The Berlin Wall, artificial wealth, and a Guyanese DJ from Lodge

Jun 29, 2014 News

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Countryman – Stories about life, in and out of Guyana, from a Guyanese perspective

By Dennis A. Nichols
The year was 1987. The country was the Federal Republic of Germany, the area was West Berlin, comprising the British,

American and French sectors of that divided city, separated from the fourth sector (Russian) by the Berlin Wall, and cut off from the rest of the West Germany by the territory of the German Democratic Republic (GDR/East Germany) which surrounded it. So to be in West Berlin before 1989, when the structure was dismantled, was to be encompassed by ‘the wall’ on the other side of which lay East Berlin and the rest of the communist state of the GDR.
I was with four other West Indians and a Thai, all journalists, and part of a larger group, taking a course in Advanced Journalism at the American-run International Institute for Journalism (IIJ) in Berlin. We had sauntered up to the wall one evening and started taking pictures, not realizing that it wasn’t the most prudent thing to do, with heavily-armed sentries posted at strategic lookout points along the wall’s perimeter. But they must have realized we were ignorant of the meaning of the word ‘verboten’ (forbidden) and except for some flashes from the look-out towers, that corresponded to ours, (we guessed they had cameras too) we were left alone.
Berlin in 1987, along with the IIJ, was an eye-opener for all of us. A big eye-popper, and the one the males in our class were particularly intrigued by, was the location of a spa/pool about 50 yards away from our classroom at the institute, featuring a number of stark-naked naturists including several attractive young women, and separated from our wide-eyed group by nothing more obstructive than a clear glass partition. It actually crossed my mind that it may have been set up as a deliberate distraction to test our focus and our faith.
Next was Kurfurstendamm, or Ku’damm, the main boulevard of the city, lined with restaurants, neon-lighted stores, hotels and high-priced jewellery shops. I’ll never forget the institute’s director, Peter Prufert, disclosing

to us that some sort of research had been done and it was estimated that the combined cost of the items in just one of those shops on that street, was about the same as the G.D.P. of an average Caribbean island. He added however that West Germany’s wealth was largely artificial (whatever that means) due in part to the largesse of the U.S. Marshall Plan following European devastation in the aftermath of World War 2.
Monuments abounded in Berlin. Some of the most spectacular and poignant were the bombed-out remains of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church on Ku’damm, the iconic Brandenburg Gate with its massive columns and prominent quadriga, foreboding Spandau Prison with a single inmate, Nazi war criminal Rudolf Hess, the wall’s enigmatic Checkpoint Charlie (through which we passed en route to a one-day East German tour) and the Olympic Stadium where in 1936 the African-American athlete, Jesse Owens, won four gold medals, and helped shatter the myth of Hitler’s master-race supremacy theory.
In the middle of the course, we were treated to a tour that included a trip to the capital, Bonn, where we visited Beethoven’s house. Driving along the banks of The Rhine, many of us saw our first real castle, perched fairy-tale-like atop a hill. We were enthralled by the pastoral beauty of the German countryside, the mysterious aura of the Black Forest and the surprisingly innocent appeal of a village named Frankenstein. In Hamburg, a group of us ventured into that city’s racy Red Light District

where prostitutes beckoned at every turn, and an enterprising friend of mine found out that he could ‘have’ a batch of them for about 500 Deutsche Marks.
But back to the wall. It surprised all of us that this iconic structure was only about eleven feet high, and covered with graffiti. And we were amazed to learn that over the years, many attempts had been made to scale it from the eastern side, with a few of them being spectacularly successful. Its real inhumanity though, became apparent when to our astonishment, we saw a large building through which the wall had been forced, with the result that some of its occupants lived in West Berlin, while others in the same structure, likely relatives, remained in the East. You can’t get more heartless than that.
On the lighter side, we were allowed to enjoy Berlin’s discos, restaurants, and a cinema named ‘The Jerboa’ from which some native Germans were debarred since it was in the American sector of the city; however we, as guests of the American-run IIJ, were permitted to go there. On one occasion we were spectators at a soccer match between Germany and France, during which I was strongly cautioned for letting out a lone, spontaneous ‘Whoop’ when France (with some Black players) scored a goal. When the home team scored however, the roar was ear-splitting. German nationalism was still very much alive.
A group of us, Caribbean journalists, from Guyana, Jamaica, Barbados and Antigua, including three young women, hung out occasionally at a Berlin disco, where we tasted and tested Germany’s world-famous pilsener beer and listened to the latest hits put out by American legend-in-the-making Whitney Houston. One unsavoury aspect of these outings was the perception we had that some German men

presumed Black/Caribbean girls were up for grabs. On more than one occasion the males in our group had to protect our female colleagues from unseemly advances by German men. We had to be careful also of neo-Nazi youths who made it clear (non-verbally) that they had little regard for Blacks.
But it was also at a popular disco that I encountered someone I would never have expected to find in such a setting. Our group was at a table sipping and chatting when someone remarked that the music being played by the DJ was too bland. I was chosen to convey this sentiment to him/her. I threaded my way to the DJ’s booth where I saw a relatively young Black guy spinning the discs. Upon hearing our concerns and correctly figuring I was West Indian, he promised to change the tempo.
Upon hearing his accent I immediately enquired about his nationality. His response, “I from Guyana.”
“What!” I practically shouted. “I’m from Guyana too. Which part you from?”
“Georgetown, from Ladge (Lodge).”
I can’t remember much more of our brief conversation, but shortly after I returned and told the others what had just transpired, a waiter came over with a round of drinks, compliments of our amiable DJ. The rest of the evening was a pleasurable passage of time for me and everyone else at that table. And for a while at least, the music and the mood had a distinctly tropical ambience.

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