Dear Editor,
I have decided to stop writing about politics. For now. It is not conducive to good skin tone or appealing table manners, and it makes the tip of the boot itch. Anyone should be able to guess those who come to mind for a swift, steel-toed kick. I find that local politics is good for a daily dose of mirth, and not much else. And it is with this same sense of jolliness that I intend to share from time to time thoughts on occurrences that illuminate the lighter side of life in Guyana.
First, there is this love affair with horns. Dave Martins wrote of the clamour a while back; it is much worse now. Or more musically arresting, take your pick. Here are two examples. I am behind this driver on an early weekend morning approaching an intersection. I can see that there is no oncoming traffic from any direction. I am behind this lovely fellow, and I can see this clearly. And yet there is this character blowing his horn in warning. To whom and for what, I am still trying to figure out. I mean the man is blowing his horn at deserted streets; such is the mindless automatic reflex these days. Then, at the corner of Regent and Camp Streets, the amber light is blinking (again around 6 am on a weekend) and the chap travelling south on Regent Street on a motorcycle is tooting his horn. The light is blinking red in his path, and here is this genius on little more than a moped seeking to clear traffic with his warning. I mean – is this lunacy or what?
Second, try this classic involving garbage collection in the city. For reasons – known and unknown – collection is random, capricious, willy-nilly, pell-mell, and a weekly (more likely fortnightly or once every three weeks) exercise of waiting, listening, watching, and rolling oil drums in and out of the yard. It is healthy and soothing to the sinuses. I recommend this over all those expensive gyms and personal trainers. After weeks in the heat or rain, I can tell you it can be a gut-tightening event. This is the best workout for ribbed abs. Guaranteed. Anyhow, there was the truck on a Sunday morning after prayers and just before breakfast.
And escorting the truck is a man on a pedal cycle. His responsibility for that day was to sound a verbal gong to citizens awash in garbage that welcome relief has arrived. I repeat: a man on a cycle in front of the garbage truck alerting anxious citizens that their Sabbath had been blessed with collection. Can this be Guyana? Am I really still on earth?
Third, there is this fancy of contributors to the letter columns that brings great joy to the heart of any English Language epicurean. It is when they make things “pellucidly clear.” Pellucid is a nice word, but how clearer than clear can matters be? I think the word is so overused in tag team arrangement with ‘clear‘ that it ends up blurring matters. I suggest ‘absolutely clear‘ which can be a tad overpowering. Yes, I know that this business about emphasis and weight can be, dare I say, humongous…
Last, I have always wondered at newspaper descriptions of “brutal murder.” I believe this is a shade overdone à la Henry Kissinger’s famed (or notorious) triple negatives. I must ask: When is a murder not brutal? Even those ones where the victims never know, or succumb with sleep uninterrupted, or are helped along by the gentlest of methods. I say that murders are always brutal, regardless of circumstances. Thus, let that qualifier or emphatic “brutal” be carpet bombed into unrecognizable ash henceforth.
I know it is almost the end of September, but this is my resolution for the rest of this year. I am determined to stay the course on ‘Laff Lane‘ if only for my own wellbeing. No politics. And that ought to be clear, if not pellucidly so.
Yours faithfully,
GHK Lall
