Guyana is swiftly becoming alien territory for me. Less of mental disconnect; more of an environmental crisis. In the span of 24 hours, the following encountered, empowered, enchanted, and I still managed to end up in an unbalanced state. More the norm than fleeting.
I am standing in front of the bucolic surroundings of the Office of the President just after midday two Fridays ago. The men in beige and blue had said it must be on the other side, across Vlissingen Road. It is the bad old days, with menaces to society and the security of those held holy in this country competing. Those thinking themselves holy. It is how holy is profaned, after being pulverized and victimized first. Imagine that! Men mostly over the age of old age pensioners can generate that degree of fear in this Guyana. If not fear, then uncertainty. What are they up to, the beginning of a rebellion? Aw shucks, the charge of the lightheaded, geriatric brigade! What wrongs have the men behind curtained windows and steel gate done that they see shadows and subversives behind every placard?
A policeman in uniform came over with phone camera ready. Just the placard, Mr. Lall, just the placard, not the man. My day was spoiled. “I would shake your hand, sir, as my name is known, but prefer that you stay in GT. No handshake. What could the placards about access to info holler? Uprising and overturning? Ah, the fears that haunt the noondays of some men…. One can only imagine the jittery nature of their nights, their sleep. Do they sleep? Maybe that explains why there is all this creeping and sneaking about. With access to info. With the identify of those pushing for it. My bad! The message on the pickets, not the Id of the people standing in a jagged line, arresting the attention (and occasional snarl) of those passing by. Yes! That’s the new Guyana, of a blue and khaki line standing like Praetorian Guards between the warlike picketers and the chastity of the presidency.
Snarls they were a few hours later in Ruimveldt, but no agents of the State to lend a hand. Not one to interfere, maintain some level of civility. The scene was unbelievable: a spectacle of the New Guyana, a reminder of the grandeur of the legend of One Guyana. Men in red, but with the earthy complexion of Africa, exchanging insults and an exchange of sticks and fists, with men of the same history and heritage. Vote PPP. Vote WINS. Ye gods and catfishes! In America, that is denounced as Black on Black violence. In Guyana, the corresponding label is the beauty and nobility of One Guyana. Where are the police, probably keeping close watch at Office of the President, and ensuring that neither hostiles nor renegades nor heathens threaten the ambience of, or contaminate in any way, that sacred space.
Oh, the police, the Guyana Police Force! Where are thee? I speak not for the younger contender; I speak for me and the Guyanese people. Still within the 24-hours from Friday noontime, and now around Lamaha Gardens. The gentlemen and ladies in red took over, swallowed up, the roads, reducing traffic to a crawl. Traffic control and democracy on the march. Or is it money serving as the magnet? In the grouping taking over the roadway, was a police rank, no uniform, but proudly displaying: Vote PPP! Me, too! The law participating (private capacity be damned!) in stretching the law, distorting the law, and it’s the regular menu. I’ll take red beans and red onions, as a show of my own loyalty, ready to do my part for money. Vote PPP. This is the New Guyana. Get used to it. If ever there was a symbol of One Guyana, there it was. One set of Guyanese have the right to get in the way, monopolize the freeway, and trample on those other Guyanese who seek to pass that way.
No one is talking about political violence. Or institutional and criminal violence. Or leadership violence. One hour after that 24-hour span elapsed I attended a funeral. The shout came out of nowhere, “Uncle Lall….” I looked around for Anil Nandlall, but the man was addressing me. Age can be an asset. From Mr. Lall (the cop) to Big Uncle (Guyanese of all flags) to plain Uncle (a past blast), means I have arrived, though on the down escalator. I’ll take it.
Finally, an international flight from Guyana. Indians and Afros eyes not meeting or greeting. Everybody giving space, keeping distance, minding business. Cordiality flew into the cockpit. Must be elections. Feels like oil. Tastes of both. One Guyana on international exhibition. A snapshot of official and unofficial, political and social Guyana. Newness, Oneness. I like the old Guyana better.
