Indian Arrival
By Peter Jailall
THE fair, gentle month of May is designated Indian Arrival month by many Indo-Caribbean people. On March 8th 1970, my wife and I arrived at Toronto International Airport from Guyana on B.O.A.C. flight 647. We were nervous and uncertain about our destination and our future as we entered a new country of different faces and voices. We arrived with four heavy suitcases bulging with all we possessed. Among our prized possessions were a few shirt-jacs, armless dresses, pieces of pure Guyana gold, books, certificates, and a few Canadian dollars. We also brought along photographs of Kaieteur Falls, the Rupununi Savannahs and Stabroek Market - memories of important landmarks in our beloved country. When we left in 1970, Guyana was a good place in which to live. I was teaching at Enmore Government School and enjoying every bit of it. I really did not come here looking for work or even to study. I had no intention of living here forever and the desire to return home continues to play daily in the back of my mind. I do make regular visits to my Mecca. I was well trained at the Government Training College, a ready-made teacher for recruitment by the Canadian Immigration Officer who was housed at that time in the Bank of Guyana building. Quickly, he recruited me because there was a shortage of teachers in Ontario. I was young, passionate and adventurous - the kind of immigrant Canada delights in pulling out of developing countries. From a professional position, I made a conscious decision to assist with the teacher shortage, attempting in a small way to make the world a better place. Adjustment though, wasn't easy. I fought racism, endured the cold winters and the loneliness as I encountered different aspects of "Canadian experience." But my recruitment, settlement and adjustment in a foreign place 30 years ago was not as painful and harsh like the bitter experiences endured by my ancestors who were "bound" for British Guiana 150 years ago. Sometimes, I try to imagine how my great-grandparents felt when they arrived at Port Georgetown - tired, bare-footed, seasick and homesick. Dressed in different clothing, speaking a different language and carrying very little material possessions, they were to live side by side with different peoples they had never met or seen before. I try to imagine the long hours, the low wages and the horrible conditions under which they toiled. I try to imagine how they handled illness and beatings from their task masters when they were late or absent. I try to imagine how "inferior" most of them were made to feel during those hostile days of indentureship. I reflect on the songs they sang to lift their spirits, making music on their saucepans, cutlasses, files, dholaks, dhantals and harmoniums. I reflect on their lack of an "English Education," of their isolation in the enclaves of their humble logie dwellings. There was little hope of upward mobility on their horizon beyond the canefields. In the end, though, they survived the full blows from "massa whip." Today, their progeny is testimony to their determination, their courage, their resilience. I observe my own Canadian children growing up in this modern age listening to house music on the Internet, surfing freely around the globe. I envy their opportunities in education and the privileges they enjoy meeting and greeting the whole world at their doorsteps. They do eat curry and roti, at times making fun of my Guyanese accent in their sing-song Canadian speech. I hear about other Guyanese-Canadian youths talking about moving to the Silicon Valley or to Liberty Avenue, "Little Guyana" in the heart of Queens, New York looking for opportunities. Many of our children have already embarked on our people's third migration. When I relate the story of my journey to my own children, they usually give me a funny, big Canadian, "Wow! That's very interesting, Dad!" Their great-great grandparents' stories are indeed interesting to hear, but sometimes too far removed from their sheltered and ordered Canadian lives. More work needs to be done informing them about their own history. Young Indo-Canadians, though, are building formidable and lasting relationships with other Canadians from other races and cultures at school and at work. They are traveling their own journeys and exploring new settlements. Many continue to build on the rich heritage of their parents, grandparents and ancestors. My ancestors sailed on the Whitby to Guyana. I flew on the B.O.A.C. to Canada. Indo-Canadian young people continue to travel along their own global pathways, arriving at their destinations with a different set of jahajees. As they journey, they spin their own stories, traveling this time around with a maple leaf stamped on their knapsacks. Wherever they go, they will survive because they have come a long way, deep out of the heart of a very ancient culture, not perfect, but one that places emphasis on a family support system, teaching its children the value of hard work and sacrifice, the joy of sharing and the ability to manage money carefully. Someone described a typical East Indian settlement outside of India as "the phul in a pool" - the bright, blooming, vibrant lotus in the midst of filth. We in the Indian diaspora have the capacity to survive anywhere. Many young Indo-Canadians are demonstrating our "survival instinct" as they continue to arrive bravely in many new, unchartered territories.
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