A short post about a mighty long post.

I got two reasons for not writing anything here yesterday or today.


Yesterday – angst.

Today – good cheer but...

























...powercut.



Then this afternoon about 4 o' clock I see, a fat,
long, long, long, long, long, long, long wallaba post
going merrily up the road on the back of a lonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng truck
which mean they been putting up a new electrical post.

Ricericericerarsericericericerice

Rice price going up, gone up, it might even affect we folklore. Villagers gon think twice about throwing precious raw…uncooked…rice on they floor at night to ketch Ole Higue when she invade they home. Ole Higue, the ole blood-sucker, ain’t gon feel compelled to count hundreds o’ rice grains whole damn night ‘til sunrise and villagers ketch she. She gon scrape up every grain, full she pocket and flee.

Rice is the new pearl. My second brother in Florider tell my mother on the phone how they rationing rice now over there. My mother say she read in the papers how in China it is becoming a delicacy.

I know who fault it is after I hear a protest march in town on Friday.

Tramp, tramp, tramp, them protestors tramp in the broiling hot sun. Somebody holler something about high cost of food. Somebody holler something about guvament.

I put two and two together and make ten. It is we guvament fault why food prices gone up. Rice is food. Rice price gone up. Guvament fault. Rice price gone up in the world. We guvament fault, damn them, why they couldn’t stop drought and flood?

As I watch them protestors I wonder if I shoulda join them and add me two cents. I try to calculate how much it musta cost to do this protest. Cost of getting people together. Cost of taking precious time off from work. Cost of cardboard, markers. Nah, nah, I decide; I better take me two cents and buy plant seeds. I better use me energy to work in we garden when the sun ain’t rise too high and hot.

And if the day come when I can’t afford rice, I gon eat even more green plantain, cassava, eddo, sweet potato, yam, bide me time and wait for rice price to drop. That is what me nanee do during World War Two; she plant and grow and dig and plant some more...yes, me short, short, li’l, li’l nanee.

I still want me dhal and roti though…so flour better don’t go running scarce.

Who let them out?

Around the corner the bitch been living, up to a year ago. Because of she behaviour towards me when I used to walk there, I jump to the conclusion that she was a misogynist. But the night watchman for the house across the road from she did tell me, “Noooo, is so it stay with woman, man, child…” That is how it does behave with woman, man, child.

“You sure?” I did ask he. “I thought she hate me for some special reason.”

“Nah man, it behave so to anybody who pass there. Just throw a brick and it gon run.”

Them bricks was boss. As she squeeze through a corner between wall and fence and rush towards me, them bricks would land on the ground, badaps, one inch from she, and she would run two feet away, snarl…badaps…another brick, run, snarl, brick, she rush back into the yard.

I like to believe that I got long tolerance, meters long. But the unfairness of this situation grab me tolerance and mangle it. I choke as I complain to the night watchman. “This is me home-ground, where I grow up, and now I can’t walk free? Do me a favour? Please talk to the owner when you see them, I beg you.”

“People tired complain to them, I tell them they gon get into trouble one day,” he say.

“Who is the owner?”

“Is a policewoman, the lady who own all them plants.”

“She?!? But she is such a nice person.”

“Yyyes, she alright. Only since the dawg get puppies it behave so.”

“Them people should know they can get into trouble, not one o’ them does even come out to hold the creature when it rush at me, no apologies nothing. We had a dawg that shame we so…they either got to block the hole or keep the dawg on a leash. I complain to the youth who does water them plants…who is he?”

“I don’t know, she son or nephew…”

“I beg the youth to do something about it…he very sweet and soft-spoken. But not one poops they do…”

One puppy die. The bitch get more rabid towards me. I think she blame me. After all, it was me who did ketch the puppy on my road, munching on a bloated crapaud, tearing with relish into plopsy-soft frog flesh. “Shoo, shoo, that is poison, you can’t eat that.” Puppy run away and maybe, through dawg communication, he tell he mummy before he dead.

I take to walking with a stick and bricks. But one morning I forget them bricks. The dawg rush one inch close to me. I freeze. Raise the stick. Raise a shout. The dawg bare teeth, snarl. Growl. Wait.

The plant-watering boy come out, haul the dawg inside. I stop walking that route since that day, one year ago. Otherwise, who knows, I mighta end up like the young gyal who been walking home one evening in Sophia.

A pack o’ dawgs that always run amok there knock the gyal to the ground, tear skin off she face, neck, wherever they teeth ketch hold. Passersby and neighbours rescue she.

Early o’ clock this Monday morning I head out for me walk. Neighbour husband been putting out garbage. We discuss the latest news about the security guard who get killed in another area, by a pack o’ dawgs that break out from they yard. Neighbour husband then tell me about a man he know, who get attacked by some dawgs.

The man been going to ketch a bus soon one morning. Them dawgs bite he, taste blood and rush for more. The man tumble in a small canal. Them dawgs salivate at the edge, staring as the man swim to the other side, ‘til the owner call to them. The man tell Neighbour husband that them dawgs always rushing out at people.

I am lucky; I got choices of routes; where I walk don’t have wild dawgs - not in yards, not on the roads. But how many people who walk to ketch a bus ain’t got that choice, going to work, coming home? Rehana we cleaning girl say she is afraid of the pack that maul the young gyal in the Sophia area. They still running free. The owner who mind the pack to keep thieves away from she sheep say she does never let them dawgs out on the road.

MOTHER NATURE HAS A WICKED STING…

…but HAPPY EARTH DAY anyway.

Just beware of bee that bite and make sittin’ difficult…

…uh…this is what they call a bum-bee?

Fifteen minutes.

Strangers walking, passing, some say G’morning, some whisper with a shy, soft smile, Morrrnin’.

Some say Garumph.

Some look with cold eyes, I scurry quick, quick past.

Bicycle, mini-bus, car, oh kakadoodle man, why this bus got to drive so fast? One more coat o’ paint, he coulda knock me down right here in this grass.

Mister with the stocky build from the next neighbourhood greet in a bright, broad way as he walk briskly on, Good Maaarnin’, which does make me grin because he is local white and he ain’t suppose to talk like countryside folks.

Tall, dark, elderly gentleman with a face falling into droops, Hello, how’re you, he ask; I am fine thank you, I reply, and we hurry on; he did try to get me to go with he to he holiday-home by a riverside; I refuse by singing rhapsodies about me best friend in the whole, wide world.

Another elderly man, tall, dark and lean, walking perfectly upright, salute.

Water lily stalks with the nut centers bare at the top, after they petals fade and gone, they look like shrunken aliens all staring in one direction. I don’t know what they saying but it sound like the silent ooooooooohm of aliens calling home.

“Who you see, who you talk to?” my mother ask.

“I see my ex-class-mate mother, she give me news of she daughter in the Island.”

“I see the canal bubbling like soup with all them fish.”

I see a yellow budgie on the road, mamma, it musta escape from some cage, he hanging out with them ground doves that Mrs. R. does feed, but them ground doves barely tolerating he; I see the Whistlin’ Doc, he and Auntie H. about to have breakfast in the garden, he wave the chair that he been fetching, I wave me two hands, I see so many things in just me fifteen minutes walk…

Sour things.

We lime tree is behaving like a hard-mouth, vex woman. Kinda like that young teacher-nun with the unyielding spirit. Amongst them happy-go-lucky nuns in we high-school, she been so displeased all the time that them girls-students used to whisper and giggle, she need a man.

For five years we lime tree been taking up space in we backyard, breathing in precious carbon that other trees could very well use…and not a lime it produce.

“Mummy, you think I should threaten it?”

“No, don’t threaten it, it gon bear,” me mother say. The way she talk, so full o’ sympathy, you would think the lime-tree was she pickney, she very own chile.

Forget scientific reasoning. Threatening a fruit tree is the best way to get it to bear, ask any self-respecting gardener here. You hold you cutlass, knife, axe, saw over the tree and say, “You [expletive of choice]…if you [expletive of choice] don’t grow I gon chop you [expletive of choice].”

And the next thing you know, the tree does bear fruit.

When me was a teen, I witness this once, with me own two eyes. And as everybody know, once...one, single time...is absolute proof for all times.

Was a typical happy morning, sun shining, fluffy white flocks sleeping in the blue sky. All o’ we been in we yard. By all o’ we, I mean the regular motley crew - siblings, brothers friends, dawgs, cats, parrot, turtle and so on.

Suddenly, just by the edge of the garden in front, I spot my second brother, F., tall, dark and fierce, furrowing-up he eyebrows, holding cutlass, muttering to he friend, kind, gentle F. [Both o’ them got the same initial for they first name].

What the!?! I sidle up to find out.

My brother whispering to he friend, “I gon threaten it, and you gon say, no, no, don’t chop it, give it a chance.”

The two o’ them walk over to we tangerine tree. This tree never bear not even one, single, solitary tangerine in all the days we know it.

Brother raise he cutlass. “You….if you….don’t start to bear I gon chop you...”

“No, no, don’t chop it, give it a chance.”

“You think I should give it a chance? You really think so?”

“Yes, give it a chance.”

The tangerine tree musta think, look at these two F., threatening me. I gon teach them a good lesson.

The tangerine tree bear one, single, solitary tangerine. It been so sour that everybody who taste it, they tongue twast sideways for days after.

The tangerine tree never bear again.

Me mother say if I threaten the lime-tree it might do like what the tangerine tree do; give it time, it gon bear properly and plenty.

Well, I put fresh earth, cow dung, compost, I water it. I waiting.

As for the sour-mouth nun from we high-school days, I hear she didn’t bother to take all she vows; she leave to marry. I hope she smiling now.

Maybe we lime tree need a man.

Beatin’ the Monday Blahs ain’t easy, baby.

5 a.m., wake up, today is that rarse day, the day of reckoning, thinking, realizing...crap...another week start and I ain’t accomplish what I did want to since last week. Chores chewing up this morning, and I still got craft to craft and words to shape...push, persevere.

10 a.m. now everything done, I tired like street-dawg, tongue lolling with thirst on a hot, hot day.

Mix lime, water and shugah, make cool swank, sit and sip in the kitchen with me feet up on the cupboard, don’t let me mamma know this, hehe, and bop to ole, ole easy skankin’ Jamdown music and the rock-steady take your head, shake your feet and suddenly you find yourself slippin’ to the coolest pre-reggae sounds, not fast, just slowww, movin’ to the down-beat…

And voops...that is when you realize that, sometimes, this is what you got to do…slip outta the worries and move into de down-riddim of the music in de kitchen for a li’l while.

House-cleaning Monologue.

Dus’ dus’ dus’, it look like the sands of Sahara want to bury we here this good day, every day, clean clean clean, whether Rehana come to work or not…

…Added to dat is de damn dus’ from de rebuilding of de house across de road…

…I don’t know why we Guyanese people feel compelled to sweep brush wipe everyday, must be Stepford Wives genes we have, imagine if somebody visit we unexpectedly and we house is In A State, oh the shame the shame…

…Y’know, I think I want to live in a forest…

...Imagine, no dus’, only cool trees, leaves, huh, you ain’t got to sweep them up, they fall to the ground, decompose, enrich the soil…

…I gon plant fruits and veggies, I gon grow cotton and weave me own cloth, I gon bade in a waterfall…

…Ohhh carap, I gon want a proper tielet though, I ain’t into this do and bury bizniz, no way, as for latrine, that worse, can’t take them flies and bees…

Aiye, remember what Cousin Nan tell me what T’eo and them boys been discussing one night, I been away at university, Nan say was a real nice night, she and Cousin Sher and me brothers friends been sitting outdoors watching stars and gyaffing, them fellas been talkin’ about when they been campin’ in the forest near the airport, they ain’t had no loo and they had to do in them bushes, T’eo say, 'Man, when that forest breeze blowwwww coooool on you bamsie, is like Limacol'...

…Whew, speakin’ of Limacol I should splash meself with Limacol, the freshness of a breeze in a bottle, this place so darn hot…

…Hahaaa remember what Cousin R. do when all o’ we was li’l chil’ren, when we been to spend holidays at nanee and pa? About four o’ clock one afternoon he climb the highest, highest tree in the backyard, was a guinep tree I think, and he stand up on a branch then suddenly a yellow spurt spray down, he weeing on we, if you see scatter, you never see li’l brown legs scatter so, it ain’t ketch me though…

…That Cousin R. was always a mischievious fellow, look how he lock up me and me friend Twine one day in the laundry-room while we been conditioning we hair with raw egg and we had to beg, Please Uncle, he ain’t even no uncle, and all o’ we is the same teen-age...

...I wonder what Twine doin' these days in Inglan', she tell me on MSN chat how she li'l daughters did ask she, 'Mummy, what did you do before computers?'...

…Life does play wicked games, eh? When I been away, Twine, Sher, Nan, T’eo, Cousin Tar, all o’ them been here, and now me here, all o’ them over there, the silence of this house, this neighbourhood, does sound like a sad song if I listen to it so I don’t…

…Wow look at how de sun splashin’ them leaves in the garden, I love lookin’ out at the world through dis door in my mother bedroom, better yet, in this mirror, through the door, look at Auntie Raj house way down the street, I can see everybody but nobody can’t see me, sigh, look at that road, that never endin’ construction make it so full o’ sand…

Cheap people cheat people.

Today I discover, yet again, how another poor person, this time a woman, ole woman, get exploited. It leave me scorching, yet again, make me want to blaze out the name of the company, but I cool me tongue because, maybe, the boss don’t know what is going on, only the supervisor, another woman, know.

Over and over it happen, people who employ people who supervise people, people from top professions, lovely homes, people you would never believe and some you can very well believe, them with slicing malice in they eyes paste theyselves on we tee vee screen and garble on about who is exploiting who.

Labour is cheap, don’t pay one cent more, cheap pockets, cheap hearts, cheap consciences.

Cheats.

Free! Open Air Gym!

Work out in sea-flavoured breeze, sunshine and the scent of sweet ixoria. Get all the benefits of indoor gym without pungent sweat and socks.

Stretch, bend, squat, pull, climb, lift, haul heavy equipment, oooerg, argh, grrr, &^%$!, moan an’ groan an’ complain just like in your indoor gym.

But unlike that indoor gym where the instructor punish you, torment you and holler Go, Go, Go like he is a wanna-be army man, in this gym your instructor gon work right alongside you, telling you stories about this plant, that plant…like the noni over there, for example.

Noni is the wonder plant. It can make you tall, young; it can straighten your teeth, make you happy and smile more. Them claims ain’t proven by scientists as yet but as far as people here are concerned noni can perform miracles...some might even want to say it can wake up Lazarus but that is stretching the truth a li’l bit, you don’t think?

Here is one example of the miracle of noni...

One man who had lungs…Guyanese don’t say ‘lung problem’…he used to cough up stuff I don’t want to describe. The man been at death door. Somebody tell he about noni, and to cut a long story short [especially because I ain’t got all the facts] the man get cured by it.

So, if you got heart, if you got kidney, if you got liver…cure it with this miracle fruit! But don’t overdo the do, as we does say. Because what happen to the fella in Plaisance can happen to you.

The fella in Plaisance take too much noni and he turn grey; they had to rush he to the doctor. That is what Crawl did tell me one time, and Crawl is a family friend so I don’t doubt he [even though he now deny telling me that, I know he did tell me].

Okay, back to work, please pull out all them weeds over there, aha, feel your legs getting stronger with all that stooping and squatting? Hold the plant cutter steady, yes, I know the iron pole is heavy, but think how firm your arms gon get, mm-hm, them pecs gon firm up too…fetch this bucket-load of compost and empty it over there…

Ahhh, thank you ladies and gentlemen for doing all this work in we jungle-garden…remember, one man’s jungle is another man’s gym…

…oh, hehe, and remember, all your work is for free.

The tree that walked.

One afternoon this week, Fazaal the gardener arrive with he chainsaw to trim some branches off the giant cashew tree in we backyard. This was me chance to get to the all important truth about the walking tree.

Getting to the truth can be a’ unpleasant task sometimes – a body got to put up with all kinda name-calling. Cameraman Billy in the Caribbean Island did name me Doubtin’ Tamas; he call me that so much, he had to shorten it to Tamas. At least he never call me Pedantic or Nit-Picking like what my Dear Mama does do; when pushed beyond endurance, she even label me A Pain. I take deep breaths and carry on. Me siblings and friends does try to be tolerant but one or two times me sister haul out a heavy sigh from the pit of she belly, hurl it at me through the phone, like if me is some smelly vagrant on the roadside asking for a thousand dollar bill. How I suffer for my art.

I throw down the gate key from we verandah, to Fazaal. “Aiyeee Fazaal, what kinda story you tell my mother about tree that walk? When you tell she it move, what you mean? It move like this…?” I shake up meself, lengeh-lengeh, like breeze blowing me, back to front, side to side, arms out like tree limbs.

“Or it move like this?” I make little steps sideways, chip, chip, chip, like how a small tree would walk.

Now, while Fazaal is opening the gate, wheeling in he bicycle, putting down the stand before he demonstrate how the tree walk, lemme explain something about we the people.

We the people don’t see black and call it black. We the people don’t see white and call it white. Always, there got to be some Other reason for why white ain’t white and black ain’t black. This is a world where magic meet realism. I dunno if is because of all them stories they does feed we with as chil’ren; stories about camoudie-snake marrying pretty girl; or evil woman spirit in a rice camp up-creek, sitting like a sack o’ cement on a man chest, trying to suffocate he…dunno why, but to we the people, nothin’ ain’t what it really is. It always got to be Some Thing.

The next thing that influence the way we interpret we world is past experience. We even claim other people experience to explain any new phenomenon. Like what happen here - one o’ my great-aunties, holidaying in a Caribbean Island long-years ago, experience a massive earthquake. “Bhet,” she tell my mother afterwards, “The earth shake so much, me see a tree move, jump, jump, jump, ‘til it end up in a different place.”

Ah, Fazaal park he bike, but he is a chap who do everything slow and cool, never in a hurry. I had to nag he. “Fazaal! Man! Show me how this tree move, nah?”

Fazaal go to a short bougainvillea in a white concrete pot. “The tree had about this size…”

“Yeah, yeah, how it move? It walk? Or it shake like breeze blowing it?”

Fazaal hold the bougainvillea with two fingers. He shake it, back and forth, side to side. “It move so.”

I buss out laughing like a lunatic on the edge of a South American verandah, hem in with wrought-iron rail. “Wooo hooo, that tree never walk, was breeze that blow it…”

“Noooooo,” Fazal protest. “No breeze ain’t been blowing…”

“Well, must be a cat or crapaud!”

“Nothin’ ain’t been there when we go to check.”

“Coulda be a big lizard too…whatever it was, it musta gone by the time y’all get to the plant.”

Fazal look up at me, he eyes full o’ disappointment…coulda been relief…but I swear I see disappointment. “So you don’t think was jumbie?” he ask.

“Naaah! Jumbie? What jumbie? Not one jumbie been there.”

I go back into the house, and I ain’t lie when I tell you this, disappointment follow me in like ghost. I did so want Fazaal to tell me that the tree did walk for true.

Fazaal start to trim we giant tree in we back yard, the sound was dreadful, chainsaw brrrrrrrrrrrrawking, tree limbs crrrackking, I swear to you, I want to believe this now…

…the li’l tree that didn’t walk been trying to tiptoe away because it know Fazaal got a chainsaw.