So…this is…?

Christmas?

Bah.

Haambug.

The computer wouldn’t start again this weekend and on Monday morning. After months of trying to get Fixee, a new and well- recommended electrician, he arrive. He gon make sure that we ain’t got no electrical problems in the house.

Y’know how, when you got a pain and as soon as you go to the doctor the pain does stop?

As soon as Fixee get here for the first time yestaday aftanoon…

…the pooter power up. “Wwwwnnnng…hhhaaaaa,” pooter, the damn Judas laugh. “Haaa haaaa you liar.” Or as we does say…liad.

Well. Of all them ignominies I ever suffer. Imagine a Judas calling me a liad. I retreat into shamed silence, sewing while Fixee check, double check.

Finally Fixee announce, everything electrical around the house is fine. Low voltage must be why the pooter wouldn’t start sometimes. Or the power thing in the CPU. We discuss a plan to sort this out. I feed Fixee cake and a lime-and-honey drink on the rocks, promise to find a nice gyal for he, pay he, and he gone he merry way to enjoy he Christmas with he pals around he village.

For now, pooter running like a smooth-talker.

Personally speaking...but of course, I couldn’t say this to Fixee who meet we only yestaday...I think that all pooters got li’l people wukking away in them like how we brain got wee folks and they brain got wee folks and so on and so forth. And just like how them wee ones in we brain does scamper off to goodness knows where sometimes, them li’l peeps in the pooter does dash off sometimes too.

Ow, all this chatter about wee and peeps give me a new worry.

Where them wee folks does go when they got to use the loo?

Hmm. I got to rephrase me phrase that describe how people here does drive around at Christmas time: They driving like they brain chook up in they batty. Driving like they brain stick up in they bahind.

Anyway, I refuse to think that me brain gone to that dark place where only the brain of min-bus drivers does go, or the brain of them who buy they drivers’ licenses. And I refuse to think of what them li’l peeps doing up there. Must be the rain that soak me brain like mothers soaking dried fruits in rum to make Christmas cake. Whatever, whyever, for some reason I can’t gather me thoughts together to do Michelle tag.

Every year, something does send me off on a train of thoughts about Christmas. Choo-chooo, chug-a-chug-a-choooo. If you see these thoughts. Some reading; some looking cross like they ain’t eat for days; some drab-down and sorry-looking like wet sen-seh fowl; one or two chatting with each other; one laughing like a mad man all by heself on the seawall. That is what does happen to me thoughts as they hop on this train to ponder.

What is the meaning of Christmas in a poor country where li’l chil’ren beg in the rain? What is the meaning to a man who lose he wife? [Lose not loose].

“How you spending you Christmas?” I ask we newspaper man.

He twist up he face and he look away from me. “Christmas? Christmas ain’t got no meaning for me. Since me Mam die…” She die of cancer December 25, two years ago.

He shake he head and brush he hand like he chasing away something disgusting. “All this buy, buy, buy. What meaning that got?”

I don’t know what to tell he. I give he some beef from Eid. He feel, feel the package. I say, is frozen solid. Yes, he say, I can feel it. Thank you very much, he smile and ride off. I wonder what he gon cook with it.

Last night the train draw brakes...skrrrks…and them thoughts dash out, pelt all over the place. But one thought, very tiny, tug at me and whisper in a fine, music voice. If Christmas is to celebrate baby Jesus then everyday should be Christmas.

Must be the voice of me nanee, me mother mother. Nanee who never learn to read and write. My mother tell me that nanee used to say, If every day you clean you home, cook something nice, do something nice, give a li'l bit, then everyday ah Christmas.

HOLIDAYYYY TODAYYYaY.

Today is what a friend (who migrate to freezing pastures in Canada) does call ‘Beef’ Eid. We celebrate two Eids, but because we friend ain’t a Muslim she does get confused by Eid ul Fit’r and Eid ul Adha. So she does call this one today ‘Beef’ Eid. She ain’t too far off from what long-ago folks here used to call it - Baqra Eid or ‘Goat’ Eid. Some people does call it Qurbani…sacrifice day…too.

Today is when Muslims in Guyana sacrifice bull-cows. Bull-cow is the man-cow.

Plenty, plenty people, especially the poor…every colour, size, race, and creed (except fastidious Hindus and vegetarians)…gon be happy because they gon go to them masjids and collect beef. In fact, not only beef - every bit of the bull-cow gon be taken. Head, foot, hand, hoof, eye, tongue and other parts too rude to mention gon get share-out, cook and eat.

Amerindian-style pepperpot gon bubble; curry gon cook thick and merry; souse… that is…cow face and skin, cucumber, lime juice, pepper and other seasonings gon simmer ‘til the skin swell fat and soft; brains gon fry with garlic, onion and hat-hat (hot, hot) pepper. Every recipe from every culture living together in peace here gon mingle up in the air.

I better get mooooovin’ to do a li’l housework and dress up meself in case we get visitors…

How to get your wife to stop quarrelling.

Today Rehana we cleaning girl (early 20’s) peel off a piece o’ lecture she get from Fazal, she young husband, and share it with me. I imagine Fazal with he wicked, twinkling eyes, talking to she in he slow, amused way.

“One day,” she say, “I been quarrelling, quarrelling up with he plenty. He look at me, look at me, and say, Why ya quarrel so much? Nah quarrel. One day, dis same ole kyar can bruk dung and you nah gon find parts fuh fix am.”

(Why you quarrelling so much? Don’t quarrel. One day, this same ole car can break down and you ain’t gon find parts to fix it.)

“Well I never! What you do?” I ask she, cracking up with amusement.

“Laugh! How I laugh.”

I ain't know!

I ain’t know what happen to all them tiny people in me brain.

I ain’t know if I offend them because I call them 'lazy boogers' the other day.

I ain’t know if they plain tired or they really are just downright lazy for true!

I ain’t know if them wretches ketch the Christmas spirit and now they lolling off inebriated in some grey matter.

I ain’t know if they enjoy so much all them li’l outings I been on recently, they want more, more.

I ain’t know if they join a union and gone on strike.

They just ain’t working.

If anybody can tell me I gon really appreciate.

Time machine tag.

Y’know how they say that inside the radio got li’l people who does talk and sing? Well, is the same with me brain, hundreds of li’l people muttering, talking, cussing, singing, laughing, grumbling, mostly playing. Recently, I had cause to set them lazy boogers to work.

Some weeks ago Olivia ask me, What age would you like to return to?

I couldn’t think of one age.

So I take out me li’l brain, put it under a microscope, prod all them tiny people in there. I question them fine-fine…in detail…and all o’ them in turn take out they brain and ask the microscopic people in there…and they in turn…and so it go, on and on.

But not one o’ these dratted creatures could come up with any age. All o’ them haul out memories from childhood to adulthood. They flash pictures of river, sunlight, grass, trees, running barefoot in pasture, cousins and siblings and war game with wood weapons and roaming sand street in the countryside village with second brother and he friends, me and Cousin Nan doing mischief in that same village and making clay cups and saucers, drying them in the sun, planting a couple of rice paddy-grains for fun, watching them grow; moving to town, playing cricket in white sand, running in the streets til nine p.m., going to the interior with friends and bathing in the waterfall everyday; later, white beach and blue sea in the Caribbean, mountain restaurants and valley and ice cold mist; then not so long ago, me and my best friend standing in a paddock, watching birds ride the wind in a blue, blue, cloudless sky and as the sun set he play the piano, I listen and make requests.

The present mightn’t be perfect…so many dreams that I ain’t reach as yet and plenty work to do to make them real. But I look at each day as stepping stones, like when you mountain-trekking and some stones hold you feet nice and strong and you can stop, take a deep breath, look around; and some stones so loose you got to step on them quick and light then leap off fast, on to the next. Sometimes I bruise, tear the skin, bleed, cry, sweat like donkey fetching load on a hot day, but always family is there to help me, love me; breeze cool me skin, food and water sustain me, and homes always there for me to visit, nature entertain me.

As for the future, I look forward to it with great gusto, gung-ho and big gallops of hope.

On the move...

Yesterday, mother and sidekick wend they way past ole clunkers belching black smoke, past middle-age cars doing silent but deadly carbon-farts, past a Benz, Toyotas, stick up behind truck that slow down traffic, scowl at various SUV's that push everybody off them roads, turn into quiet Woolford Ave. And there I see me very first bicycle built for two. Fella riding it match the bicycle frame, he dark, long and lean like the frame. Thought I been seeing double - two seats, two pairs o' pedals. Thought, if I was Crazy Daisy I woulda want to be the boss, ride in front, lead the way.

Vroooooom.............

Mother and sidekick wend they way east along Kyamble Avenue, past a thin, scrawly man riding a bicycle, towing a dumplin' woman, don't know how she props-up pon that narrow bicycle bar and balance so well between the man thin arms; past a Hindu home, in the front yard by the fence near the road got a concrete shrine; a huge pastel-colour concrete snake loom, forming the roof of the shrine; going past that I see me first motorized seat.

Well, that is what it look like - a padded black seat for two with a thick, black steering wheel, three big, fat wheels, a yellow body too chunky and Crayola-bright to be a mean machine. (That man towing he woman on he bicycle bar coulda do well with one o' that!) The driver-rider of the motorized seat was a young black fella with a sheepish, pleased grin, plenty people staring and he too, too self-conscious.

Vroooooom................

Turn north along Sheriff Street, a thin, scrawly dawg heading further east riding on a dray-cart, no, no, he ain't holding them horse reins, the driver was a man; dawg standing on the cart, wide-legged to balance heself, staring straight ahead like Master of All He Survey.

Uh-huh, yes, we still got horse-and-dray-carts pon we roads, them carts is very long and narrow, long because people hire them mostly to transport lumber, narrow to negotiate the streets; they go blunk-blunk when they hit a low and the wood knock up and down. Pseudo-sophisticated Guyanese here and Abroad does laugh at the fact that people here still use dray-cart but I bet Mr. Carbon Credits Man would applaud and Al Gore too...unless them horses does suffer from great flatulence, but then, we horses does eat grass so maybe they okay. (We ain't chop down we forests as yet either.)

Oh, how that dawg on the dray-cart yesterday remind me of the dawg that used to travel about town standing on a car roof. If I remember right, he was a white dawg too...or pale brown...and he stand in that same wide-legged manner, balancing heself and swaying he body as the car move left and right.

Vrooooom...........

Mother and sidekick turn up the East Coast road. Sidekick, don't concentrate on how your mother drive or you gon have several nervous breakdowns, look the other way and you gon see the best things, that is what you got to do when you got your own, personal chauffeur.

UFO

Annie see a UFO yesterday afternoon!

That is, she see the UFO vicariously.

She see the people who see the UFO and they tell she about it.

She phone me right away. My mother answer the phone. My mother laugh uproariously and call to me, she voice bubbling with amusement and doubt. You would think she woulda believe though, because she did see a Genuwine, Real, Authentic UFO in the sixties. (But that is another story for another day.)

Annie can’t contain she excitement, it overflowing from she phone into me ears, into we living room. “Is a whole big group o’ people in the street who see the UFO. John who was in another street nearby phoned me to say he saw it too!”

“You see it Annie? Eh? Eh? You see it?”

“No, I ain’t see it but people see it. They ain’t know what it is. They say is a UFO.”

I ain’t bother to tell she that any object that is flying and is unidentifiable got to be a unidentifiable and unidentified flying object.

I try though, ow, I try to inject a li’l bit of objectivity into the matter. I, Fantastic Objective Observer of Life, know that you can’t latch on to any and all beliefs in the land of make-belief, where moon gazer straddle the road with super long legs, and if you drive late at night, he squeeze you dead with he legs; ole higue spin sheself into a ball o’ flame and suck babies blood; Anancy is a cunning half-man, half-spider who can con people out of they earnings. Instead of troubling meself with all o’ this I, Fantastic Objective Observer of Life, got my own set of beliefs. For example, I know that if I walk too close to any bed at night, two hands gon reach out and grab me ankle and long teeth gon bite me foot.

“Annie,” I say, injecting great objectivity and calm into my voice, “maybe is somebody flying in a balloon.”

“Who gon fly in a balloon over here, eh? Who?”

“Foreigners.”

“Why they would fly over here?”

“I dunno, you know how them white folks does do strange things …you never hear about the balloon that fly over Guyana and Kaieteur? I think was two Chermans and one Brit. They even make a movie about it. White Diamond, I see it on tee vee the other night.”

“I never hear about that.”

(Look at my crosses! I tell people facts and they ain’t believe me.) “Well, there you go,” I say. “So this could very well be somebody flying in a balloon.”

“It ain’t look like a balloon, they say it flying in a vee shape.”

“Oh, that sound like somebody sky diving…”

“Nobody ain’t skydiving here, nobody ain’t see any parachute.”

“Not with a parachute, with them things that spread out like bird wings.”

“Man G, what is wrong with you, nobody ain’t skydiving over here…”

At that point I realise that Annie want to believe that is a Real, Genuwine, Authentic UFO.

“Annie, you want to believe that is a UFO! Oh my gosh, you want to believe!”

“Yes! What is wrong with you? Why you can’t believe that aliens want to contact earth, eh? Why not Guyana?”

Maybe is time that I, Fantastic Objective Observer of Life, send them two hands under Annie bed. Or maybe I should just tell she about when my big brother did get kidnapped by Aliens. I wonder if she gon believe that.