Each week we post an article or paper submitted by a member or "silent participant" of Guyana Caribbean Network. The featured article runs from Monday to Sunday each week. To submit an article for feature of the week contact us at admin@guyanacaribbeannetwork.com This week's feature is brought to you by "Broncobilly".

The Guyana of my youth
by "Broncobilly"

I get nostalgic when I reminisce about my youth in Guyana back in the day, and sometimes bleary eyed so. It's kind of strange that I can say this without experiencing an iota of embarrassment, even when in full cognizance of the fact that eyes other than mine will be viewing these expressed sentiments. At the same time I am well aware that mine is not a unique experience. Many of us, and I will take the plunge and assert that most of us, probably get all choked up when we make that mental journey back into times and places where memories hold fond reminiscences And Guyana, back in the day, despite the political wranglings that were an ever present facet of the daily lives of adults, was still a place where the dreams and imaginations of the young produced the kinds of entertaining diversions the electronic and digital devices of today can never equal. Remember that calypso, "School days was some very happy happy days"? I believe that it was sung by the Mighty Sparrow.

I grew up in the Wortmanville/Werk-en rust neighborhood of Georgetown, in a big yard with little cottages that shared a common wall, and with a stand pipe in the middle of the yard where all domestic washing and cleaning was carried out. Saturday mornings represented a ritual of sorts, of wives and mothers gathering around that stand pipe to do the family's laundry while dissecting the politics of the neighborhood in the process. The smaller kids in the various households, those too young to be on St Stephens Grounds or the "Race Course" (Durban Park) engaging in robust exhibitions of soccer or cricket, snotty noses and some naked as jaybirds, tumbled around nearby, always within reach and sight of their mothers. "Well gyal ah ain't tell yo dat me daughter Desiree bring fust in she exams an de skip she to scholarship class". "Eh he", but dat is one bright lil gyal yo gat deh". "She always gat she head in a book". The conversations flowed without break in the fluency of actions that involved, among other things, the walloping of garments with a small kind of bat called a "beater", and that squishing sound that only women can make with their hands when "washing clothes". The population at that stand pipe on a Saturday morning was typical of that diverse neighborhood, and the camaraderie was alive with empathy and shared circumstances and experiences. It is difficult to imagine its replica today in Guyana.

Back in the day in Guyana we had to be creative in finding ways to play and enjoy ourselves as kids. You got toys at Christmas, that is if your parents could afford to buy any, which they seldom could. I came from a brood of 13, appearing like steps on a stairway in terms of the intervals between our arrivals. We constructed pistols and rifles from wood we salvaged from Saw Mills and the abundance of Carpenter Shops that were around those days. We fashioned holsters from any piece of old leather we could get our hands on, and acted out the roles of Audy Murphy, Randolph Scott, and John Wayne in the myriad of characters they brought to the silver screen. We would divide ourselves into two groups of bad guys and good guys, one set positioning themselves at Durban and Hardina streets, while the other took up positions at Durban and Louisa Row, and we would then move to do battle with each other through the alley ways and yards between our positions. Of course there was always the crabby and acerbic resident who would let loose a yapping "rice eater" canine on us for trespassing into his domain, or chase us himself until we exited the perimeter of his modest real estate holdings.

Back in the day primary schools in Guyana were generally run like religious fiefdoms, and the rod was never spared as a means of enforcing discipline and compliance. Most of the schools were run by religious denominations then, Christian mostly of Course, and every break in the sequence of classes was preceded by prayers. Think now about the incongruity of Chinese and Indian kids being compelled by force of social persuasion to participate in religious ceremonies alien to their spiritual belief system. But back then, I have to conclude, the importance of getting an education must have played a role in stifling protest against what would be intolerable today. But such conclusion is far from a factual representation of the factors that conditioned the tolerance exhibited by the affected.

Back in the day we would steal away some Saturdays to go to the race course to watch Horses like the famous "Golden Man" tear up the turf at Durban Park. We would loiter around the paddocks hoping to get a glimpse of famous jockeys like Sunich or Beckles. (not sure I got the first name right). It was always a kind of carnival affair with "under and over" gaming boards where you could bet with a penny and win six cents. Or you could go for "lucky seven" where the odds were more favorable if you won. And then there was the three card man, enticing you to bet by the winnings you witnessed of his flim flam associate. I recall once succumbing to the lure and betting the twenty dollars my mother had given me to go to Bourda Market to purchase a list of provisions and greens. Needless to say that I lost and got the beating of my life for that foolhardy venture.

Back in the day I must of swam in, perceptually, every opening that had water in Georgetown. I learned to swim in what they called "Milky Way", a series of pools with brown muddy water located in between the tracks of Durban Park Race Course. The water was always thick and gooey, but we did not mind then. The thoughts of catching a disease never entered our minds. We often went as a family to the "punt trench" pool on Sundays. It could be found back then up cemetery road going towards Ruimveldt, where there was a high wooden bridge spanning the water way. Punts laden with cane pulled by mules or oxen still traversed that waterway back then. That area was like a beach on Sundays, with numerous families coming out with picnic baskets to spend the day and swim in the brown but clear water that ran freely with the fluctuation of the tides. And of course it was the norm for us to steal away on Sundays and swim across the Lamaha canal to pilfer cane from the cane fields. I remember that there was a Warden they called black diamond who was rumored to carry a shotgun with shells of paddy and corn. How true this was I cannot attest to, but suffice to admit that the shout of "black diamond" was all it took to send the lot of us scrambling through the cane fields and diving into and swimming across "black water" with abject fear pulsating through our little hearts.

It would require many volumes to recount the memories we all have of long time passing. To many, they might amount to boring repetitions of the kinds of things they listen to day in and day out from older folks, or inconsequential ramblings and anecdotes that offer very little in terms of interest or entertainment. Still, the experiences and nurturing of our adolescent development probably does more than anything else to shape the adult we later morph into. I try to imagine sometimes what kinds of memories or reminiscences the kids of today in Guyana will have, when they are approaching their dotage like many of us will soon be doing. I read somewhere that the "most trying ordeals we undergo in life are sometimes coercive in pushing us to discovery of that which is best in us". So maybe they will be better than we in and of Guyana are, in terms of letting the future of our kids and grand kids become the major concern and struggle of our present. That is what our foreparents did. And if that happens, if the kids of today are better than we are in such process, then the Guyana that exist at that moment in time when they sit down and reflect on their past, will be lot more inspiring to them then, than it is now to many of us. Selah.