I felt the earth move...

Whole body shaking from head to toe, trembling inside-out, oh me Lawd-oh, I having heart attack, nervous breakdown, me head vibrating, swaying, I getting eye-turn…dizzy. I get up from the chair, cuss the chair, sit down again, vibrate again, get up, cuss the chair, my fate, my future, my past and present, I sit down, vibrate some more, run out to the living room.

Big strong house vibrating but not a sound you hear of a train or giant truck rumbling underground…I know this rumbling from the real thing I experience plenty times in the Caribbean Island. This trembling was eerie. No sound. Just silence and trembling. Thank you Santa, you big, clumsy oaf, leggoing…letting go of…a load somewhere, shaking up the land before Chrismus.

“Must be Venezuela or Trinidad,” my mother say.

Every time them two countries get a quake, we does shake baby shake.

“Venezuela think they can walk into we country just like that…” my mother say, referring to the incident that happen the other day when them Chavez-bullies shoot up in we territory, play wrong and strong and deny it or something like that. Huh, is a long, long time I warning that one day we Essequibo folks near the Venezuela border gon wake up and find Chavez in they bed, what a lover to wake up to. Ow, spare we, do me Lawd.

“Look, even their earthquake…if this is theirs…want to walk over to we land!” my mother say, relaxing in she rocking chair in the verandah after the tremor.

I phone Neighbour. She Husband answer.

“Neighbour Husband, I thought I was having a heart attack or breakdown,” I say.

Neighbour Husband laugh. He did know it was a tremor from the first vroom. As soon as he start to vibrate in he chair he remember a surgery he been doing in one o’ them Caribbean islands years ago. The patient start to shake on the operating table, moving to he, moving away from he.

“Anyway, I knew it was a tremor because of that experience in the island. So I went and put on all my clothes, I was wearing only a vest and shorts,” he say. “At least now I’m fully dressed if there’s a rougher aftershock tremor.”

Next, I talk to Annie on the phone. Annie say she mother thought she was getting dizzy spells. Poor auntie, she not too long come out from hospital.

“Annie, I thought I was having a heart attack or mental breakdown,” I say. Annie laugh and tell she mother. She mother laugh.

Annie say, “G, you think a tsunami coming?”

“Annie, I hope and pray not. Neighbour Husband say he check the ocean.”

“He check it? What it look like?”

“He say it looking alright.”

“G, I hope so.”

I don’t want to tell Annie how recently I been smelling the ocean a lot, that lovely stinky salty sea smell that make me want to go and lie down on a beach (under a tree), and slather me skin with sunscreen lotion. Annie might see the smell as a sign of danger to come, then she gon scare me and I gon can’t sleep tonight.

Talking to Annie I start to feel green in the gills again, head swingy and nauseous but I ain’t say nothing, everybody know what a bleddy, cowardly hypochondriac me is.

But thank goodness!

Two minutes later Annie complain of the same sick feeling.

Misery loves company.

But anyway, good friend that I am, I tell Annie I been feeling the same way too and I try to console she. She say ‘bye in a most distinct green-in-the-gills voice. Good friend that I am, I tell she the feeling gon pass, but I was secretly relieved, it ain’t just me, ha ha ha, it ain’t just me.

(Please note…this ain’t maniac laughter, hahaha.)

Fazal we gardener come to pick fruits from we tree and he say that all them folks in he area dash outta they house, hahahaha. He say he been riding he bicycle, and them electric wires start to swing, hahaha.

(Please note again…this is amused laughter, not maniac laughter.)

On the electric wire two doves cooing and snuggling. Them dawgs across the road start to howl. Because a ambulance pass and holler. That is the only time they does howl, when they hear a siren.

“Well I never! Them animals ain’t give no signal that this thing been coming, how we gon trust them for real emergencies, eh?” I ask my mother.

“They musta been more scared than anything else.”

I smelling that lovely sea-stinky smell again.

I wonder if I should call Annie and tell she.

Friday, 10:41 a.m. Reactions coming in now, varying from place to place.

Construction guys up on a scaffolding (who call to gyals daily like bold macho dudes) scamper down like frighten ants and work done for the day, they ain’t going back up there, eh-eh, not them at all, at all.

Rehana, cleaning girl, say she thought she hubby dawg been rubbing up heself on they house post, shaking up they home.

Nathaniel, brother friend, say, on Regent Street people run out and holler, The Lawwwwd is coming, the End is here, Repent, Repent.

Remember to wear all your clothes now, best friend say.

Chitchat.

“Oooh gyal you body look good…rah rah rah…”

That is the sound of a cellie ‘ringing’ in the bank yesterday.

Slim young fella with glossy hair, black toenail polish and postie-bag sling across he chest and hip, answer he phone, brush he fingers through he gorgeous silky hair every other minute.

Of course, everybody hear everything he say, but people soon tune out, ‘cause was a run-of-the-mill, ‘hi, how you doin’, nah, nah, I’ll get it later’ sorta chat…or gyaff as we does call it.

Gyaffing is what we live for here…and cellaar-phones ring in the best thing for extra-communication in my lovely native land. Every now and then, in a quiet bank, on the car-horn braaping streets, in between vendors shouts in the market, at silent-humming Muslim or Hindu functions, you can hear (without listening) a story in any manner of speech.

One day in the checkout line at the supermarket, a very attractive woman been talking on she cellie about a harridan who giving she problems. The attractive young woman speech was braadaar…broad and loud. I get the impression of a beautiful bird who open she mouth and the scraping skraawk of a chicken hawk come out.

Truth is, most Guyanese don’t care a juicy mango who hear or who ain’t hear they story. In fact, by discussing they affairs with other people, they does get free advise without going to marriage counselor, doctor or lawyer. This is how it work: be a part of a group anywhere – a queue in the post office, at a wedding house or funeral house – then mutter you problem to the person near to you. The next thing you know, other people partaking and doling out they opinion and feelings too.

With all this love of gyaffing, you can imagine then how important the cellaar-phone is to plenty folks here. Except me and ma. For all we love to gyaff, the bleddy cellie just don’t seem to ketch we interest as a tool for extra-chatting. We got we house phone, the internet, and that keep we busy enough. We keep a cellie for emergencies.

Recently, we the people had to trade in we ole cellaar-phones for the new kind.

“Why?” I ask one o’ them many tradesmen we know. The thought of taking the time to go to a cellie store to do the trade-in did feel as if something chewing up me minutes like a greedy oink.

“You see,” he explain in he slooow, de-liber-ate, paaatient way. “Them new phones got a chit. And them old phones don’t have this chit. And without this chit you can’t make calls. They doing away with them old phones, and they ain’t gon be working soon.”

Chit, I gather, is chip, but I prefer chit.

Chit-chat. I think I hear a pun ringing there but I ain't gon say anymore.

The things that matter.

Two or so years ago, We the people of Guyana declare war on bad manners.

Unfortunately, plenty of We the people wasn’t too sure who we was fighting, and we drift into a foot-shuffling struggle, lugging around the misconception that the enemy was “Them”.

“Them” had a vague resemblance to rough mini-bus conductors and drivers; vendors with push-carts so wide they take over huge chunks of road space; men wee-ing in the grass parapets for all to see; them in politics; girl-receptionists who answer phones with at-tee-tude. “Them” was who some folks identify as people who should know better and people who don’t know any better.

In the long run, nobody get control of this war. Because like I say, We the people didn’t really know who we had to fight. We did forget to look in the mirror before we head out for the battle.

This include me. Here me was, thinking that me manners was polish-up and shining. Only to I discover the other day how rude I been, forgetting to say thank you here to somebody who take the time to say good things about me on she blog, take the time to give me this, since August.

Michelle, I hope it ain’t too late to say thank you on my blog, and please forgive my bad manners.

I been making a mental list of things that matter to me...kindness, patience (not too strong on this one sometimes), tolerance, laughter, imagination, yes, without this, you would be surprised how dull a place can be...

Indulge, indulge, ind

Yesterday afternoon produce such heat every bone in me body melt, I did need plenty water on the rocks to cool me down. As I open the freezer to get the ice, a flash of blue ketch me eye, and a smooth voice whisper.

“Hellooo...”

I turn to examine where this voice coming from.

A fat box o’ Cadburys been sitting in the freezer door, all braggadocious-blue, sporting a dandy red flower. Been there for months. I don’t have a sweet tooth, so when chocolates arrive, I does store them in the freezer door, waiting for the right time.

Days, weeks does go by.

Months.

Years. Some o' them chawklits does grow beard and lose they tan.

Well, with all that humidity and stillness stewing up yesterday, me thoughts boil over with loneliness and longings for friends, for family. But was one o' them days when nobody been available…most ain’t even in Guyana, for that matter.

Now was a good time, I feel, clutching the blue box. I open it, remove one purple-wrapped chawlit small like me li’l finger.

Bite, pop, melt, a rush, joy, I feel loved, ooh, hug me all over you chawklit-feeling you, now I know why people indulge in this darlin’ thing so don’t call it chawk-lit, say cho-co-lah-tay like them Spanish-people do and give yourself more creamy syllables to play with, ooh-la-la, if this be the food of luuuve eat on, go on, have another.

Okay, enough, control youself, two is enough.

At 8 p.m. I sneak another one, small like me li’l finger.

Man, look!

Who did say chawklit is love-food? Let them boil that in Cupid oil and gargle it!

At 2 a.m. in the dead of night, so me eyes been staring wide open like googly-goo, bleddy chawlits fault, I don’t know how people does eat that damn thing, I want to sleep today, I need some cripsy, crunchy, salt-and-peppery deep fried dhal or channa now but you know what does happen when you eat too much pepper, hot 'n' spicy in your beginning and fire in the end.

Not 'bye.

My dearest Auntie Ava,

When you and Uncle Wats leave your breezy, ranch-style home with fruit garden and hammock, and you go away, that was shock enough to me system. At least though, we could gyaff on the phone, we exchange jokes and li’l gifts and I write you letters. But this final ‘bye, I don’t know how to say it.

So instead of ‘bye I gon say, walk good me darlin’, may Allah shower you with His sweetest of blessings.

Cologne

Oh me moomaa

Lawd-oh

Gawd-ohhhh.

I go to a home where the teen son cologne been so loud he couldn’t hear a word I say.

I think it knock me down the steps for six because now, me ears can’t smell and me nose can’t hear, what a lah-lah.

Have a sweeeet weekend everyone.

No. 69 Cheery Place.

A idea land on me yesterday, clunk, as I recall a incident two Sundays ago.

Lemme rewind and go to the top of the tale…zwing…zwing…to Cheery Place…

Many sea tides ago, Cheery Place was acres of grass and breeze. But that was then.

Right now, Cheery Place got the harshness of a new-developing area where up-and-coming folks building dream homes. Bricks, sand, stone instead of proper roads. The place hot as if a steam engine bust loose in there. Barely any trees. Maybe them folks gon plant later. But most o’ them yards, around them houses, full-up with smooth, sun-hot concrete. No cool earth and grass.

Them houses is two, three stories grand, sporting nouveau pale pinks and blues, and whites with chic names, duck-egg this and duck-egg that. (I wonder if paint manufacturers ever see eggs in the nest dotted with crusty poultry poo? As a gyal with childhood experience in countryside life, I can tell you, poo-speckled eggs ain’t nouveau or riche).

Two Sundays ago me and ma been to Cheery Place, to a birthday lunch for a very ole nanee. Was a modern home, cool tiles, spacious rooms. And unlike them other homes, every kinda plant been in the garden.

So many guests been to the lunch, all the parking space near we hosts home been full up. We park two houses away. Lunch and gyaffing done, everybody leave at three.

As we return to we car, me and ma encounter obstacle.

The owners of the house where we park, they hem we in.

Behind we car and along the sides had concrete blocks painted white. Them blocks been solid, heavy, eight inches long by six inches high. We couldn’t move them. In front of we car was a blazing red SUV that wasn’t there when we arrive.

Though we ain’t see them, we get the message. Them homeowners object to we parking on the parapet in front of they home. Never mind that the parapet is public property.

Parapet ain’t private lawn. Here, private lawn is always behind a garden wall, within the boundaries of the home. Parapet belong to roads; on both sides of all we roads is grass. City Council is supposed to keep this grass tidy. But they don’t. And because they don’t, most homeowners does pay a grass cutter a mere few dollars to trim the parapet. And because they pay, they feel they own that piece of grass on the roadside, in front of they home.

Plenty Guyanese does place rocks and concrete blocks to prevent others from parking on they (public property) parapet. Around suburbia you can see them stones lined up on the edge of (public property) parapets. Out of consideration for drivers, so they don’t bang-up they car, homeowners does paint them rocks white. (Or maybe they ain’t want to get sued).

Where I live nobody don’t block off them parapets. But at one home further down the road, at a corner lot, that homeowner plonk massive, white concrete slabs along the parapet-and-road edge.

They look like headstones.

The first time I see them I been tempted to sneak there one night and paint red messages. Here lies Jack, dead like a doorpost, 2006. Here likes Johnson, deaf like a cricket bat, 2006.

But for all this preventing of others from parking, I never see or hear about anybody blocking in a car like what happen to we. As my mother maneuver and klunk around them blocks, kabonk under the back bumper of we po’ ole car, I turn to check out the address of the duck-egg pink house.

No. 69.

“Oh my,” I mutter. “Number 69 Cheery Place.”

Yesterday, a idea hit me. I going into the rock business. I gon sell painted rocks with all kinda messages on them to homeowners.

“Please turn me over,” one rock can say. And if a curious person turn it over, the message on the rock belly gon say, “Ahhh, thank youuuu.”

Wey-heyyyyy, I gon be filthy, stinkin’ riche.

Blog + book = blook

G’mornin’ folks…still morning in ole Guyana...

...sun shinin’ - run go open windows...

...rain fall - run go lock windows...

...sun shine - run go open...

...rain - close windows...

Y’know the story of that man who get condemned to push a rock up a hill and when it reach the top it roll down, then the man got to roll it up again…? Well, this run-open-run-close is we version.

This weather plus allergies got me mind runnin’ ‘round in circles, can’t t'ink straight…

…I just realise that this holiday season, a Very Important Date is coming up.

So, dear family, friends and other manimals, if you looking for presents to give on that Very Important Date, December 16, the person born on that Very Important Date, December 16, gon accept these with glad heart:

[If You're Happy And You Know It. This is where I been trying to put the pic. of the blook, but it ain't happening.]

In this blook, that is, blog turn book, writer Andre take a packet o’ trubbles and spike it up in a super-creative, brilliant way. Read more about this beautiful revolution here.

As for this!

[My Boyfriend Is a Twat: A Guide to Recognising, Dealing, and Living with an Utter Twat. This is where I been trying to put a pic. of this blook, but it ain't happening either.]

In this blook, writer Zoe (oasis of calm), show how every woman who got a man, had a man, plan to have a man, can deal with he.

Well family, friends and other manimals, even if you don’t buy this blook for the person born on that Very Important Date, December 16, you can buy it for the Important Persons in your life.

Aaah, sun come out, ah gone to open them bleddy windows…

The things I saw last Thursday.

“Look, look!” I exclaim. “She still fresh, a li’l bit grey here and there, but clean in most parts.”

Just before World Cup cricket this year, the mountain-mama statue of Queen Victoria on we courthouse lawn get a thorough scrubbing. Young fellas with long handle brushes work on she, up and down and in between the folds of she robe.

“Heh, I wonder if she did like it…wiggle, giggle…oooh, boyyyys, nauughtyyy.”

As per normal, my mother ain’t boonks on me…that is, she remain impervious to my [delightful] chatter. We walk on along the corridor of the courthouse, looking for the room where we must be.

What a change, what a glorious change. Up to a couple o’ years ago Poverty been weaving cobwebs in greasy corners, flinging thin dust on them walls, peeling paint and nibbling at wood beams. Now, the whole place look like somebody take a broom and swish hard, make Poverty haul up she bony tail and drab dress and go lurk somewhere else.

Now, them corridors got long rubber carpet, ole people can’t slide if rain manage to lash in. Several feet below, the lawn lush and manicured, dew-moist grass glistening in morning light; smooth-paved driveway got places designated with white paint-lines for vehicles to park. The whole court, ye colonial-British architecture in wood, got paint and polish. The grace and style of she lovely olde self shine through again.

“My word,” my mother exclaim to a clerk passing. “You all did such a wonderful makeover to this place I don’t even recognise it.” [And you think I does exaggerate!] Clerk smile.

I peep through the glass of a door, into a courtroom. “Look, look, that fella them girls been talking about some months ago, the one they say is handsome but is a dawg, he don’t know how to talk to people.” I drag my mother unceremoniously to peep too.

Embarrassment all over she face. “Man, I don’t want to see.”

I gape like curious visitor to a museum at ye handsome dawg. Flap, flap, flap, he mouth flapping-flapping to three lawyers. Though he ain’t wear he robe I can sense that he is a vampire, but he ain’t got to be afraid of sunlight, he head is in a dark place. Flap-flap-flap, then he raise he hand and point he finger like them preacher-men on tee vee, poke the air, jab, jook. “Oh, he is a pointificator,” I say.

We move on, searching for we court room. We had a case going for eons, somebody owe somebody who owe – that kinda tale. Me bahind didn’t get corned waiting today though. We lawyer – a patient, kind fella who always show plenty respect to me and ma - turn up very soon. He explain that the case get put off, the somebody who owe somebody ain’t turn up. Court give we another date. Ah yes, to some things return, turn, turn…turn the calendar over for another year, another month, another week, another date, churn churn churn the same ole trubbles, year after year.

We go down to the foyer. I swear that crusty olde cigarette butt on the floor been there last year. Smoking in the courthouse ain’t verboten in we wooden building, and funny…not funny haha…funny strange…eye never spy fire extinguishers or red buckets o’ sand. One time, a lawyer been smoking in front of me, in a courtroom. I cough. Asthma, I explain. The smoker shift two inches off, as if that token gesture was a big deal.

Me and ma sit in we car. “Look!” I exclaim. “The Big Lawyer for the somebody who fighting the somebody who owe we.”

I does always remember what a security guard of a bond tell me about he. Last year I meet this guard after she ask me not to park in front of the bond gate. I move the car to the next spot and gone me way. Later, when I come back, the guard tell me thanks. She say trucks with goods does use that gate, and she bosses does give she hell if anybody block the entrance. She say one time she ask this Big Lawyer not to park in that spot. He shout at she saying this is public property.

“I know that, Sir,” she say, “but I’m asking you kindly to park in the next spot right near there.” And she say, “What you would do if somebody block your entrance and exit?”

He tell she they dare not do that, he would know how to deal with them.

This lawyer is one o’ them prominent ones. He instill fear in people by just being. There. He big like a ox, got a face like a furious owl. But now, slow, slow, he becoming a doddering olde farte. He don’t walk as thundering as he used to. As I sit in we car watching he fumble over the six-inch high concrete hump at the doorway, into the foyer, I had a vision of he lying in bed, helpless, in nappies; a stranger, a not-wealthy woman, cleaning he poo…and he mind still sharp...so he fully aware.

Oh, the wonderful things you can see when you look, look, look. Sometimes I see with the eyes of a true, gloomy Cassandra but sometimes I see like Pollyanna sipping ice-cold swank...ice-cold sour lime and sugar and water drink...in the shade on a hot-hot day.

A full-fat sweet thing.

“That thing sound so wutliss,” I laugh.

Now, lemme tell you, wutliss can mean all sortsa things. It can mean rude, worthless, wicked, vulgar…or it can have other meanings depending on the who what when where why and even how. In this context it was in relation to a recipe for a dessert.

Exotic Gyal, all cool and trendy in we humid-hot, Monday-midday living room, look at me for half a second, assessing what I just say. Then the sassiness and knowingness that does lurk always at the back of she eyes spring forth and full-up she gaze. She bust out laughing in recognition of the truth.

The dessert got a name that connote ruckshan-ness…that is, bad-girl-ness. Earthiness and sensuality. Full o’ phat-ness. Vulgarness too. Exotic Gyal say she used to buy this dessert in a market on the outskirts of Georgetown (I think that is where she did say). She jot down the recipe and I take the li’l ole note pad from she. She write neat and round:

“FAT TOP”

1 cup yellow cornmeal
2 cups coconut milk
1 cup whole milk
2 eggs
½ cup sugar
¼ raisins
1 tsp. vanilla essence
Pinch of grated nutmeg

Mix all ingredients together.
Pour into greased square baking pan.
Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour or until top is soft to touch.

Cut into squares, serve hot or cold.

N.B. Top is jelly like.

Bottom is solid.


Go on, give in, try some Fat Top this holiday.