Shortly after dawn, as the sun suffuses the eastern sky and temperatures start to rise, the bees arrive to forage on the bright yellow flowers crowding the wild “carille” vine.
Chugging and coughing, the engine of the launch would settle into a hypnotic hum, as we journeyed up the meandering mirrors of the Mahaica River to my grandmother’s farm.
A beautiful flash of brilliant cobalt blue caught my eye in the Saturday sunlight.
As I opened the front door, a giant hawk glided from the thorny bael tree that is a thirsty tangle of thin branches bleached bare by the harsh drought.
We met in a mall bookstore. She was waiting to purchase the latest publication by Trinidadian historian and author, Angelo Bissessarsingh to add to her extensive collection.
They came for my laughing father late one evening. Dad was playing dominoes with jolly friends outside in the yard, as he did most afternoons after construction work, slamming the tiles with such force, the makeshift table that was really a leftover slab of peeling, painted plyboard, shivered for a second, sprung up and settled back down, shaking with surprise.
As a child I loved accompanying my stout father, Mr Big, to the city sea wall for his regular swim after a brisk walk atop the crumbling Fort Groyne.
We would fidget in excitement while waiting outside the rusting gates or staring through the wooden-barred windows away from the shimmering heat, anxiously looking for our faithful kite maker.
An overweight character tells his doctor, “I try to eat healthy. I never sprinkle salt on ice cream, I only eat decaffeinated pizza and my beer is 100% fat free.” The plight of the preposterous patient was penned by the famous American cartoonist, the late Randy Glasbergen.
Insects whirled in the warm glow of the light outside the palapa or palm leaf hut set high on the steep banks of the gleaming white-water river.
Among the dozens of appealing American advertisements crammed in the colourful comic books of our youth was the magic mystery of “The Money Maker.” A machine that manufactured money, it promised from a tiny notice as if sharing a secret, “Insert a blank piece of paper, turn the knob…OUT COMES A REAL DOLLAR BILL: You can spend it: Makes $5’s, $10’s, $20’s and more!
The Ides of March having passed six days ago, we are now into the Tides of March featuring the red wave of merriment as Guyana celebrates the annual Phagwah or Holi holiday.
We awakened slowly in the dark, to the loud, lonely song of fast trills and sharp whistles before the morning rays slanted through the windows, cutting across the floorboards.
I first heard Trinidad’s great calypsonian, the Mighty Chalkdust belt out his satirical classic “Three Blind Mice” from our ancient, hoarse radiogram.
A sinister presence lurks in the still depths and murky shallows where clear, coffee-coloured water once flowed, but sick rivers now struggle, reduced to a gasping, mud-choked mess.
Like many young Guyanese men, my tall, handsome teenage brother bravely headed off into the bush to seek his fickle fortune labouring with ambitious friends on a private mining dredge.
With a gnarled trunk of fat knobs and twisted scowls, the sea grape tree squatted over the alley-way, the wrinkled branches laden with slender columns of ripening fruit.
A conscientious Guyanese agricultural worker, with no known underlying medical issues, suddenly develops an unbearable burning sensation in one dark brown eye.
Growing up along the pot-holed paths of south Georgetown, we were lucky to find water unpredictably trickling and sputtering from the shared standpipe in the yard.
As books go, this one hardly appeared impressive. Wrapped in bare red cloth, stored in an unlocked steel cupboard and reeking of the natural insect-repellent citronella, the long, narrow brown leaves opened like a fan in fragile, individual sheets, held through holes by a white cord stretched between crude covers made from bare pieces of wood.
During his career, the Pulitzer Prize winner George de Carvalho reported on the landslide win of a surprise contender, Cacareco, in neighbouring Brazil, who ended up being an unlikely international inspiration.
Inspired by a vivid dream, the best-known work of the gifted violinist Giuseppe Tartini is a haunting solo piece, the “Devil’s Trill” (Trillo del Diavolo) done in several movements.
The Italian Renaissance philosopher and statesman, Niccolò Machiavelli, described as an immoral cynic, a genius strategist and a wicked man inspired by the devil, famously maintained that politics has no relation to morals.
The delicious fragrance of a simmering pot of black-eyed peas cook-up will soon waft through our homes on Old Year’s night as Guyanese continue their comforting compulsory ritual for promised prosperity.
Among my earliest Christmas memories is watching my father carefully open an aged bottle of fragrant Guyanese rum and reverently pour out the first warm capful on to the linoleum-lined wooden floor.
Two-year-old Zainab Mughal seems like any toddler with her huge smile and love of toys.
We frequently feasted on the juicy, orange “awara,” pale nutty “korio” and oval, thin-fleshed “kokerit” fruits from far flung palm trees.
Bankers never die…They just lose all interest. The popular saying goes that the problem with banker jokes is that bankers don’t think such quips are funny, while ordinary people don’t think of these as jokes.
With no television around, and none in sight, for decades, even remotely, in the south Georgetown backstreets I and my varied pals haunted, we children regularly begged adults to relate scary “stories.” Experiencing another prolonged blackout, books few and nearly impossible to read against the thin, tired flame of a slumping paraffin candle, we would remember the expensive batteries being forever too low to power the sputtering Radio Demerara.
Close to Christmas, I was visiting a popular store in downtown St John’s, Antigua, searching for gifts when a woman suddenly flared up nearby.
Hiking through the humming forest along Guyana’s upper Potaro River in the deep dark of night, the American herpetologist slowly swung his flashlight, scanning for secretive creatures.
The faint wisp of pale smoke would curl through the top hole in our covered tin can like a weak, wavering genie, as we sucked in our breaths, impatiently waiting for the big blast.
Worried about the heavy rains like thousands more residents, Jizzelle Baldwin kept trying to get home last Friday evening, but all the usual routes in Central Trinidad were already cut off.
It would come without warning, often after dinner and just before bedtime. My elderly mother’s response would depend on whether we were sweating in the usual city-wide blackout and struggling to sleep in the late night’s heavy heat.
Back in the 1980s, an unlikely colony of bright blue, cute, elf-like creatures soared to international success through a hit television animated series that aired on Saturday mornings.
A Greek comic poet of the 4th century BC, Eubulus joked about alcohol consumption and its deleterious effects recommending no more than three measured drinks as sensible.
As elegant beauties go, she is extraordinary and unforgettable. Yet only a fortunate few can claim to have ever met her.
Leaping into the air, the lanky Trinidadian medium-pacer with the trademark tan mohawk took a spectacular right-hand catch, gripping the ball even as he tumbled at mid-on.
For over two incredible months, the 34-year-old labourer fought valiantly to live as many weaker souls perished around him.
As the “Louisa Baillie” careened in cold, rough seas not far from India, the decisive drama of fragile life and certain death played out aboard the ill-equipped sailing ship.
At first glance, the mottled paper cover of the old, obscure book looks like polished granite with its uneven patches of dark brown against bright cream.
“God just pass through,” the Rasta man concluded while calmly filming with his phone, the chaotic scenes in one of the busiest areas in downtown Port-of-Spain (POS).
In his early 50s, the ailing “Ragoo” knew that he might not last through the tough journey from British Guiana (BG) to India, yet he optimistically insisted on returning home.
News that a second ship, the “Louisa Baillie” was finally on its way to sail them back to India would have prompted much excitement and relief among the 1838-indentured labourers.
The influential 2000-year-old Sanskrit epic of the Ramayana narrates the perennially popular allegory of the divine prince Rama who is reluctantly exiled for 14 years by his distraught father, Dasharatha.
Demanding the Governor appropriate a private ship to promptly transport them “home,” indentured Indian labourers grew impatient, repeatedly pressing the colonial authorities for acknowledgement, answers and action.
Increasingly anxious and upset that no ship had reached British Guiana (B.G) to ferry them back to India as promised, the restive indentured immigrants refused to accept weekly food provisions, and downed tools.
On Longmans’ maps of the time, the distinct furrows marking the world’s highest peaks dominate the narrow state snaking to the north-east borders of an expansive India, hued pale pink for British supremacy.
A dogged determination to return home with their earnings and to see their families drove the 1838-indentured men at one estate to prematurely demand a ship back to India.
As the end of their five-year contracts loomed, indentured Indians carefully hoarded their hard-won savings, some having finally switched to the more profitable free-market labour system to the delight of authorities.