Ras Michael is Back… PEOPLE TALKING

Guyana Chonicle

EVERYWHERE, people talking. Talking and eating ‘a food’ is the two main occupations in Georgetown these days. What they talking or eating is not important. They does eat anything from anybody that selling; and they talk about anything and anybody that comes to mind.A big surprise came one morning around eight o’clock. I was called upon to meet an old friend at that hour at Stabroek Market. Disembarking from the minibus, I noticed several street vendors gathered together, and each had a food box in hand. I just noted this in passing, but as I hurried onwards towards my appointment, I noticed other vendors sitting by their make-shift stands. Almost each had a Styrofoam food box in hand and a plastic spoon that travelled rapidly from box to mouth and back to box again. I soon came to realise that this was something the vendors practised each day. I made a mental note to pursue an investigation around town to see whether it was only vendors by ‘Stabroek’, or if by chance it was a culture among vendors around town, to be eating lunch at eight o’clock in the morning, each morning. I also became curious as to whether it was also a part of the culture of vendors in Berbice and Essequibo, to engage in this gastronomical exercise. Before I could engage further on this research, I noticed that I had erred somewhat in my analysis of the eating habits of Georgetown vendors. Lo and behold! I discovered that it was not just a morning habit, but that vendors seem to eat all day as they sold whatever wares they presented to the purchasing public. Now, psychiatrists will have you know that people who are suffering emotional discomfort find eating steadily a means of comforting themselves. I noticed, too, that not only eating was a passionate occupation among vendors, but that the purchasing of food from different food sellers was just as important. It meant they had money to spend on food, and that may have quite a bit of significance in the cultivation of the habit. Whatever the reason, Georgetown vendors were establishing their own food culture. Which leads me to the topic of talking, which I noticed was another pre-occupation not only among vendors but people in general. Georgetown people loved to talk. They talked all day. Georgetown people were always talking about one thing or another. They talked about husbands, ‘sweet-man’, children and neighbours. They talked about politics and Venezuelan aggression against Guyana. Waiting on my bus one evening, I was subjected to listening to a lady I had never met before. She felt it important to increase my knowledge of the infidelity of her ‘child-father’. She was undeterred by my lack of response, and perhaps took it to mean that I was paying great attention to her child-father’s proclivities. I waited for a decent ten minutes, hoping she’d pause for breath, at which point I felt I could beat a hasty and unnoticed retreat. This was not to be, however, since she seemed to have exceedingly good lungs. She spoke in what could be called perfect creolese, and then began to punctuate it with stiff forefinger jabs to the side of my ribcage. I became desperate; I needed to escape. I looked around, seeking a means of escape from this verbal assault on my ears, as well as the forefinger jabs. I seemed to be in luck. A guy I vaguely knew passed by on the other side of the road. I seized the opportunity with both hands, so to speak. I hailed out to him, and as he paused, I hurried across the road to meet him. I was wrong to approach this individual. I had made the wrong decision, and had engaged a virtual ancient mariner. Ten minutes after, and two dollars lighter in pocket, he seemed likely to continue his discourse on the importance of herbal healing. Meanwhile, two of my buses had passed by, and as I crossed back over the road, the lady who had engaged me first had already disappeared into the cab of another bus. I sighed, and took up my position once again, awaiting, hoping that another bus would soon appear. It took another half-an-hour before one did, and as I joined it, I made a vow to myself never again to place myself in a situation where I became a victim of either a female or male type of ancient mariner. There is an old saying that if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. I now believe it. As I settled back in my seat, sighing in appreciation at the comfort of not being in a packed bus, I heard a voice next to me say, “Hi Michael.” Immediately I called out to the conductor, “Stop the bus! I forgot my bag!” And as the door slid open, I jumped out with alacrity and waved him on. I was not going to travel with any bus that evening; I was going to take a taxi. At last I was free; I could now settle down in the back seat and enjoy my ride home. I did settle back, until the driver turned around and said, “Hi Michael, you start back writing in the Chronicle again, I see.” I sighed in resignation.