I am likely to get a lot of flak from some Guyanese for saying this, but it seems to me by just looking around at the kind of people one encounters in our country these days that we had far more flamboyant folks in times gone by. When I was growing up on West Demerara, it seemed that almost every village had one or two unusual or comical characters – many actually seemed to take pride in being odd – and even in dress and demeanour we were a more colourful lot. It could have been from the absence of the various entertainment outlets or electronic gadgets we have these days, but back then folks, for my money, were more flamboyant.
The masquerade bands from that time, for one, would put today’s versions of that art form to shame. Not only were the costumes more elaborate and detailed, but the musicians were more polished, the flouncers more energetic, and the various character pieces like the mad cow and the tiger were played by fellows who were serious professionals; as the Trinis say, “they didn’t play.” As a youngster living at Vreed-en-Hoop I was terrified when the masquerade band came through the village. I would run upstairs and peep through the open glass windows, heart beating. One day I came to the window, checking the band on the road outside not aware that the Long Lady dancer on stilts was standing under the house to collect any tips. As I stood up to get a better view of things, probably at a signal from the road, the Long Lady straightened up appearing suddenly two feet in front my face at the window. I was thunderstruck. I bolted into the house and didn’t stop running until I reached the kitchen at the back.
Georgetown had more than its share of colourful characters, many of them being the guys who sold shaved ice with syrup under various trees, all of them full of stories and jokes, and there were food vendors on bicycles roaming the city with tasty eats, one of them being Garamai famous for his delicious potato balls. Garamai had his ornery side, though; he would refuse to serve any rambunctious customers – “Yuh mudda en
learn yuh mannuhs or wha?” Town was also the venue for a character in a white suit – I never knew his name or what he did, but he stood out like a beacon, always in white – and for gaily decorated bicycles with ping-pong lights in the spokes at night. At Saints, young ‘Bambi’ Kranenburg was known in my class for having the tallest saddle pole in town, and there was a story that going home one evening, with no bicycle light, he was spotted by a policeman who shouted, “Young man, where’s your light?” Kranny turned and said, “Ah goin’ home for it.” Coming off the saddle, he tried to escape but the policeman simply leaped forward and grabbed the saddle pole. Kranny was actually a character in a school full of characters.
Georgetown, too, was home to another scary scenario for me in the presence of the Jordanites (they’re still around) a religious group, reportedly started by Elder Nathaniel from Agricola, who held evening meetings all over the place but generally in front of the markets (Stabroek, Bourda, Kitty) where crowds were likely to be found. They stood out with their immaculate white clothing, down to even yachting shoes covered in white Propert’s polish. The women wore flowing white robes and white bandanas, and the preachers often operated using a white staff. With their gleaming robes accentuated by the bottle kerosene lamp, the Jordanites were a riveting sight. Youngsters like me, very much a country boy, would take off streaking for home on encountering them. Particularly striking was their dead serious demeanour; the words ‘jocularity’ and ‘Jordanite’ did not go together. In today’s vernacular, they were serious dudes.
The big wooden buses that provided public transportation in those days were another haven for colourful characters. Each bus had a conductor, loading and off-loading items from the rack on the roof, exchanging banter left and right, and there was one guy on the ‘Blue Moon’ West Coast bus who was known for leaning way over as the bus slowed and depositing the empty milks cans gently on the parapet grass – no need for a full stop; no damage done.
As a youngster at Saints I was particularly taken by the sidewalk preachers one would occasionally see in front of the Ice House. Coming off the ferry boat, you would see them there on certain days holding down a crowd. I was fascinated by one I knew only as Saul who was known for a fantastic and varied vocabulary and for often using words we had never heard of. I heard Saul one day deliver a sentence that left me completely mesmerized – all I could remember was the word “promulgate” – so the next time he was at his post I made it my business to go over to him, pencil in hand, and ask him, nicely, what he had said. Deadpan, he told me:
“Promulgating your esoteric cogitations or articulating your superficial sentimentalities, beware of platitudinous ponderosity.” When I asked him what that meant, he said, “Don’t use big words.”
Even in the 1970s, when I started coming back to Guyana with Tradewinds, some of the local flamboyance remained. One example was a blind musician, accompanied by his young nephew, who played music for tips on the Berbice ferryboat. He strummed a guitar and played a mouth-organ held around his neck in a metal device, and he filled virtually any kind of request that came his way. In fact, with my own little bit of flamboyance, I wrote a song about him ‘Play De Ting’ that became one of Tradewinds’ hits.
It was a different time, of course. We had more time on our hands then, and fewer distractions. Folks took time to listen, and there were more people indulging in what we call “s—t talk” in the Caribbean.
It’s obviously not going to come back, but it would be nice to pose up by the Ice House again and hear Saul pronounce, or see a long-time Masquerade Band taking over the road and scaring young pickney. Ah well, at least we still have the Jordanites.
