He arrive in the Caribbean, oil-up and sugar-up. And he gain the people trust.
He wasn’t supposed to.
Because most Caribbean folks is a distrustful lot. Don’t trust strangers from Foreign Lands.
Nope, he wasn’t supposed to succeed, because we’s the expert story-weavers, not he. We’s the keepers of folk-tale hero Anancy, half-man, half-spider...before Anancy even done spinning he tale to you, he already convince you to give he anything. Yet we, guardians and students of Anancy, get trapped.
How this happen to we, masters of inducing people worldwide to fly all the way here, to spend time and money in we sun?
He succeed because he got the instincts of a seducer who know how to say exactly what people want to hear. Yes, what people want to hear. A seducer can only woo and win if the listener is willing.
And we was willing, ohhh yyyeah, we was willing and ready when he whisper about things we love and need. Cricket, we love and money, we greatest need.
He finance cricket, all hail the Stanford series. He open bank and business and induce people to invest. He flourish from Texas to Antigua and I ain’t know where else.
Then the shame break out.
Me childhood friend living in England tell me, you shoulda see how they used to fete he in England. She say, you should see how they shame now.
Shame? Why shame?
Two of he men blow whistle, phweeee phweeee, hold up, stop, wait a second, don’t listen to that man, fraudulent things he doing, very deceitful things, with other people money.
He getting investigated now, in he homeland, Merica. Every day in we papers we read updates.
“Is a funny thing, mamma,” I say. “The Merican tee vee news don’t say much about he. I wonder why?”
“Gyal, me nah know.”
“I wonder if he guilty for true? Hm, if he is guilty, they shouldn’t send he to jail.”
“What they should do?”
“Let he loose in the Caribbean. Every West Indian with a bat should wuk it on he batty...”
“Watch you language...”
“Awright...butt...wuk bat on he butt! Oh boy, look how he sweet-talk people by using cricket eh? Caribbean people shoulda hear what Ole Jack used to say.”
Ole Jack wasn’t ole, was just in he fifties, but I call he that to tease he. He was one of me two favourite drivers in me Caribbean Island, television days. He used to give me, producer, the privilege o’ sitting in the front passenger seat. He never want no cameraman or soundman sitting next to he. He would sing long-ago songs to me in a Nat King Cole voice, here I go, here I go, here I goooooo. And when we drive through dusty country-towns, he would say, in faux-Merican accent, like he been reading out loud from a Louis L’Amour book, the town was silent as a ghost, not a sound could be heard but the clanking of the cowboy’s spurs, dust rose dangerously as the cowboy treaded softly down the street...
One day, driving with he and the crew in the big city traffic, I say, “Woo woo, Ole Jack, look at that cute feller driving that car in front...”
First, Ole Jack protest in faux-Merican twang, “Hey kid, do I look old to you?” After I done laugh, he say, “Kid, you see that feller you’re admiring? I can tell just by looking at his expensive suit and car, he’s got sugar-tongue and oily lips. Kid, I’m warning you, beware of those with sugar-tongue and oily lips.”
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
The English are here, the English are here!
Huff...
...puff...
...got to practise me English...
...plenty visitors from Engerland is here for cricket, and to be hospitable, we the people must speak in a way that they can understand. Y’see, the truth is, English ain’t really we first language, though some snobby folks here might want to insist it is.
For plenty-plenty people here, the first language is Creolese. Try talking proper English to them. They gon look at you with their eyebrows knit-up to form hill and valley. Then when you talk Creolese, their forehead smooth out like Lake Capoie without wind and they smile bright like today.
If you ain’t want to believe me, ask them language experts (like Lis who got a Masters Degree in this whole business). They recommend that the best method to teach English here is to teach it as a second language.
So I gone to practise me best English, just in case I meet one o’ them folks from Engerland, and they ask me something.
Hm-hm, hmmm...practise...practice...
Teach taught taught
Preach praught praught
Spring sprang sprung
Bring brang brung
Drink drank drunk
Think thank thunk
The phoolish ghish laufed when it herd me.
(Hm, that ain’t look right).
The ghoolish phish laufed...
Sigh, you know what, I's tired of these ‘f’ sounds, I gone to drink some tee (though I prefer to say chai).
...puff...
...got to practise me English...
...plenty visitors from Engerland is here for cricket, and to be hospitable, we the people must speak in a way that they can understand. Y’see, the truth is, English ain’t really we first language, though some snobby folks here might want to insist it is.
For plenty-plenty people here, the first language is Creolese. Try talking proper English to them. They gon look at you with their eyebrows knit-up to form hill and valley. Then when you talk Creolese, their forehead smooth out like Lake Capoie without wind and they smile bright like today.
If you ain’t want to believe me, ask them language experts (like Lis who got a Masters Degree in this whole business). They recommend that the best method to teach English here is to teach it as a second language.
So I gone to practise me best English, just in case I meet one o’ them folks from Engerland, and they ask me something.
Hm-hm, hmmm...practise...practice...
Teach taught taught
Preach praught praught
Spring sprang sprung
Bring brang brung
Drink drank drunk
Think thank thunk
The phoolish ghish laufed when it herd me.
(Hm, that ain’t look right).
The ghoolish phish laufed...
Sigh, you know what, I's tired of these ‘f’ sounds, I gone to drink some tee (though I prefer to say chai).
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The road to Brassiere.
Sometimes, me two long foot...itchy feet...would kick-up with yearning to dwell in strange lands.
Sometimes.
These feet would dream of standing 'pon Sugar Loaf Mountain while I gaze up at the Corcovado, and Jobim would play in me head, quiet nights of quiet stars. Them feet would traverse all the way to Bahia or Belem, they might stay there a bit, while I teach English as a second language. That was me dream before I return home here, from the Caribbean Island where I was a writer.
These travel-dreaming feet ain’t different from other peoples. We was just born to choochwhy...wander. Greed, need and just plain ol’ fashion faasness...curiosity...drive we to go yonder. That is how Christopher Columbus end up far from Spain. How man end up on the moon. Heh, that is how them cloud-dwelling Arawaks end up on earth - they see a hole in the sky and climb down a big tree.
Man can’t stop roaming. So you can imagine what happen when Guyanese discover open borders between here and the rest o’ South America.
I hear say, in dry season you can walk across the waterless river to Brazil. When rain fall, a small boat take you across. Praises be. Because during them hard days, when food and soap and toothpaste and plenty other basic items was scarce, Guyanese hucksters used to go there, buy goods, sell here. After them hard days was done, people continue going there. Them who can afford it, take plane. But there is a road too.
Was only a matter of time before them Brazilians find their way here.
Me and me first big brother does talk about it, sometimes. Topic start up when he been visiting over a year ago. From he verandah seat, he musta watch them Brazilans walking up and down we road, or I musta drop a comment.
He say, “Ten years from now, this whole place gon change, y’know. Them Brazilians gon bring business...open restaurants and shops and so...”
“Yeah, they doing that already."
“They gon open banks...”
“...and hospitals...”
After he go back to England, we continue the gyaff. “When them Brazilians start to settle there, plenty bad ones gon go too, can’t stop that,” he say.
“Yeah, I know...this is like pioneer town,” I laugh.
“But things gon get better after a while, and them good ones gon go too. Years later, them Brazilians might even become citizens, they gon run for elections. Everybody who is Portuguese gon get a chance to be in guvament. Like Theo, who living in Canada, he can go back to Guyana and get a position...”
“But he ain’t look Portuguese, he look more Indian...”
“Don’t worry about that,” me brother say. “He is Portuguese. He gon get a position. And you see that Portuguese man in P- Village...”
“What Portuguese man in P- ?” This one puzzle me. Most of them folks in P- Village is of African ancestry. I ain’t know any Portuguese living there.
“One night in P- Village, I see a white-white-looking man, he been drunk-drunk-drunk, he fall down in the trench, and if you hear how this man singing, loud-loud-loud, flinging up he hands and splashing in the dirty water! Like he been real happy. Them fellas tell me he does live in P- . All him, he can polish up and get a li’l guvament position because he is Portuguese.”
“Heh, I can get position too, ‘cause I can speak a li’l bit o’ Portuguese.”
“You know, is not a bad thing if them Brazilians do business there. They can clean up Georgetown. I know a Brazilian fella here, he brother does go to Georgetown to do business. He say Georgetown is a dump.”
“Yeah, is true.”
Recently, watching them Brazilians move around, listening to the new neighbours, I been thinking about this conversation. What we gon name the new state, when Guyana become a part of Brazil? Guy-Bra? Yes, that make sense, because, as the famous coffee song about them does go, they’ve got an awful lot of coffee in Brassiere...
Sometimes.
These feet would dream of standing 'pon Sugar Loaf Mountain while I gaze up at the Corcovado, and Jobim would play in me head, quiet nights of quiet stars. Them feet would traverse all the way to Bahia or Belem, they might stay there a bit, while I teach English as a second language. That was me dream before I return home here, from the Caribbean Island where I was a writer.
These travel-dreaming feet ain’t different from other peoples. We was just born to choochwhy...wander. Greed, need and just plain ol’ fashion faasness...curiosity...drive we to go yonder. That is how Christopher Columbus end up far from Spain. How man end up on the moon. Heh, that is how them cloud-dwelling Arawaks end up on earth - they see a hole in the sky and climb down a big tree.
Man can’t stop roaming. So you can imagine what happen when Guyanese discover open borders between here and the rest o’ South America.
I hear say, in dry season you can walk across the waterless river to Brazil. When rain fall, a small boat take you across. Praises be. Because during them hard days, when food and soap and toothpaste and plenty other basic items was scarce, Guyanese hucksters used to go there, buy goods, sell here. After them hard days was done, people continue going there. Them who can afford it, take plane. But there is a road too.
Was only a matter of time before them Brazilians find their way here.
Me and me first big brother does talk about it, sometimes. Topic start up when he been visiting over a year ago. From he verandah seat, he musta watch them Brazilans walking up and down we road, or I musta drop a comment.
He say, “Ten years from now, this whole place gon change, y’know. Them Brazilians gon bring business...open restaurants and shops and so...”
“Yeah, they doing that already."
“They gon open banks...”
“...and hospitals...”
After he go back to England, we continue the gyaff. “When them Brazilians start to settle there, plenty bad ones gon go too, can’t stop that,” he say.
“Yeah, I know...this is like pioneer town,” I laugh.
“But things gon get better after a while, and them good ones gon go too. Years later, them Brazilians might even become citizens, they gon run for elections. Everybody who is Portuguese gon get a chance to be in guvament. Like Theo, who living in Canada, he can go back to Guyana and get a position...”
“But he ain’t look Portuguese, he look more Indian...”
“Don’t worry about that,” me brother say. “He is Portuguese. He gon get a position. And you see that Portuguese man in P- Village...”
“What Portuguese man in P- ?” This one puzzle me. Most of them folks in P- Village is of African ancestry. I ain’t know any Portuguese living there.
“One night in P- Village, I see a white-white-looking man, he been drunk-drunk-drunk, he fall down in the trench, and if you hear how this man singing, loud-loud-loud, flinging up he hands and splashing in the dirty water! Like he been real happy. Them fellas tell me he does live in P- . All him, he can polish up and get a li’l guvament position because he is Portuguese.”
“Heh, I can get position too, ‘cause I can speak a li’l bit o’ Portuguese.”
“You know, is not a bad thing if them Brazilians do business there. They can clean up Georgetown. I know a Brazilian fella here, he brother does go to Georgetown to do business. He say Georgetown is a dump.”
“Yeah, is true.”
Recently, watching them Brazilians move around, listening to the new neighbours, I been thinking about this conversation. What we gon name the new state, when Guyana become a part of Brazil? Guy-Bra? Yes, that make sense, because, as the famous coffee song about them does go, they’ve got an awful lot of coffee in Brassiere...
Friday, March 13, 2009
Tudo bem.
“Tudo bem?” I call out in me sing-songest Brazilian accent. Flash a smile as I slip from the back seat of we car, mamma-driver waiting for me to open the gate.
Brazilian chap coming from friends home down the street, is near we car now. He is brown-gold from top to toe…curls, huge eyes, torso, just-developing beer-belly bobbing slightly over shorts, knees, calves, bare feet...plenty o’ them is here, working for gold and diamond.
“Tudo bem,” all’s well, he grin, teeth slightly crookedy with tinges o’ coffee stain. Don’t know why he grin seem charming, musta been because it was warm, and because he eyes crinkle-up at the corners, gold laugh-lines on a twenty-something year old face.
Traitor, the Guyanese immigrant in ‘Merica might holler at me. I does imagine the immigrant keyboard clickety-clacketting rapid with fury, missing the irony of he situation as he type the letter he did send to a newspaper here late last year.
What are the rules in relation to Brazilian nationals coming into Guyana, he did ask. Is there a visa requirement? I would like to know what the government is doing about illegal minerals which are taken out from Guyana to Brazil. Also why is there a bridge which connects us to Brazil? This is very, very bad for Guyana. From my point of view, soon Guyana will be a Portuguese-speaking country instead of an English-speaking one. Georgetown has so many businesses which are owned by Brazilians. Why is the Guyana government allowing these people to come into the country like this?
Hey, I did want to say to the Guyanese-immigrant in ‘Merica...me brothers and sister live in other people countries; me aunties and cousins and uncles too...I hope them Big Countries don’t think that is very, very bad for them. And what about them Guyanese who been living in Brazil plenty-plenty years before Brazilians arrive here? I know that we Guyanese don’t take only the good when we travel, because people is people no matter what they do or where they go.
Them Brazilians bring every shade of id and ego – cooks, restaurant owners, hair-dressers, hotel-keepers and keepers of other businesses rhyming with hotels; dancing girls disappearing with Guyanese men behind stain-up, flimsy curtains in off-the-scene night-spots; drug-users, rapists; girls with bleach-hair and half-bare bums and short-short skirts; quiet young men working ‘n’ saving.
Across the road, before he move away to a different neighbourhood, Brazilian with the crookedy-coffee teeth sit alone at he doorway after work. Play music as the sun move to another place.
On Sunday, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road come from them new Brazilians, drifting high and low with the breeze, like music from a’ open bus or jeep that they cleaning.
And now and then on we radio, Sach Persaud, Guyanese who used to live in Brazil, does sing, Um dia, vou ganhar dinheiro. One day I will make money.
Brazilian chap coming from friends home down the street, is near we car now. He is brown-gold from top to toe…curls, huge eyes, torso, just-developing beer-belly bobbing slightly over shorts, knees, calves, bare feet...plenty o’ them is here, working for gold and diamond.
“Tudo bem,” all’s well, he grin, teeth slightly crookedy with tinges o’ coffee stain. Don’t know why he grin seem charming, musta been because it was warm, and because he eyes crinkle-up at the corners, gold laugh-lines on a twenty-something year old face.
Traitor, the Guyanese immigrant in ‘Merica might holler at me. I does imagine the immigrant keyboard clickety-clacketting rapid with fury, missing the irony of he situation as he type the letter he did send to a newspaper here late last year.
What are the rules in relation to Brazilian nationals coming into Guyana, he did ask. Is there a visa requirement? I would like to know what the government is doing about illegal minerals which are taken out from Guyana to Brazil. Also why is there a bridge which connects us to Brazil? This is very, very bad for Guyana. From my point of view, soon Guyana will be a Portuguese-speaking country instead of an English-speaking one. Georgetown has so many businesses which are owned by Brazilians. Why is the Guyana government allowing these people to come into the country like this?
Hey, I did want to say to the Guyanese-immigrant in ‘Merica...me brothers and sister live in other people countries; me aunties and cousins and uncles too...I hope them Big Countries don’t think that is very, very bad for them. And what about them Guyanese who been living in Brazil plenty-plenty years before Brazilians arrive here? I know that we Guyanese don’t take only the good when we travel, because people is people no matter what they do or where they go.
Them Brazilians bring every shade of id and ego – cooks, restaurant owners, hair-dressers, hotel-keepers and keepers of other businesses rhyming with hotels; dancing girls disappearing with Guyanese men behind stain-up, flimsy curtains in off-the-scene night-spots; drug-users, rapists; girls with bleach-hair and half-bare bums and short-short skirts; quiet young men working ‘n’ saving.
Across the road, before he move away to a different neighbourhood, Brazilian with the crookedy-coffee teeth sit alone at he doorway after work. Play music as the sun move to another place.
On Sunday, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road come from them new Brazilians, drifting high and low with the breeze, like music from a’ open bus or jeep that they cleaning.
And now and then on we radio, Sach Persaud, Guyanese who used to live in Brazil, does sing, Um dia, vou ganhar dinheiro. One day I will make money.
Monday, March 09, 2009
The Planetary Awards
Dear Everyone, I am hosting a li’l bloggers awards ceremony tonight at this ol’ house by the Atlantic. All of you’s invited.
Performances gon be put on by Mammy Nature she self.
The wind tonight gon be cool, ooh-ooh aah, your arms gon shiver. Such a strong wind it gon be, shaking them brass chimes hanging on we verandah rail, making them ching-ching more loud than usual. Them crickets...no strong breeze ain't stopping them. For you, they gon chirp their super-loud, green song about long, quivering grass and night-brown stems of fern and orchids. Breeze gon blow ‘way all mosquitoes.
Above, in the dark sky, heavy white clouds gon rush by so fast, you might think them is giant sheep racing. Stars gon move quick-quick, you would think them is the lights from shepherds’ lamps, chasing after them sheep.
Even if we get a blackout...powercut, dear guests, nothing gon stop we show.
Welcome to the Planetary Awards, where, thanks to Michelle, I receive this (for beautiful writing...heh):
And now, to share the good vibes, I gon give some awards too (along with crispy, salty, slightly-peppery plantain chips, breadfruit chips and cool mauby drink - bitter enough to fool beer lovers, sweet enough to fool non-beer drinkers).
The Sun and Moon Award
Anna - for finding inspiration and beauty in the balance of Nature.
The Mercury Award
Stephen Bess - for enabling communication and learning through his blog.
The Venus Award
C.M. Walsh - for beautiful writing style.
The Mars Award
Dawn of SureWoman - for fighting spirit and unflinching opposition to the wrongs of this world.
The Jupiter Award
Caroline - for volume, quality and quantity of excellent, thought-provoking content.
The Saturn Award
Bakannal - for dark humour or the ability to weather life's woes with a wry smile.
The Uranus Award
Jacqueline - for reaching beyond the obvious, putting a new twist on ancient materials.
The Neptune Award
Apprentice - for imaginative, creative content linked to photography.
The Pluto Award
Hayden (yes, I know she get this from Michelle, but nothing ain't wrong with getting two) - for penetrating insight, occasional dips into darkness, a tinge of the mystical.
Now, anyone for curry shrimps and roti while we gyaff...chat and laugh and praise-up each other...?
Performances gon be put on by Mammy Nature she self.
The wind tonight gon be cool, ooh-ooh aah, your arms gon shiver. Such a strong wind it gon be, shaking them brass chimes hanging on we verandah rail, making them ching-ching more loud than usual. Them crickets...no strong breeze ain't stopping them. For you, they gon chirp their super-loud, green song about long, quivering grass and night-brown stems of fern and orchids. Breeze gon blow ‘way all mosquitoes.
Above, in the dark sky, heavy white clouds gon rush by so fast, you might think them is giant sheep racing. Stars gon move quick-quick, you would think them is the lights from shepherds’ lamps, chasing after them sheep.
Even if we get a blackout...powercut, dear guests, nothing gon stop we show.
Welcome to the Planetary Awards, where, thanks to Michelle, I receive this (for beautiful writing...heh):
And now, to share the good vibes, I gon give some awards too (along with crispy, salty, slightly-peppery plantain chips, breadfruit chips and cool mauby drink - bitter enough to fool beer lovers, sweet enough to fool non-beer drinkers).
The Sun and Moon Award
Anna - for finding inspiration and beauty in the balance of Nature.
The Mercury Award
Stephen Bess - for enabling communication and learning through his blog.
The Venus Award
C.M. Walsh - for beautiful writing style.
The Mars Award
Dawn of SureWoman - for fighting spirit and unflinching opposition to the wrongs of this world.
The Jupiter Award
Caroline - for volume, quality and quantity of excellent, thought-provoking content.
The Saturn Award
Bakannal - for dark humour or the ability to weather life's woes with a wry smile.
The Uranus Award
Jacqueline - for reaching beyond the obvious, putting a new twist on ancient materials.
The Neptune Award
Apprentice - for imaginative, creative content linked to photography.
The Pluto Award
Hayden (yes, I know she get this from Michelle, but nothing ain't wrong with getting two) - for penetrating insight, occasional dips into darkness, a tinge of the mystical.
Now, anyone for curry shrimps and roti while we gyaff...chat and laugh and praise-up each other...?
no post post
help
glugg
glugg
i can't post properly
when i add links, the code and all the cuss words <&$#*> show up
and the 'thing' to select different fonts and size ain't there
^%$#@! no, that is too mild
*%^$#^&#@GFT^%$#@!!!!!!
glugg
glugg
i can't post properly
when i add links, the code and all the cuss words <&$#*> show up
and the 'thing' to select different fonts and size ain't there
^%$#@! no, that is too mild
*%^$#^&#@GFT^%$#@!!!!!!
Monday, March 02, 2009
Gone to seek true love.
This weekend, as I lay on the settee trying to recover from a major allergy attack, I sneeze so much that I sneeze me head off.
Now, I ain’t know where it went.
Gone to the end of the earth to seek true love, I hope.
Or gone to Bollywood to take part in a glitzy musical.
I hope it come back with some Claritin.
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