1979 – A busy taxi driver picks up a passenger at Timehri International Airport (now Cheddi Jagan International Airport), “Where to sah?” “To Corriverton, Berbice,” replied the oversees citizen of Guyanese birth. “Suh wah yuh guh do in Corriverton?", inquired the seasoned taxi driver. The overseas man replied, “I am going to find me a nice young Guyanese gal to play with.”
Fast forward 2012 – A Facebook conversation. 50 something year old Guyanese man, from overseas reaches out to an eager 19 year old in Guyanese girl.
Man: “Hi, how are things in my home country.”
Girl: “Things looking nice.”
Man: “I really miss my country.”
Girl: “Things change up.”
Man: “I would love to visit and see, but I have no one there.”
Girl: “Nah seh suh, meh deh heh.”
Man: “You would show me around?”
Girl: “Yes of course.”
Man goes to Guyana, spends a week. Girl shows the many improvements and wonderful things happening in Guyana. One thing leads to another, they have sex. Man comes back oversees and forgets about girl. Or man comes back oversees and goes back to marry girl. Then girl comes oversees and man turns out to be protective, abusive, dominating, and violent. Wishfully, all works out and they live happily ever after.
Have you heard these recollections before? How many times? With your family, friends, or neighbors? Is this really still happening?
While there is no scientific statistical basis that I could find, this is a recurring scenario that I hear about over and over again. Being such a closed community about issues that does not portray us in a good light, we tend to sweep these darker issues under the rug. Our sisters and cousins from Guyana does not talk about this gross misleading or abuse until there is a knife put to their throats or a gun to their heads. Even more distressful, when we read about these incidents the community raises in an uproar. Facebook comments fly like AK-47s, OMG I am so sorry, So sorry for ur loss, so sad, I feel for the family and on and on… The long crocodile tears flow like the mighty Kaiteur Falls. Where were these same people when the young girl was being lured by this grown man predatorily pursuing her?
Yes there are tons of issues in Guyana that spurned a whole generation of people to flee. Some by choice, some who were too young to make that choice for themselves, the choice was made for them. Those issues are still there. Although, there are certainly some significant changes that enhance and makes Guyana very attractive to live in. There is still the yearning of many people to leave for a perceived better life overseas. While there are many who flourish and enjoy the benefits of living in a place of their birth. It is still very common for arranged marriages and matches made in drunken bars or bottom houses.
The old practice of parents arranging marriage for their kids, especially young girls, still exist. How many people do you know seeks to find a nice Guyanese girl for their “very successful” older boys? There is absolutely nothing wrong with a relevant match. For generations match making in various societies are the norm. This practice will continue. However, when this practice is used in a reckless manner the social outcome is disastrous. What possibly, can a 50 something have in common with a 19 year old? This girl can be his child! Outrageous! This is not love and marriage as it is meant to be. This is desperate people acting irresponsibly.
This is parents not allowing their child to grow into a relationship, just the lure of going “outside”. Alternatively, young girls may not have the strength to say no. The marriage happens, young girl comes to oversees and then the drama starts. Three kids later, staying home, barefoot and pregnant in the some cold basement in the bowels on New York or New Jersey, the startling realization happens. What the hell did they get themselves into? Wait, let me point out the abuse. This man has lived here most of his life, he is probably on a second or third marriage, all of young Guyanese girls, directly from Guyana. He goes to Guyana brings another one, knocks them up, two or three kids, slaps them around, if the girl is lucky she escapes his clutches. He goes to Guyana does it all over again.
Will this cycle ever end? When will Guyanese realize that marriage and relationships are much more sacred than “better financial lives”? When will young Guyanese girls realize that a 50 something year old man has nothing in common with you? All he wants is a younger more attractive model. He could be your father. Would you go to bed with your father? I think not.
Of course there are some who will opine that there is no age in matters of the heart. I believe that. Love can happen in strange and mysterious ways. The laws of logic are thrown out of the window. But I also believe that two people should at least be able to have things in common. These commonalities happens with age, culture, exposure and a host of other factors.
Who am I to say this is an inappropriate way of carrying on life? Every person makes their own bed. I strongly believe that as a community we should have discussions about these issues and not sweep it under the rug. No two relationships are the same, neither are any two circumstances. There is always a means to an end. Or a way to better life. Do we want to continue reading the horror stories of this issue? Do we want to keep making the same Facebook comments of sadness? Older men, find someone your own age or age group. Younger girls, don’t be lured by the glamour of “outside”. Parents, start being parents. Community, let’s open a dialogue with our loved ones. We cannot keep encouraging a generation with single mothers raising kids on their own, while fathers are either deported to Guyana or allowed to keep trading in for a newer model.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Ultimate Car Makeover in the Back Streets of Skeldon
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10000872396390443890304578009284279919750.html
Does anyone remember the days of Datsun cars in Guyana? Today, much to my surprise the Wall Street Journal carried this article announcing Nissan’s intention of reviving the old car brand. Back in the 70s, growing up in rural Guyana my father’s first car that he owned was a Datsun Bluebird. Later my grandfather performed what everyone I recalled said was totally crazy. He merged a Datsun Bluebird, Japanese made car with a Vanguard, English made car. Impossible? No, I was there. I helped build it.
My dad was a graduate of Guyana Sugar Corporation Apprentice Training School in Port Mourant, Berbice. He worked at the Skeldon Sugar Estate’s Field Mechanical Work Shop. Since he was a mechanic he must have seen something in this mashed up Datsun. The Datsun sat in the yard of a beer garden. A beer garden in those days and probably still is the same today, is a place where people mostly men gather to drink beer or rum. Most beer gardens were little “bottom house” shops, but as progression took a hold of the drinking public beer gardens evolved into major establishments. This beer garden was owned by a “red bone” man named Sammy. I can’t quite remember if Sammy worked with my father or he just owned the beer garden. Red bone was the name given to any person of mixed race with Portuguese and any of Guyana’s five other races. The beer garden was located in Kingston, off the main Kingston Rd. first right hand turn, second house on the right. There was an up ramp since the house sat on stilts. The car was buried in mud and grim with a mashed up front right side. I clearly remembered my grandfather who was a taxi driver, saying, “That rass would never run.” What do you know, first kick the engine caught life.
Around 1975, convinced that this was a great car, my father bought it. Over the next couple of months he worked on bringing the car back to it’s original glory. The interior remained blue, while the exterior sported a bright fire engine red color. It had a unique horn that carried a song like sound. This was a sexy little car. My grandfather even got to liking this little car and he used it in his taxi service. In 1977 my father passed. My grandfather continued to use the car. However, the car’s body started to rot in several places. All this time the mechanics of the car excelled. It was small, fast, nimble, and burnt minimal fuel. But the amount of money spent on patching the body was huge. Not to mention how ugly it started to look with patches. People did not want to ride in a car that appeared to fall apart. My grandfather’s taxi business was taking a little beating.
Back in those days up until the Berbice River Bridge was built in 2008, there was and still is a vibrant taxi service from Skeldon to Georgetown. Before the bridge there was a ferry service that crossed from New Amsterdam to Rosignol, ever so frequently or infrequently, depends if you missed the boat or the boat was inoperable. If you wanted to traverse to Georgetown from Skeldon, you would have to reserve a seat in a taxi the night before you wished to travel. The taxi would pick you up at 3:30 am and make the trek to wait for the 5:00 am ferry crossing. If you missed that boat, there was an alternative pontoon crossing from Blairmount. Either way if you had morning business to conduct in Georgetown, you were already late. Most of these taxis are packed with people and luggage. So it is very important to have a strong, sizeable, and stable car.
Since the Datsun was just running well but too small and falling apart, my grandfather, Uncle Phil was on the look out for something bigger. He kept passing a Ensign van type car without tires on No. 19 Public Road. According to him, that car was sitting there for ages and the body was still in great shape. So one day we stopped and talked to the people who owned it. They agreed to sell. We put four tires on the car and towed it to Skeldon. My grandfather was a mechanic through necessity. I don’t think he was ever formally trained, he just picked up from driving cars all his adult working life. He did have a brief stint of driving an estate truck when he first left his home village of No. 35. to settle in Skeldon. Over his long career as a taxi driver he acquired most of the tools required to work on cars. For as far back as I can remember we had a car. There was a semi work shop with car parts littering our yard. I remembered at one time we dug a fish pond in the back yard and I am convinced that we retrieved an entire car parts catalog of relics from various eras. Needless to say we revived the Ensign to a blue whale of a van. It was huge, spacious, with a huge trunk for carrying luggage and a huge engine. That huge engine drank an enormous amount of fuel. For a good couple of years this van did it’s job. As time passed, the engine started to go. Another car caught my grandfather’s eye. A Vanguard sitting under Mr. Scott’s house. Mr. Scott was a onetime mayor of Skeldon and a good friend of my grandfather. The good old boys network. We acquired the Vanguard.
Most of the Vanguard’s parts were interchangeable with the Ensign. As we phased the Ensign out, the Vanguard did the heavy lifting. As a car the Vanguard was spacious, functioned well, but still had the thirst for fuel and was sluggish. During all of these years as a child growing up from Primary to Secondary School, many of my out of school hours were spent messing with these cars. My very first memory was a good trashing from stuffing grease in my mouth. I would crawl and hang out with whoever was working under whichever car we had at the time. I was the unofficial shop helper. Child labor laws did not exactly exist. I can’t quite remember the exact moment, but one day my grandfather called me over to the Datsun. Remember, the Datsun was sitting at rest again. Brush, vines, mud, grime, and small animals had taken residence once again. He asked me, “Do you think this car can start again?”
I knew the car could start. Because when he wasn’t home, I would start the car and prepend I was driving. I was only 9 or 10 yrs old. He probably knew also. Maybe I kept starting the car in remembrance of my dad. Who knows. So I replied, “Yes it can.” He said, “Start it.” When my grandmother over heard the conversation she came over. Uncle Phil had a huge personality and intimidating voice. But he was a gentleman. She was wondering if he was going to give me a good trashing for messing with the old car. I was shaking in my slippers. I got in the car brushes and all, inserted the keys and turned. The engine turned over. Nothing. He started to laugh. “Meh think, yuh seh dis old shit can wuk.” I tried again. Nothing. He walked away with his wife, Eva, still laughing. I tried again. The engine fired. The car jerked and did what it had done so many times when he wasn’t around, started! He came back over and leaned in the window. “So eh a wuk. Turn it off.” I did as I was told. He beckoned me out. We sat on a wooden bench in our semi work shop. He looked at me straight in the eyes and ask; “This July when school close do you want to work on a project with me?” You think I was going to say no to him. Never. I loved this old man. He went on, “We are going to take all of the mechanical parts of that Datsun and put it in the Vanguard’s body.”
What? Did I hear him right? We were going to take a Japanese made car with everything in metric measurements and put it in an English made car with everything in Imperial measurements. Was this ever done in Skeldon before? Was it ever done anywhere? I would never know these answers. But can he pull this off? However, I know that we were going forward with putting together the solid English body with a stellar Japanese machine. Uncle Phil recruited two of his on again off again apprentices Steve and Chico. I rounded up my little friends Sean, Intikalb, Tariq and anyone else who lived on the street and wanted to get dirty with me. We were set when the doors of school closed that summer. Steve and Chico were both accomplished wielders and Chico was a good mechanic. My friends and I did everything else, from clean up, wash parts, run to the store, buy cigarettes, take love letters to these guys girlfriends while they worked and whatever else needed to be done. Uncle Phil was the brains. Like every boss he talked more than worked. Slowly we stripped the Vanguard and cut it’s chassis out. Since not a whole lot can go wrong with taking things apart. I was tasked to strip the Datsun with my underage gang.
After making the necessary adjustments we transferred the Datsun’s chassis under the Vanguard. Then Uncle Phil took to rewiring the Vanguard. With wiring in place we started to transfer part by part often times having to fabricate the mounting. It was odd when we transferred the dashboard. There was space on both sides since the Vanguard is much wider than the Datsun. But we made it work. Same goes for everything under the hood. We had to fabricate a longer drive shaft. Which was a piece of cake for Uncle Jamna, another one of Uncle Phil’s long time friends. Uncle Jamna’s Metal Work Shop was our “go to” place for anything we could not handle. We kept the gas tank of the Vanguard for more fuel capacity. After everything was completed which took most of summer vacation, it was time to test our creation. First time out the car was sluggish as if the engine was straining to carry the heavier body. With minor adjustments the Ultimate Car Makeover was a complete success.
This car ran until Uncle Phil retired from the taxi business. Since I was still too young to drive, the car just sat parked. After we all immigrated to the states I am not sure what happened to the car. I was told several years later that we sold the house and everything in it. When I went back to Guyana in March 2010, our entire house was gone and so was everything in the yard. It is a clear vacant yard. No car in sight. I asked around the neighbors, no one remembered what happened to the car.
If after so many times the little Datsun, that a mechanic thought was a good car, still roared to life. I believe the revival of the Datsun brand will certainly be a success. Maybe, as the company is focused on developing countries we may not see this car in the United States. But, some day I will meet a Datsun again.
Does anyone remember the days of Datsun cars in Guyana? Today, much to my surprise the Wall Street Journal carried this article announcing Nissan’s intention of reviving the old car brand. Back in the 70s, growing up in rural Guyana my father’s first car that he owned was a Datsun Bluebird. Later my grandfather performed what everyone I recalled said was totally crazy. He merged a Datsun Bluebird, Japanese made car with a Vanguard, English made car. Impossible? No, I was there. I helped build it.
My dad was a graduate of Guyana Sugar Corporation Apprentice Training School in Port Mourant, Berbice. He worked at the Skeldon Sugar Estate’s Field Mechanical Work Shop. Since he was a mechanic he must have seen something in this mashed up Datsun. The Datsun sat in the yard of a beer garden. A beer garden in those days and probably still is the same today, is a place where people mostly men gather to drink beer or rum. Most beer gardens were little “bottom house” shops, but as progression took a hold of the drinking public beer gardens evolved into major establishments. This beer garden was owned by a “red bone” man named Sammy. I can’t quite remember if Sammy worked with my father or he just owned the beer garden. Red bone was the name given to any person of mixed race with Portuguese and any of Guyana’s five other races. The beer garden was located in Kingston, off the main Kingston Rd. first right hand turn, second house on the right. There was an up ramp since the house sat on stilts. The car was buried in mud and grim with a mashed up front right side. I clearly remembered my grandfather who was a taxi driver, saying, “That rass would never run.” What do you know, first kick the engine caught life.
Around 1975, convinced that this was a great car, my father bought it. Over the next couple of months he worked on bringing the car back to it’s original glory. The interior remained blue, while the exterior sported a bright fire engine red color. It had a unique horn that carried a song like sound. This was a sexy little car. My grandfather even got to liking this little car and he used it in his taxi service. In 1977 my father passed. My grandfather continued to use the car. However, the car’s body started to rot in several places. All this time the mechanics of the car excelled. It was small, fast, nimble, and burnt minimal fuel. But the amount of money spent on patching the body was huge. Not to mention how ugly it started to look with patches. People did not want to ride in a car that appeared to fall apart. My grandfather’s taxi business was taking a little beating.
Back in those days up until the Berbice River Bridge was built in 2008, there was and still is a vibrant taxi service from Skeldon to Georgetown. Before the bridge there was a ferry service that crossed from New Amsterdam to Rosignol, ever so frequently or infrequently, depends if you missed the boat or the boat was inoperable. If you wanted to traverse to Georgetown from Skeldon, you would have to reserve a seat in a taxi the night before you wished to travel. The taxi would pick you up at 3:30 am and make the trek to wait for the 5:00 am ferry crossing. If you missed that boat, there was an alternative pontoon crossing from Blairmount. Either way if you had morning business to conduct in Georgetown, you were already late. Most of these taxis are packed with people and luggage. So it is very important to have a strong, sizeable, and stable car.
Since the Datsun was just running well but too small and falling apart, my grandfather, Uncle Phil was on the look out for something bigger. He kept passing a Ensign van type car without tires on No. 19 Public Road. According to him, that car was sitting there for ages and the body was still in great shape. So one day we stopped and talked to the people who owned it. They agreed to sell. We put four tires on the car and towed it to Skeldon. My grandfather was a mechanic through necessity. I don’t think he was ever formally trained, he just picked up from driving cars all his adult working life. He did have a brief stint of driving an estate truck when he first left his home village of No. 35. to settle in Skeldon. Over his long career as a taxi driver he acquired most of the tools required to work on cars. For as far back as I can remember we had a car. There was a semi work shop with car parts littering our yard. I remembered at one time we dug a fish pond in the back yard and I am convinced that we retrieved an entire car parts catalog of relics from various eras. Needless to say we revived the Ensign to a blue whale of a van. It was huge, spacious, with a huge trunk for carrying luggage and a huge engine. That huge engine drank an enormous amount of fuel. For a good couple of years this van did it’s job. As time passed, the engine started to go. Another car caught my grandfather’s eye. A Vanguard sitting under Mr. Scott’s house. Mr. Scott was a onetime mayor of Skeldon and a good friend of my grandfather. The good old boys network. We acquired the Vanguard.
Most of the Vanguard’s parts were interchangeable with the Ensign. As we phased the Ensign out, the Vanguard did the heavy lifting. As a car the Vanguard was spacious, functioned well, but still had the thirst for fuel and was sluggish. During all of these years as a child growing up from Primary to Secondary School, many of my out of school hours were spent messing with these cars. My very first memory was a good trashing from stuffing grease in my mouth. I would crawl and hang out with whoever was working under whichever car we had at the time. I was the unofficial shop helper. Child labor laws did not exactly exist. I can’t quite remember the exact moment, but one day my grandfather called me over to the Datsun. Remember, the Datsun was sitting at rest again. Brush, vines, mud, grime, and small animals had taken residence once again. He asked me, “Do you think this car can start again?”
I knew the car could start. Because when he wasn’t home, I would start the car and prepend I was driving. I was only 9 or 10 yrs old. He probably knew also. Maybe I kept starting the car in remembrance of my dad. Who knows. So I replied, “Yes it can.” He said, “Start it.” When my grandmother over heard the conversation she came over. Uncle Phil had a huge personality and intimidating voice. But he was a gentleman. She was wondering if he was going to give me a good trashing for messing with the old car. I was shaking in my slippers. I got in the car brushes and all, inserted the keys and turned. The engine turned over. Nothing. He started to laugh. “Meh think, yuh seh dis old shit can wuk.” I tried again. Nothing. He walked away with his wife, Eva, still laughing. I tried again. The engine fired. The car jerked and did what it had done so many times when he wasn’t around, started! He came back over and leaned in the window. “So eh a wuk. Turn it off.” I did as I was told. He beckoned me out. We sat on a wooden bench in our semi work shop. He looked at me straight in the eyes and ask; “This July when school close do you want to work on a project with me?” You think I was going to say no to him. Never. I loved this old man. He went on, “We are going to take all of the mechanical parts of that Datsun and put it in the Vanguard’s body.”
What? Did I hear him right? We were going to take a Japanese made car with everything in metric measurements and put it in an English made car with everything in Imperial measurements. Was this ever done in Skeldon before? Was it ever done anywhere? I would never know these answers. But can he pull this off? However, I know that we were going forward with putting together the solid English body with a stellar Japanese machine. Uncle Phil recruited two of his on again off again apprentices Steve and Chico. I rounded up my little friends Sean, Intikalb, Tariq and anyone else who lived on the street and wanted to get dirty with me. We were set when the doors of school closed that summer. Steve and Chico were both accomplished wielders and Chico was a good mechanic. My friends and I did everything else, from clean up, wash parts, run to the store, buy cigarettes, take love letters to these guys girlfriends while they worked and whatever else needed to be done. Uncle Phil was the brains. Like every boss he talked more than worked. Slowly we stripped the Vanguard and cut it’s chassis out. Since not a whole lot can go wrong with taking things apart. I was tasked to strip the Datsun with my underage gang.
After making the necessary adjustments we transferred the Datsun’s chassis under the Vanguard. Then Uncle Phil took to rewiring the Vanguard. With wiring in place we started to transfer part by part often times having to fabricate the mounting. It was odd when we transferred the dashboard. There was space on both sides since the Vanguard is much wider than the Datsun. But we made it work. Same goes for everything under the hood. We had to fabricate a longer drive shaft. Which was a piece of cake for Uncle Jamna, another one of Uncle Phil’s long time friends. Uncle Jamna’s Metal Work Shop was our “go to” place for anything we could not handle. We kept the gas tank of the Vanguard for more fuel capacity. After everything was completed which took most of summer vacation, it was time to test our creation. First time out the car was sluggish as if the engine was straining to carry the heavier body. With minor adjustments the Ultimate Car Makeover was a complete success.
This car ran until Uncle Phil retired from the taxi business. Since I was still too young to drive, the car just sat parked. After we all immigrated to the states I am not sure what happened to the car. I was told several years later that we sold the house and everything in it. When I went back to Guyana in March 2010, our entire house was gone and so was everything in the yard. It is a clear vacant yard. No car in sight. I asked around the neighbors, no one remembered what happened to the car.
If after so many times the little Datsun, that a mechanic thought was a good car, still roared to life. I believe the revival of the Datsun brand will certainly be a success. Maybe, as the company is focused on developing countries we may not see this car in the United States. But, some day I will meet a Datsun again.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Reflections of Silence
Recently, someone in Skeldon initiated a private conversation with
me about a public posting being discussed in the Facebook Group, Skeldon
Conversation. The posting is, “This Sex Worker Thing”……how is public
prostitution an accepted thing in Guyana?” The response was twofold, an on the
ground assessment of the current crisis and a case of silence.
“Hey Eric, I just saw the
post on sex workers and found it to be interesting in some parts but, seems
misinformed in others. As it relates to the trafficking in persons for the
purpose of sex trades that was an issue of several years ago. It has reduced
drastically. Continuous work is being done with all stakeholders including the
Ministry of Human Services..... most bars you guys are referring to are a thing
of the past sex workers are more wise these days hence not associating much
with bars and brothels.... yes there are young girls in the sex work profession
but they are independent workers both school age and older.... One challenge
for NGOs working with these sex workers is they are able to work with the older
population but are restricted to provide said services to minors. Although
there are adequate evidence to prove these children are in sex work the laws of
the land ties their hands. The law enforcers are blind to the part of the
constitution that states sex work and buggering are illegal.”
The above excerpt was very surprising to me. Why does this person feel
that they cannot post this response in a public forum? So I posed this
question. Here was the response.
“There are senior government officials who are a part of this
group. Hence could compromise a lot of what I could say. I don't have a problem
to speak. The thing with the situation here is that with everything there is
politics at work. So, speaking is one thing, the way it affect the organization
I represent will be another. I worry about the staff that has to provide for
themselves and families more than myself..... It complicates things a lot
there.”
Wow....things are still the same in Guyana even two decades later.
No wonder I can't get anyone to participate from Skeldon. Is this the reality?
Note: I will not divulge the person at the other end of this
conversation. Don’t ask and don’t assume you know who it is. Let’s look at the
issue at hand.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Finally Reunited - RIP Aji.
As immigrants to the US, we all try to carve out our own destiny. When we arrive here with family, sometimes that destiny separates us. Mine took me away from my beloved grandmother. There comes a time when we seek to reconnect and cement our love and affection, before the end.
My journey settled in Orlando, Florida. Far away from Newark, New Jersey where my grandmother stayed with aunts and uncles. There was always a burning desire to spend quality time with my grandmother. Mid summer 2010, I did just that. It was just a time to sit reflect, eat meals, laugh, walk downstairs and just be in her presence. A few days were sheer joy for both of us. Many times we just sat there without saying anything, or she just sleep quietly.
After my dad passed in 1977, my grandmother was the driving force ensuring that I had the best our humble surroundings could offer. I hinted a replacement for her beloved son, Mickie, in me. Or as some of my beloved cousins would say, “I was her favorite.” Maybe they were just jealous that I got a larger share of the goodies. Needless to say aji took special interest in her grandchildren. At our old house in Line Path Sunday brunches was a must.
Our church service started at 7:30 am and finished at 8 – 9 ish, depending on which long winded elder or preacher was conducting service. After services, the entire clan would gather at our home for a day long frenzy of activities. Before services finished, Uncle Adam Hussain, came to our house to halaal the duck or chicken. Then the cooking started. Kids played, older ones helped out. My grandma pretended to conduct operations but she never really did. She rather spend time with us kids than be a slave to the fireside. It is this joyous time that cemented a bond between grandchildren and grandmother.
Naturally, I was not going to be in the vicinity of New York and not visit my cousins. So after a couple of days eating, talking, giving her tablets, making tea and biscuits, laughing uncontrollably about nothing in particular I was itching for a drive. My grandmother got wind that I was driving to New York. Mind you, this old lady had not leave Newark, for that matter her home, other than her frequent trips to the hospital, in years. Now she wanted to take the one hour, or two hours depending on traffic, drive to Queens! My aunts and uncles were stunned. She always refused when anyone offered to take her to Queens. Here she was determined to go. She reminded us every morning, “Abe a guh today?”
After much deliberating and consulting at the caution of some family members, we decided that she would make the drive. I personally do not think that she would let me go without her. It was like moving her entire room into the car. But she settled in and was ready to go. As the journey began, my 80 something year old grandmother keep pointing out various landmarks. She had not taken this trip in years, yet she remembered certain places. No one recalled telling her exactly whose house we were going to. As we pulled up to Aunty Patricia’s home she immediately announced, “This a Dolly new house.” How did she know?
It was thrilling to see her walking in and inspecting the house. After about half an hour of sitting in the living room and conversing with everyone, she retired to the bedroom. She said she was tired. She stopped breathing! We called the paramedics, they came and took her away, we followed. She was in the emergency room for awhile. All of the family gathered. She came out of the emergency room and was placed in a critical care room. There was no brain activity. After a couple of days, the doctors saw no improvement, we all conferred. It was her time to go.
After it was decided, everyone went home. Although the doctors would not let me stay in the room, they could not stop me from walking by and peeking in. They also could not stop me from sitting with her in silence when no one was around. That faithful August 27, 2010 night was peaceful and silent. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning I went to my aunt’s house to freshen up and came back before daybreak. Aji was still there. A couple hours later she went to be with her husband Philip, her daughter Juliet, her son Mickie, and her son-in-law Adam. I went in kissed her, walked around the ward, and came back, the doctors surrounded her, she was gone.
Aji lived a long and happy life. She got to spend those years with loving and caring children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. For a young village girl, from Williamsburg, Berbice who married into a farming family in #35 Village, Berbice to a housewife of a Sugar Factory driver in Line Path, Berbice to an immigrant of the United States, Evelyn Joseph, later Khidaroo had a fulfilling life.
I am at peace that my grandmother departed. How long does one stay on this earth for our comforts? When is it time? It was her time. No more pain and suffering, no more doctors and tablets, no more people assisting her to do everything physically, no more depending on anyone, no more being lonely. She is with the people she loved and cherished, but still smiling down on those of us who were in her gracious folds. I miss you aji, but I understand your journey. Rest in Peace old lady, RIP.
My journey settled in Orlando, Florida. Far away from Newark, New Jersey where my grandmother stayed with aunts and uncles. There was always a burning desire to spend quality time with my grandmother. Mid summer 2010, I did just that. It was just a time to sit reflect, eat meals, laugh, walk downstairs and just be in her presence. A few days were sheer joy for both of us. Many times we just sat there without saying anything, or she just sleep quietly.
After my dad passed in 1977, my grandmother was the driving force ensuring that I had the best our humble surroundings could offer. I hinted a replacement for her beloved son, Mickie, in me. Or as some of my beloved cousins would say, “I was her favorite.” Maybe they were just jealous that I got a larger share of the goodies. Needless to say aji took special interest in her grandchildren. At our old house in Line Path Sunday brunches was a must.
Our church service started at 7:30 am and finished at 8 – 9 ish, depending on which long winded elder or preacher was conducting service. After services, the entire clan would gather at our home for a day long frenzy of activities. Before services finished, Uncle Adam Hussain, came to our house to halaal the duck or chicken. Then the cooking started. Kids played, older ones helped out. My grandma pretended to conduct operations but she never really did. She rather spend time with us kids than be a slave to the fireside. It is this joyous time that cemented a bond between grandchildren and grandmother.
Naturally, I was not going to be in the vicinity of New York and not visit my cousins. So after a couple of days eating, talking, giving her tablets, making tea and biscuits, laughing uncontrollably about nothing in particular I was itching for a drive. My grandmother got wind that I was driving to New York. Mind you, this old lady had not leave Newark, for that matter her home, other than her frequent trips to the hospital, in years. Now she wanted to take the one hour, or two hours depending on traffic, drive to Queens! My aunts and uncles were stunned. She always refused when anyone offered to take her to Queens. Here she was determined to go. She reminded us every morning, “Abe a guh today?”
After much deliberating and consulting at the caution of some family members, we decided that she would make the drive. I personally do not think that she would let me go without her. It was like moving her entire room into the car. But she settled in and was ready to go. As the journey began, my 80 something year old grandmother keep pointing out various landmarks. She had not taken this trip in years, yet she remembered certain places. No one recalled telling her exactly whose house we were going to. As we pulled up to Aunty Patricia’s home she immediately announced, “This a Dolly new house.” How did she know?
It was thrilling to see her walking in and inspecting the house. After about half an hour of sitting in the living room and conversing with everyone, she retired to the bedroom. She said she was tired. She stopped breathing! We called the paramedics, they came and took her away, we followed. She was in the emergency room for awhile. All of the family gathered. She came out of the emergency room and was placed in a critical care room. There was no brain activity. After a couple of days, the doctors saw no improvement, we all conferred. It was her time to go.
After it was decided, everyone went home. Although the doctors would not let me stay in the room, they could not stop me from walking by and peeking in. They also could not stop me from sitting with her in silence when no one was around. That faithful August 27, 2010 night was peaceful and silent. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning I went to my aunt’s house to freshen up and came back before daybreak. Aji was still there. A couple hours later she went to be with her husband Philip, her daughter Juliet, her son Mickie, and her son-in-law Adam. I went in kissed her, walked around the ward, and came back, the doctors surrounded her, she was gone.
Aji lived a long and happy life. She got to spend those years with loving and caring children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. For a young village girl, from Williamsburg, Berbice who married into a farming family in #35 Village, Berbice to a housewife of a Sugar Factory driver in Line Path, Berbice to an immigrant of the United States, Evelyn Joseph, later Khidaroo had a fulfilling life.
I am at peace that my grandmother departed. How long does one stay on this earth for our comforts? When is it time? It was her time. No more pain and suffering, no more doctors and tablets, no more people assisting her to do everything physically, no more depending on anyone, no more being lonely. She is with the people she loved and cherished, but still smiling down on those of us who were in her gracious folds. I miss you aji, but I understand your journey. Rest in Peace old lady, RIP.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
I Remember You, Mickie Khadaroo
Friday 4 pm Aug 19, 1977 - A happy, vibrant man strode into Skeldon Sugar Estate Payroll office to pick up his pay check. After that he went to Skeldon Market, opposite the Skeldon Hospital and bought beef. He made a rounds to Narine Datt bar to say hello and what we now know is goodbye to his friends. He went home to his wife, son, and family. His wife made a special beef curry.
Friday 8 pm Aug 19, 1977 - Mickie Khadaroo took his favorite sports section of the newspaper and went to the out house. He never came back out. After a prolonged period, my mom checked on her husband. No answer. She screamed for help. As neighbors gathered the Skeldon Sugar Estate ambulance arrived. They took him to Skeldon Hospital. Later that night they took him to New Amsterdam Hospital.
Mon 6 am Aug 22, 1977 my father stopped breathing.
Prior to Aug 19, 1977 my dad spent the last month or more at the New Amsterdam Hospital for what sparse recollection and recounts amount to a brain injury. Throughout his youth up to the ripe age of 29, my father lived to the fullest. Reckless, maybe. He was a sucker for speed and motorcycles. After all he was a mechanic. Trained by his father from a very young age and later formally at the Guysuco Training Center in Rose Hall, Mickie excelled with all things mechanical. In those days and probably still so, the manly and approved thing to do was work at the Sugar Estate, drink with your buddies, and ride motorcycles drunk. After several accidents and head injuries, his tender skull had enough.
As a father, son, brother, and grandson Mickie never forsake his family. My fading memory, I was 6 when he passed, was always among many family members. Our one on one time was a slow drive from Line Path to either Crabwood Creek Road End or Springlands Stelling. I don’t quite remember what was said to me. I just remember a couple of events, birthdays, family gatherings, and trips to other family in Rose Hall and #35 Village.
His early demise left me listless. My grandfather, Uncle Phil, and his brothers Jerry, Ralph and Eddy did a great job filling the void. His mother, Eva, sisters Juliet, Patricia, Esther, and Loney made sure I was comfortable. His wife, Asha, my mom has been and continues to be my rock. She sacrificed her own opportunities in life for my comforts. Mickie is smiling on his darling Asha. Over the years at various times, I had the honor of meeting and reminiscing with many of my dad’s friends. I don’t recall anyone whom he knew or knew him that he did not touch personally. Many call him their brother…..or as they say in Guyana “Dem buddy friend”.
It has been over three decades since you left this world, dad. I feel your presence everyday. Your caring and loving ways still touch this family. In family times, there is still talks about your big heart. Rest assured you are missed. We thank you for touching our lives and somehow instilling your love and compassion. Rest in Peace dear father, RIP.
Friday 8 pm Aug 19, 1977 - Mickie Khadaroo took his favorite sports section of the newspaper and went to the out house. He never came back out. After a prolonged period, my mom checked on her husband. No answer. She screamed for help. As neighbors gathered the Skeldon Sugar Estate ambulance arrived. They took him to Skeldon Hospital. Later that night they took him to New Amsterdam Hospital.
Mon 6 am Aug 22, 1977 my father stopped breathing.
Prior to Aug 19, 1977 my dad spent the last month or more at the New Amsterdam Hospital for what sparse recollection and recounts amount to a brain injury. Throughout his youth up to the ripe age of 29, my father lived to the fullest. Reckless, maybe. He was a sucker for speed and motorcycles. After all he was a mechanic. Trained by his father from a very young age and later formally at the Guysuco Training Center in Rose Hall, Mickie excelled with all things mechanical. In those days and probably still so, the manly and approved thing to do was work at the Sugar Estate, drink with your buddies, and ride motorcycles drunk. After several accidents and head injuries, his tender skull had enough.
As a father, son, brother, and grandson Mickie never forsake his family. My fading memory, I was 6 when he passed, was always among many family members. Our one on one time was a slow drive from Line Path to either Crabwood Creek Road End or Springlands Stelling. I don’t quite remember what was said to me. I just remember a couple of events, birthdays, family gatherings, and trips to other family in Rose Hall and #35 Village.
His early demise left me listless. My grandfather, Uncle Phil, and his brothers Jerry, Ralph and Eddy did a great job filling the void. His mother, Eva, sisters Juliet, Patricia, Esther, and Loney made sure I was comfortable. His wife, Asha, my mom has been and continues to be my rock. She sacrificed her own opportunities in life for my comforts. Mickie is smiling on his darling Asha. Over the years at various times, I had the honor of meeting and reminiscing with many of my dad’s friends. I don’t recall anyone whom he knew or knew him that he did not touch personally. Many call him their brother…..or as they say in Guyana “Dem buddy friend”.
It has been over three decades since you left this world, dad. I feel your presence everyday. Your caring and loving ways still touch this family. In family times, there is still talks about your big heart. Rest assured you are missed. We thank you for touching our lives and somehow instilling your love and compassion. Rest in Peace dear father, RIP.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
A Place of Relaxation
There are so many complains and frustration making the media circus out of Guyana, that you would think, what a total disaster.
Not so fast naysayer! I recently made friends with a very nice doctor from Skeldon Hospital, Dr. Vishalya Sharma, on Facebook. Being the nosy person I am, I clicked through her photos. To my utmost delight, I found some pictures which raised my curiosity to a very high level of excitement. Did you know that there was a park at #63 Beach? Okay, not the beach it self, but right before you get to the beach.
A park? Built by whom? For whom? Yes, there are good things happening in Guyana. I am told that "Uncle Joe" built this park by himself for the kids in the neighborhood. Apparently, this park was built at least before Dec, 2011. I consider myself very informed about the happenings in and around Skeldon all the way up the Corentyne and to some extent the other parts of Guyana. But a park built right under my nose and I had no idea?
Could it be that Uncle Joe saw the need and just did the right thing, without the hoopla of media and a big splash? I believe so. Not a single whisper on any social media. By chance I saw the pictures of the good doctor. Here is exactly what Guyana needs. I have always supported the notion that Guyana can be rebuilt and developed by the people living in Guyana.
Who knows better what is needed than people living in Guyana? Guyanese living day to day in Guyana! More people should follow suit and take up projects that benefits the community. I don't know Uncle Joe's background, but any person who can give of himself to the public without asking for anything in return is a person worth mentioning. This is how communities are built. This is a neighbor taking care of his neighbors' children. This is necessary in Guyana today.
Help from overseas in the "Hammock Raja" fashion is not the answer. There are tons of Guyanese willing to reach back into their village and render assistance. But it seems like a black hole to fill. People continue to give and nothing changes. The same hand outs happen year in, year out. Next year same thing, the other year same thing. Give a man a fish and he continues to ask, show that man how to fish and he eats everyday. Further, if that man learns to fish by himself, he eats all the time. Life is not easy anywhere. Times are changing in the diaspora. The money tree is getting dry and whittled.
Uncle Joe has shown that a little thought and generosity can go a long way. There was a Christmas party at this park last year. From the images, it is clear that these kids had a ball. This park serves as a sanctuary from everyday life. Like so many other parks in many other parts of the world, this is where people recharge their batteries and take things a little easier. More of this take charge of your own destiny is the key to Guyana's emergence out of this black hole.
I encourage more people to follow suit. Go to this park, take pictures, enjoy the peace, give back to your community. Share your thoughts and pictures. Thank you, Uncle Joe, for making a child's life fun again.
Not so fast naysayer! I recently made friends with a very nice doctor from Skeldon Hospital, Dr. Vishalya Sharma, on Facebook. Being the nosy person I am, I clicked through her photos. To my utmost delight, I found some pictures which raised my curiosity to a very high level of excitement. Did you know that there was a park at #63 Beach? Okay, not the beach it self, but right before you get to the beach.
A park? Built by whom? For whom? Yes, there are good things happening in Guyana. I am told that "Uncle Joe" built this park by himself for the kids in the neighborhood. Apparently, this park was built at least before Dec, 2011. I consider myself very informed about the happenings in and around Skeldon all the way up the Corentyne and to some extent the other parts of Guyana. But a park built right under my nose and I had no idea?
Could it be that Uncle Joe saw the need and just did the right thing, without the hoopla of media and a big splash? I believe so. Not a single whisper on any social media. By chance I saw the pictures of the good doctor. Here is exactly what Guyana needs. I have always supported the notion that Guyana can be rebuilt and developed by the people living in Guyana.
Who knows better what is needed than people living in Guyana? Guyanese living day to day in Guyana! More people should follow suit and take up projects that benefits the community. I don't know Uncle Joe's background, but any person who can give of himself to the public without asking for anything in return is a person worth mentioning. This is how communities are built. This is a neighbor taking care of his neighbors' children. This is necessary in Guyana today.
Help from overseas in the "Hammock Raja" fashion is not the answer. There are tons of Guyanese willing to reach back into their village and render assistance. But it seems like a black hole to fill. People continue to give and nothing changes. The same hand outs happen year in, year out. Next year same thing, the other year same thing. Give a man a fish and he continues to ask, show that man how to fish and he eats everyday. Further, if that man learns to fish by himself, he eats all the time. Life is not easy anywhere. Times are changing in the diaspora. The money tree is getting dry and whittled.
Uncle Joe has shown that a little thought and generosity can go a long way. There was a Christmas party at this park last year. From the images, it is clear that these kids had a ball. This park serves as a sanctuary from everyday life. Like so many other parks in many other parts of the world, this is where people recharge their batteries and take things a little easier. More of this take charge of your own destiny is the key to Guyana's emergence out of this black hole.
I encourage more people to follow suit. Go to this park, take pictures, enjoy the peace, give back to your community. Share your thoughts and pictures. Thank you, Uncle Joe, for making a child's life fun again.
A Time To Remember
New Jersey Arya Samaj Mandir Humanitarian Mission, Guyana/Central Arya Samaj Mandir, Angels Entertainment Group, and Natraj Center for Performing Arts presents A Time to Remember. Proceeds will benefit the building of a Humanitarian Village in Babu John, Rose Hall, Berbice, Guyana.
This ONE show only at Bath Settlement Community Center Ground will feature music and entertainment of Peace, Love, Unity, Strength, and Harmony.
Local and international artists will perform on the same stage. This is a Family Oriented Event.
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