Good Friday and its traditions

Apr 24, 2011 Features / Columnists, My Column

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By Adam Harris

Traditions die hard and this is no more evident than during the religious holidays. There have been Phagwah and Eid and more recently, Good Friday. Generally, holidays seem to be the time when people simply stay at home for most of the day.
I would venture on the road for the newspapers or sometimes for something in the marketplace during the holiday mornings and the almost empty streets would make me think about Georgetown when most of the people would have disappeared for some reason or the other.
But they are never so empty that there cannot be accidents. There are always cars piloted by people who believe that they are the only people on the roads.
These people, perhaps lulled by the near empty streets, would ignore the traffic lights and the stop signs.
It is equally quiet in other parts of the country. And very frustrating for some. On Friday, Good Friday, I was forced to recall my days at Bartica. Bartica is an interesting community. It was very different back then. There were not many cars, perhaps three or four private vehicles and the few Government Land Rovers and Land Cruisers.
There were days called ‘steamer days’—Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. On those days, the former mining town would be transformed. The horn of the steamer was like honey to ants. As soon as people heard it they would leave their homes and flock to the stelling for no other reason than to see who had come.
On my first visit to that community I could not understand the crowd at the stelling. I thought that they were there to welcome some dignitary.
The night was something else. Every shop was full of people and the rum shops full to overflowing. People with their fineries would be seen walking the streets just gazing and exchanging pleasantries.
But it was the Good Fridays that I remembered most as I relaxed at home on Friday. Shops were closed until six in the afternoons.
This was frustrating for the alcoholics. I recalled seeing people, alcoholics and non-alcoholics alike, loitering outside the rum shops from about five. They would congregate and would hardly speak to each other, willing six o’clock to arrive.
That was when I realized that there were people who simply had to drink, because there was not much else to do at Bartica in those days. The few Government officers were not much different. They would assemble at the home of a friend who lived alone because that friend may have a bottle or two in his home.
These officers had no problem visiting this friend from as early as ten in the morning, and more often than not, the friend was all too glad to accommodate them because he too found Good Friday boring. Sometimes there would be music and the girls would come because they too liked their drink.
As soon as the shops opened their doors there would be the stampede to the bar. Normalcy had returned to Bartica. Then the streets would become crowded by people who felt imprisoned all day.
It is not that Bartica is the only place this happens, but because of the small community, the phenomenon was more noticeable.
I saw this in the city and I smiled at the instant recall. I saw the happy faces once the shops were opened and I got to wondering about me. While at Bartica I too waited until sunset to leave my home to the sound of “You can’t stay home one day?” I too headed to the rum shop.
I remember promising to keep liquor in my home so you would not be dry on Good Friday. Was I a social drinker? I think not, because like most of the people there I headed to the rum shops or the night clubs almost every night.
These thoughts came flooding back on Friday when at a few minutes after six, a music system began to blare some dance hall music. It was as if the player was only waiting for the six o’clock hour.
But there is more to Good Friday. It is not that everyone hogs the rum shops. There are the churches, and I was made to attend every Good Friday service as a youngster. Services began at noon but they were not something to look forward to, they were long and dreary with constant standing and kneeling.
The hardest part was that I was hungry because my parents insisted that we eat nothing until after the three-hour long service. That meant nothing between breakfast at eight and by four when I returned home. And the meal was nothing solid. It was rice porridge because my parents were convinced that we should eat nothing salt on Good Friday. No rice and stew or cook up or soup.
Much as I hated soup I would have given anything for a bowl on Good Friday.
I later learnt to smart the system. I would go to the baker shop that was nearby. Although it was closed the owner’s son was a schoolmate. I got a regular supply of salara and buns and the ends of cake. If only the priest was to check my mouth he would have found that I was eating while everyone had his or her head down in prayer.
It was not surprising that rats feasted on my pockets. There was always an ample supply of crumbs.
These days I don’t go to church. I probably went too often as a youngster. When I became an adult I ensured that if anything, there would always be a solid meal for me at noon. I still do.
This year, I ate, slept and then read a book. I maintained the tradition of the day being one for peace and quiet.

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