By GHK Lall-Plenty has been said about flag-raising. So as not to lower my own standards the less said the better. Never been a man to join the pile-on. Low people do that sort of thing. Regarding the U.S. Ambassador to Guyana, the now venerated Excellency Nicole D. Theriot, and her own New York rush hour moment, an offering was already made. Though squished and shoved in that Fort Island crush, the American managed to maintain that storied British royalty tradition of a stiff upper lip.
What else is there to say? Other than an ole time Guyanese fear coming back to haunt and prove that the anxious were right all along. Whoever in Guyana (or the U.S. Embassy) never heard of ‘Dutchmaan spirits’ roaming around and making assorted mischiefs, welcome to the party. I leave out the People’s Progressive Party. The PPP had its hands full, its head in the clouds, and its hips gyrating deliriously. I do what comes naturally: a pass given. For the moment.
But what about those who left that pile that was a mile long and a mile high on sacred grounds? The space trashed, the aftermath of the Big Bash. From Big Lime to Big Bash, it’s the big splash from people who don’t give a rat’s ass. The flag fouled. Left in a forlorn rendition of ‘Goodbye, my love.’ Garbage in small mounds; and not even neatly, out of respect for others (and self, of course).
When first viewed, the first thought was: nah banna! Dah caan happen. Nah heah suh. Had to be some wicked folks in Guyana, who used the cover of dark, and the ecstasy of uncontrolled debauchery to leave a stain and a stench on the occasion. The objective was to make event authors, organizers, producers, and executioners look bad.
Whether it was so or not, I stick to my constant position. For the uninitiated, this is it: there are those, too many at every level in today’s Guyana, who have no class. No upbringing numbered among the worst of Guyanese insults in years gone by. What applied then, enjoys extended life and visibility now. The arrival of oil made matters worse, accelerated the swiftness of the decline that had already started on its steep trajectory.
No upbringing means no training. No training means no class. No class means neither intuition, nor inclination, nor inspiration to know better and do better. No rung of the Guyana ladder was exempted. Recall who I painted with all of those terms of endearment before. This clue should come in handy, given the eyesore and face job that Fort Island participants and celebrants left behind in their wake.
The clue: regular citizens were excluded; senior citizens roughed up. Out of politeness earned and due, the ambassador and the slightly perturbed security (boat) comrade-once and still power people diehard insider-are given an immunization card. They know to clean up their mess after them, wherever they go, whatever they are called to do.
By subtraction, there are only a certain kind of Guyanese at which the finger can be pointed, and on whom condemnations pinned. I present noisemakers, merrymakers, cavorters, and revelers. Who made the most noise? Who carried on as if possessed? Who are most intoxicated by oil’s overpowering aroma? These are the haughty chaps, who don’t give a damn about garbage and ambience of the surroundings. If it can be collected in stacks in GT, with media and cameras summoned to cover, the same applies in Fort Island, without voices raised, too many fingers lifted, and too many agitated.
Fort Island’s aftermath represents the vulgarity of Guyana’s ambassadors to the world. No India, no dog needed. The degradations left behind are their qualifications and recommendations. Though said before, I say again: those who didn’t have class on the way up, cannot suddenly discover class when on top. Like masters, there go followers and imitators.
