By Moe Riyasat
Come to think of it, her thirst began earlier but worsened in Guyana when her sensitive lips went from dried to parched to cracked to glued-shut, while the President of Guyana sipped ice-cold water next to her. However, the fault wasn't his, nor was it the fault of the Japanese Ambassador sitting next to him.
But, to tell the story right, it's best to start with our vacation decision.
Every year, at the end of September, my wife and I usually visit a different destination to recharge for the upcoming winter. The vacation is timed for the tail-end of the hurricane season when it's safer to travel, and when the Canadian cold begins to creep up to warn that a deep-freeze is dead ahead, and that slush, shorter daylight hours, and even shorter tempers aren't far off.
Last September was no exception. I hadn’t visited Guyana for 17 years, so a trip was in order to check up on siblings, and my Jamaican-born wife agreed. We packed 4 large bottles of water in our carry-on, but Canadian Customs confiscated them; so, after we cleared customs, we walked ten paces to a McDonald's and bought 2 bottles of the same brand of water at triple the price.
The flight departed at 11:30 PM, and during the 5-hour journey I informed my wife, Cheryl, that Guyana is known as the Land of Many Waters because it faces the sea, and has a bounty of fresh water from its creeks, rivers and streams. The flight attendant interrupted us with coffee and cookies, and after 4 hours we descended in to Trinidad, a stop just prior to the last leg of our journey. We passed through customs again, and our bottles of water were seized, again. The kiosks in Trinidad only sold souvenirs.
After we arrived in Guyana at the Cheddi Jagan airport, we grabbed a taxi (or hire car) for the 4-hour drive to Corriverton, my birth-city. The rising sun heated the non-air conditioned car as it drove along the eastern coast, which quickly changed into a boulevard of coconut trees: some short, some tall, most crooked; and the coconut trees showed us the way to Corriverton.
No doubt prompted by coconut trees zipping by, Cheryl said, "I'm really thirsty. Can I have some coconut water to drink?"
I asked the driver, Bakoolal, to stop at the first roadside stand selling coconut water. He drove on and on, passed stalls displaying New York jeans, hair dyes, and Revlon lipsticks, but no coconuts, and no coconut water. I asked Bakoolal how that was possible.
"Man, it's simple. You know the North Pole is surrounded by ice. You think you'll find any Eskimo selling ice cubes?"
My spouse grew thirstier while the coconut trees beaconed, their water unattainable.
We crossed the new bridge spanning the Berbice River, and later stopped at a fruit stand in Port Mourant, birth-place of former President, the late Dr. Cheddi Jagan.
"Can I have five naseberries?" Cheryl said. The fruit seller looked confused.
I explained to my spouse that in Guyana the fruit is called sapodilla. We bought a parcel.
After feeling the softness of each, Cheryl remarked, "I wish I could wash them before eating."
Anyway, she burst them open and gobbled them down.
Still keeping our eyes peeled for coconut sellers, we passed a cemetery where cows grazed on the graves.
"That's nothing,” Cheryl said. “In Jamaica, when there's a dry spell and the cows don't want to eat the sun-burnt grass, the farmers would put sunglasses on the cows' eyes. The foolish cows would see the grass green and start eating it."
Bakoolal howled with laughter. The sugar in the sapodilla made Cheryl's thirst worsen.
Finally, a sign read: Welcome to Corriverton; and nearby a rickety car with loudspeakers screeched: "Back Centre, come hear the President. Back Centre, come ...." Bakoolal explained that the President of Guyana would be speaking in Corriverton that day.
We arrived at my sister's home. She hugged us, cried, and said she prepared chicken curry.
"I'm just thirsty,” Cheryl said.
Sister explained that the water had been shut off that morning because the President was coming to open the water treatment plant, and she gave my wife a can of Coca Cola.
When my sister left, Cheryl whispered that it's really called curried chicken, not chicken curry. We laughed as a kid about 5 years old came running to me and said, "Uncle, let's go Back Centre and see the President."
I turned to Cheryl and told her that since there was no water we could watch the President turn it on. We began the trek to the Centre in the sweltering heat. I asked the kid clutching my hand his name.
"Brokmouth."
"What?"
"You deaf? Is Brokmouth." Along the way, there was a bridge, and I mentioned that I had learned to swim in the trench below.
"But the trench-water is dirty,” Cheryl said. “Looks like waste flows in it."
I didn't reply.
"Your father allowed you?"
"No, but Foxy told him."
"What, who?" Cheryl asked through parched lips. The sugar in the cola hadn’t helped her thirst.
I told her the story of Foxy, the girl who used to live next door, and who was always spying on me. One day I went swimming with my buddies: Bamboo Foot and Old Basket. We hid our clothes behind bushes, and, since we couldn't afford briefs, we were naked. Overweight, Old Basket cut a branch and beat the water to scare away alligators and snakes nesting nearby. Then we splashed the dirty water to soak one side of the bank to make it slippery, placed our behinds on top, and slid into the trench.
"How could you?” Cheryl asked. “What about Foxy?"
I replied that after doing backstrokes, we went to get dressed, except I couldn't find my clothes. Foxy had sneaked up and done the dirty deed.
"So what happened?" Cheryl asked.
I replied that Old Basket waddled home and returned with his short pants for me, but since he was overweight, they fitted me like soggy, droopy, diapers. Anyway, I held up the waist and reached home where my father was waiting with my missing clothes in one hand, a black-sage whip in the other, and big-eyed Foxy behind him.
"Did she love you?" Cheryl asked. The searing 2 o’clock sun cracked her lips.
I didn't answer.
We entered the Centre where the President was already being introduced. He would soon declare open the water treatment plant, funded with Japanese money, while the Japanese Ambassador, beside him, nodded and smiled.
Easing our way next to the President as he addressed the locals, Cheryl asked Brokmouth how he got his name. He explained that his mom was milking their cow when she asked him to fetch water for the cow to drink. He brought the water and gave it to the cow, but the calf kicked him: it wanted the water first.
The President cleared his throat, rustled his notes, and continued his sermon, while the man who had introduced him, who seemed a yes-man if ever there was one, poured ice-cold water into a glass and placed it beside the President's cheat-sheets. Cheryl and I eyeballed the glass.
"How come you didn't marry Foxy?"
"Well, when Foxy was 12, she ran away with Dunce Bat from Crabwood Creek."
I explained that Foxy's mom didn't like Dunce Bat: he was too dark for her daughter, as was the thinking, plus he couldn’t spell his own name. I added that unfortunately Foxy died 2 years later.
"What? How?" Cheryl asked.
I explained that Foxy and Dunce quarrelled a lot, and after producing two lovely girls, the fighting got nastier. One day, she threatened to ignite herself if Dunce didn't pay her any mind. Dunce said he was fed up and stormed out of the house. Foxy then threw kerosene on herself, scratched a match, but it didn't light. She scratched harder and it threw out sparks. One spark landed on Foxy's kerosene-drenched nightee, which caught fire. Foxy screamed.
Dunce heard the scream, barged back inside, and saw his lover in flames crying out his name. He dashed outside to the drum which caught rain water, but the drum was empty. It hadn’t rained for weeks, and Foxy had emptied the drum to wash the children's clothes. He darted back inside again, and saw that the fire had reached Foxy's hair. Then he burst into the kitchen, turned on the tap, but the tap hissed air. Crabwood Creek was rationing water and pipes in the area were just then shut-off. Still in the kitchen, Dunce then noticed the boiling pot of water on the stove, and his knees weakened, buckled, then gave way at what he was forced to think. Dunce hit the floor, started to wail, and beat his chest in frustration: The only water in the house was in that boiling pot, half-filled with rice for his little girls to eat.
Suddenly, there was silence: Foxy had stopped screaming. She was dead.
"Such a sad ending,” Cheryl offered. “You know, this is the Land of Many Waters, but when you need it, it isn't there for you."
It was hard to tell what she was really thinking.
The Japanese Ambassador nodded and smiled while the President continued his monologue, pointing to no one, and stabbing the air with his finger. His glass was refilled again by Mr. Yes-man, and Cheryl couldn't tear her eyes away from it. Her lips began to swell from the scorching heat.
"Brokmouth calls you uncle,” she said. “Which of your siblings does he belong to?"
I explained that it was customary for Guyanese children to call their elders uncle or aunt as a show of respect.
"So Brokmouth calls you uncle, holds your hand, follows you around, and you don't know who he is?"
I admitted that I was clueless. And so I asked Brokmouth who he was.
"Man, you really stupid,” he replied. “How you end up in Canada?" He continued, “My mom say I look a lot like Foxy. Foxy was me grandma."
We both gave him a big hug, and a kiss.
The President declared loudly: “We are fortunate in Guyana that we have a large amount of fresh water, but it is not unlimited, and therefore we have to start appreciating this valuable resource." Then he sipped his ice-cold water contently, stared at my wife, and sipped some more. In a final burst, he clutched the air, curled his fingers in a fist and pounded his notes to emphasise his last point. The Japanese Ambassador nodded and smiled.
The 4 o'clock sun was ferocious and Cheryl's lips were so swollen that they now seemed glued shut. We raced to my sister's home, turned on the tap, only to collect a jug of rust-red water. We allowed the water in the jug to settle. After a while, Cheryl poured carefully from the jug to a glass, so as not to stir up the sediment now at the bottom of the jug, plunked a straw in the glass, pried her lips open, and sipped her first taste of water in the Land of Many Waters. Her eyes lit up.
I turned to her and asked, "Suppose the water wasn't turned on, would you bathe in the trench?"
"Yes, but on one condition: I won't bathe bare bottom."
We all laughed; Brokmouth the loudest.
I took a mental snapshot of the moment as I laughed because I knew that in a few months, we'd be facing the frigid Canadian cold, shorter daylight hours, and even shorter tempers.
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