Dear Editor,
The face of Guyana, as I once knew it, has changed, and continues to change. The tantalizing question is whether most of it is for the better. Here is a snapshot of the changes that intrigue.
I think that there are more racing cyclists on the road (training) than regular everyday bicyclists. The bicycle as a means of transportation has been sidelined to the wayside. Obsolescence might be the term of art; regardless, this once vital contraption has been relegated in Guyana to the graveyard littered with the bleached bones of LPs, spooled tapes, carbon paper, and video cameras that were at one time the size of cable TV dishes. Still, I laud that thin intrepid band of cyclists, those upright Cro-Magnon men on wheels, who traverse local thoroughfares and compete for space with the supersonic rocketry that hurtles recklessly along the roadways. Truly, the bicycle and the hardy bicyclist have meandered into that rarest of rare territory: they have become the Guyanese equivalent of a Galapagos Islands fascination.
I stick with mobility and transportation. Public transportation has flowed and accelerated with changes. Years ago, it was yellow buses, then blue buses, and now minibuses. Courtesy and consideration, changed to a high speed horror and a spreading sickness, compliments of spinning hands and heavy feet of the overwhelmingly loutish and publicly obscene. The buses changed from street names (Middle Street or Church Street) to number (44 or 60 something). Well, somebody sure did a real number on commuters with this last reincarnation of a public transportation apparatus. If the tourism sector wishes a tutorial on what hospitality and security should not be, then here are raw naked examples of the grotesque wheels of undesired change; and the daily revolutions and reverberations of the raucous and the dangerous.
Moving from street level, another example of the new face of Guyana is its buildings. The word is concrete; wood is out, and stone is in (from the outside, that is). If locals manifest little interest in the riches of the pristine forests, then why should the British? Now whether residential or commercial, Georgetown and elsewhere fast approaches a resemblance to mighty Manhattan. There is altitude, concrete, steel, glass, and the local Wall Street (I am offended). There is a way to go, but two stories are now an old forgotten story. And so, too, is wood a victim of the sweeping relentless change.
Next, I recall being able to locate food on the street in the thick darkness of the wee hours decades ago during the thrill of blackouts, and before my own hegira. One can still access alcohol (local and foreign) and the occasional volume after 2 am, but no vittles; there is no cook-up, no souse, no black pudding, no vendors anywhere anymore. Sure, I know that it is 3 am (no hour is unholy), but the pots and plates and people are all gone with the wind of change and the encircling suffocation of creeping modernization.
Today, the food comes to the gate. It comes in a car and is chauffeur driven, too. Even in exotic Manhattan, deliveries ride on bicycles. On this one, Guyana comes out ahead. I still like the old ways (and victuals) better.
In the days of yore, night crawlers could have sampled the delights till the dawn of Issano’s Den (D’Urban Street); Oasis (King Street); Wagon Wheel (Carmichael Street); Bamboo Gardens (Camp Street); and El Globo (Robb Street), among many others. Park and Tower and the Pegasus were beyond the pocketbooks. Nowadays, the town is near total lockdown before midnight. The witching hours do not catch any local Cinderella (male or female) out of the house and in forbidden territory. I wonder if the reports of festivities and noise have any traceable sources. Then, I remember that there are always a handful of ruction individuals willing to enlarge the voluptuous ambience of the velvet hours. I should know, as I recognize kindred spirits. But that was long ago, things and times have changed, and so do some people.
On a more serious note, peers and self used to read when there was nothing to read (even tea leaves and soiled menus and old newspapers). In fact, a newspaper was all of two middle pages, and a matter of mere minutes to absorb. Words and writings in any form were consumed voraciously, and insatiably. It is why far worlds were conquered. Today, reading has come to represent the worst of times; a curse and conflict, and a distraction and fatal disease. Talk about the rampaging Matthew, and there is blankness and utter ignorance. There is no association with either gospel or hurricane.
Editor, part of the change is this encyclopaedia called Facebook that functions as the new reservoir of learning and wisdom, and which imperils despite its good aspects. As the herd gathers at this watering hole, the force labelled globalization will sweep away the unwary, the unpromising, and the unworthy. Thus, worlds waiting to be overcome will go a begging, and the foreigners (think oil) will invade and overrun and capitalize. That is the spectre of a change now embedded and feared.
There is time for one more. Change has gone to the dogs. Literally! Look long and hard and far and there are few of that poorly named local species remaining. Common breed dogs, they were once called. Instead, the new age has brought changes and they are mainly foreign. There are Germans (shepherds); Brazilians (mastiffs); Siberians (huskies); Mexicans (Chihuahua); French (poodles); English (Jack Russell); Chinese (a shar-pei or two); and, of course, the ubiquitous Americans (pit bulls). Once again, as in timber, the smartest folks around in these dog days of change must be the British. Known for their reticence, they have wisely reserved that famous emblem and export, the British Bulldog, to the civility and sanity of their island retreat. Good show!
In the meantime, time moves on and, as always, time will tell if these changes are for the better or worse. Yet, I do know this much: whoever said that the more things change the more they stay the same does not know of a place named Guyana.
Yours faithfully,
GHK Lall
