry

One o’ the favourite past-times for we the people of Guyana is to write letters and send them to the newspapers. Some mornings, all you can read is attacks, counter-attacks, who is right, who is wrong, who got brain and who got brain drain. Is like a War of the Words out there, man.

I, the wicked citizen, does always laugh at how worked up some o’ them people does get. Until yesterday.

Yesterday I had cause to get into one o' them letter-clash. But I don’t think them newspapers gon publish these.




Dear Mr. Curry,

You ain't nothin' but a low-down, two-timing, yellow-belly liar, conning people, luring them with your spicy talk and tantalising promises...then whap...you get them in the gut. Shame on you. You should know better than that.

Yours, etc,
Guyana Gyal.



Dear Ms. Gyal,
Oscar Wilde said, "Nothing succeeds like excess." We know what your excess has succeeded in doing, don't we? May I suggest you practice a little restraint the next time you consume?

Yours sincerely,
Mr. Vindaloo.



Mister Vindaloo! Snort. What a joke. Look at you, trying to sound lyrical and exotic, you common peasant curry you. You think I ain't notice how you misquote Oscar too, eh?

Guyana Gyal.



Dear Ms. Gyal,

Your mother should stick an apple in your mouth, roast you and call you pig.

Oink!

Yours as always,
Mr. Vindaloo.


Post-It note to meself: Remember to bad talk curry everywhere I go.

The wall

Kadonk kadonk, hamma, bang-dang, carpenter man and he young son putting up a low wall in front o’ we door downstairs.

This wall is new Guyana-style architecture popping up around one or two homes. It got to be wide and broad enough so the door can swing out. It got to be high enough to prevent a small flood from invading we li’l foyer again…and low enough to step over. Most people stop at two- feet high.

Long ago, them Brits here [and I believe them Dutch too] did know what they been doing when they ain’t build rooms downstairs, and they keep them houses way above ground with tall columns. Then we the people watch tee vee, read magazines and travel; we see fancy ground-level homes. We musta think flood gon never come again, or that them overseas flat homes look more pretty. We build flat homes and rooms under we tall houses. Now, we got to build walls outside we doors.

This wall is a challenge to me. I come up with all kinda obstacles against it.

“How them fragile, not flexible ole folks gon step over it when they visit we?”

“They gon climb them back steps,” we carpenter man say, very pragmatic.

Awright, yes, even if them ole people go over the wall at the front door, they got to climb front stairs to reach we living room.

“Exotic Gyal say they put flat wood in the groove inside they door frame, and seal it with water-proof thing. The door does open and close easy, easy.”

“It don't hold up good in a long flood,” carpenter man son say. “I see it already. And the sealant does fall out when water stay on it too long.”

Carpenter man been in the business long, and he does tell we the truth. And too besides, he build a wall against he door; he say it work good, good.

But I ain’t give up. “It gon look odd,” I mumble.

“You gon think o’ something to do with it,” me mother say.

She is right. No wall should keep me back. So I been having a flood o’ ideas.

Hm…graffiti?

Aiyeee…I wish I can do a tropical version of this!

Mmm…how about some Gaudi.

Or Guy Crosley...

Any suggestions, dear readers? Let we break down the Monday blahs and have a li'l fun nah?

Grief

Rain from we rainforest howling with we rain on the coast, Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band spinning in we home

I’m fixing a hole where the rain gets in
And stops my mind from wandering
Where it will go

as if the past wasn't nightmare enough - political violence; the '02 crime wave, fifteen months of shooting chopping robbing raping; the big '05 flood; as if the present ain't tough enough with pettiness vindictiveness the constant low throb of fear; as if none o' this ain't heavy enough to keep we down, and apathy we friend, she ain't got the energy to haul we up, and ignorance, he just ain't want to know, and poverty, she ain't got the resources, and corruption, well, he too busy taking care of heself

I’m filling the cracks that ran through the door
And kept my mind from wandering
Where it will go

we hear the news yesterday, take down we flags and hang we heads instead in shame and grief, stop this rain and let we tears rain down instead. Three Guyanese men plot a deed so evil in New York, me mind keep wandering to the horror of what they been contemplating, how could they betray we, how could they betray them thousands o' people in New York, how could they betray humanity this way, we ask, and the cracks in me mind keep coming back

I'm painting my room in a colourful way
And when my mind is wandering
There I will go