The flavour of Guyana

Mar 26, 2017 Countryman, Features / Columnists

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By Dennis Nichols
The cynic in me criticizes my country often; maybe irrationally at times, but the essence of our basic goodness and easy-going tenor always lurks close by. It’s a simple assertion that is borne out by simple actions and everyday gestures

of warmth and Guyanese-ness. Occasionally you have to look for it but often it’s just there, especially if you’re tuned in to what may be loosely termed ‘our culture’. A few glimpses over the past week, aided by some enduring memories, prompted me to write this piece.
The reflective episode began with my sister’s recent visit to Guyana and her sense of wonderment as the LIAT plane sailed over Georgetown before homing in to Ogle. It was her first arrival outside of CJIA, Timehri, and she couldn’t help but remark at the difference between the two in terms of their contrasting surroundings. Coming in from icy England and just out of insular Barbados, she gushed about the continental, almost New York feel to our lighted-up capital city, accustomed as she was to Timehri’s forest setting. Her smile, she said, waxed warm and wide as the Essequibo estuary.
I immediately recalled an anecdote another sister related some four decades ago. Just before arriving at Timehri, an American passenger seated close by was trying to gauge when the plane would actually touchdown. He asked a fellow traveller about this, and was told to look out the plane window because the airport was just below. He did, saw almost total darkness and blurted out in astonishment, “My Gawd, there’s nothing there!” Forty years later the jungle is yet to release Cheddi Jagan International Airport from her arboreal clutch.
From several rounds of overseas travel I have returned to Guyana time and again, and each time I do, the roots become reattached with easy and unaffected familiarity as soon as I touch the asphalted airport tarmac. Sir Walter Scott’s words ring in my ears, “Breathes there a man with soul so dead, who never to himself hath said/ This is my own, my native land/ Whose heart has ne’er within him burn’d, as home his footsteps he hath turn’d/ From wandering on a foreign strand!”
Foreign strands are fine I guess, but the East Bank Demerara roadway will suffice for me. Cruising along that strand as glimpses of the Demerara River catch the eye, one picks up the unmistakable smell of Guyana – the aroma of tropical vegetation, rain-washed earth and mud, and as you skim along, the even more distinct pungency of rum-sugar wafting in from Diamond estate. Then when your vehicle ‘Banks’ the final turn into the city, the subtler scent of the softer stuff – beer and carbonated beverage – beckons you from Thirst Park.
Suddenly you’re in Georgetown and caught up in the (slightly) controlled chaos of Big Market, day or night. The medley of jostling mini buses, music, and near-mayhem in the Stabroek Square is as Guyanese as pepperpot. And speaking of food, our famed bizarre bazaar enfolds a microcosm of all the edible fare we Guyanese catch, cultivate, and consume – from foreign water to fresh wild meat. The flow of humanity ambles, cavorts and gyrates, conversing and cussing, cajoling, gambling, and imbibing way into the night, and beyond. It’s where the returnee or visitor must briefly pause to reorient and take stock before moving on to more tranquil turf.
Throughout last week I accompanied my sister from England and my eldest sister on rambling walks and taxi rides around the city. Our collective easy-going temperament meant that we made friends of total strangers, from airport attendants to taxi drivers and random shoppers. I was more than a little surprised at how affable everyone was, realizing at the same time that I had grown somewhat jaded over the last three years since my return from The Bahamas, despite the outward effort at friendly banter. Crime, corruption and distrust had slowly been taking their toll, particularly with respect to officialdom. Thank God for the so-called common folk.
Last Monday I took my sisters with me to Kaieteur News (KN). En route we had to pass through neighbourhoods familiar to our childhood and young adult lives. I casually mentioned this to the taxi driver; a young man maybe in his late twenties. He nodded understandingly, and buoyed by his reaction, I asked him to slow down at a point on Princes Street so we could have a reminiscent peek at a house we vacated 50 years ago. He actually stopped there for several seconds. Then as we meandered through Charlestown, he drove slowly so we could look at other buildings connected with that era.
He didn’t have to drive through that area but did at my request, slowing down at Russell and Howes Streets where some relatives had lived in the sixties, then again while passing Charlestown Secondary School which my youngest sister attended. By the time we got to KN we were chatting like old friends. The atmosphere persisted in the News Room where Editor-in-chief Adam Harris bellowed out my sister’s name as he recognized her, his Government Information Services (GIS) colleague, from the seventies. Soon they were in full reminiscence mode as my other sister and I looked on amusedly after chatting with Editor Nigel McKenzie.
And so the week went by, as the flavour of Georgetown (and Guyana) was rediscovered in small and re-invigorating ways. A few days later we were marvelling at the super-abundance of greens, fruits, and other food items around Bourda Market. Even the water coconuts appeared more plentiful, bigger and sweeter than I’d ever remembered. One young coconut vendor did everything but flirt with my sister (more than a generation his senior) as he touted the merit of his nuts. At the new GMC on Robb Street, salespersons took time to direct and advise on the products there – all homegrown. Visions of Mighty El Cid’s ‘Local Dish’ danced in my head.
Many were the childhood memories we recalled, especially when a third sister joined in the nostalgic rambling. Humour and pathos were interwoven as we spoke of bygone days in Mahaicony and Highdam on the East Coast of Demerara, before we had exchanged rustic balm for the city bustle. We compared the canny characters and friends of our childhood with those of the present generation and observed that in many instances there wasn’t that big of a difference; in other words, Guyanese are still as gregarious and garrulous; genuine and generous as they were back then, despite all the sordid stories that have tended to sully our reputation of hospitality.
Guyana is home, and will always be for me and my siblings. Clearly many of our country men and women feel the same in spite of the exodus over the years. And although we share iconic Mount Roraima with two continental neighbours, the rest of our 83,000 square miles is ours, from Punta Playa to Dadanawa.
Sure crime, corruption, and incivility will continue to bedevil our country and thwart the best efforts of the best amongst us; but the last week or so with my siblings, sharing a part of our lives and dreams with fellow Guyanese, has left me with renewed hope for our rehabilitation. The flavour of a country like Guyana is distilled from the traditions of its people – from the ordinary folk who laugh through their tears and gift each other with the warmth of their common humanity. That’s the lesson I re-learnt over the last week and a half.

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