I remember still and I always will– boyhood days

May 23, 2010 News

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By Michael Benjamin

The ‘Lamaha Canal’ or the ‘Blacka’ as it is popularly called, snakes through miles of dense foliage and eventually meanders its way to a spot free of weeds and vegetation, conveniently cleared for swimming purposes by errant schoolboys venturing for an illegal dip in the murky waters and the groups of Rastafarians, practising their rituals, giving praise to Haile Salassie.
In close proximity to the ‘Blacka’ are miles of cane fields where youngsters venture in search of fat stalks of juicy canes. For some, picking canes was merely a favourite pastime. For me it was a survival mission. It was in the cane fields that I derived ‘three squares’ and only left that area to return home for a ‘soft.’
Most of the boys gathered on Sunday mornings to knock a swim after trudging for miles on end with huge bundles of cane slung across shoulders that glistened with sweat.
I was a ‘Multi’ boy back then but school meant little to me. In fact, that institution was merely a place to catch up on the sleep that I missed the night before while hanging out with the boys at the corner.
My attitude infuriated my teachers but I pacified the situation by consoling myself that most of the topics discussed in the classroom were inapplicable to life. Who wanted to learn about simultaneous equations and logarithms? Of what use were those topics to me when my belly grumbled throughout classes and my mind affixed on my next meal?
My Mathematics teacher, Mr. Vaughn Cook, was a fanatic, underlining the uselessness of life devoid of mathematical concepts ‘in your numb skull.’
Anyway, back to the line of discussion. I would swim in the ‘Blacka’ for hours, oblivious to the ‘cut tail’ that awaited me when I eventually decided to return home. My mother frowned heavily on my swimming activities.
She always nurtured this fear that one day I would go under the surface and never rise again. Actually, it almost happened one morning while I was in the water. I could not swim so I would jump into the shallow part of the ‘Blacka’ and splash about while the bigger boys plunged into the deep and deftly meander their way to the other side.
That particular morning, nature played a trick on me. The boys arrived at the hangout spot and without any further ado; I stripped of my clothing and boldly jumped into the shallow end of the ‘Blacka’ as though I was Michael Phelps.
No one told me that after a heavy downpour the shallow end was transformed to ‘deep waters.’ I only knew of this anomaly when I jumped into the water and felt nothingness under my feet. My elder brother, ‘John Crow’ (I never knew how he got that sobriquet attached to him), rescued me from sure death.
Well, as you would guess, what my mother failed to do in weeks of lectures, licks and reprimands, the experience did in one practical lesson. After that day, I stayed away from the ‘Blacka’ for a long time.
When the boys questioned my reluctance to go with them I would simply ask, “You want I drown fo me mudda beat me?”
It was during that time that the Rastafarian culture was most prevalent. Members of this group would venture into the ‘Blacka’ with their calabashes and small pails. They would pick a few stalks from a wild ochro plant that flourished in abundance in close proximity to the ‘Blacka’ and squeeze the juice into their hair. I learnt that the juice facilitated hair growth.
The Rasta dubbed the crop of hair on his head his ‘Crown.’ In those days also, the police officers would arrest Rastas for all kinds of frivolous reasons and the first thing they did after making an arrest was to cut off their locks.
Anyway, no sooner had the law officers slashed off the Rasta’s crop that the Rastafarians would nurture it back to full growth using the wild ochro plant.
Guysuco controlled the cane fields and rangers patrolled the periphery to ensure that little boys like me do not steal the crop.
One day, Pascal David and another boxer named Simeon Rahaman, and I ventured into the cane fields aback the Guyana National Service Base Command Sophia for a few stalks. We ate all we could while in the field and had just exited with a few stalks when a vanload of rangers stopped us in our tracks.
The officers bundled us into the van and transported us to the Sparendaam Police Station. They promptly dumped us into a dark smelly cell. Later, the officer in charge summoned us to his office and attempted to ascertain our identity so that he could have processed the charge. “What is your occupation?” he asked me.
“I am a boxer”
The officer made some jottings into his ledger then his eyes swiveled to Rahaman. “And what do you do?”
“I am also a boxer.”
After a few more jottings, he turned to Pascal. “Are you a boxer too?”
“Well! I am good in any field,” replied a frightened looking David.
“Well not in the Government cane field,” the officer roared. We had to stifle our mirth. I was a recruit in the Guyana National Service and had returned from Barbados with a gold medal from the Junior Carifta Games. Brigadier Joe Singh was the Director General of the GNS and held me in high esteem.
Imagine his disappointment when he was forced to instruct Captain Patterson to facilitate my release from police custody? I would have opted for a six-month sentence than his half hour reprimand.
Recently, I ventured into the Lamaha area where I had had wonderful childhood days. The canes have all disappeared, replaced by beautiful houses. Youngsters no longer venture into the ‘Blacka’ for a dip. I am told that the waters are now infested by piranhas and some of the lads would swim stark naked.
This is the price of modernity. I still hold fast to those days when stealing canes was the most dastardly of crimes. Even the cutlasses we used to cut the stalks were carefully wrapped in old newspapers instead of in clear public view.
The lads these days are openly brandishing guns in public without a care of who is around. Those were the good old days.

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