Guyanese ComeBackees
Kaieteur News
December 18, 2006
You know them. You have seen them. You've chuckled on the inside as you turned away, ever so slowly, embarrassed for them. You made sure you took in every little detail of their ridiculous multi-coloured, over-accessorized attire.
You turn away but only ever so slowly. They have a patent on overdoing ghetto fabulous haute couture or flattering through imitation, the latest over-hyped, under-delivering Bollywood film star.
You have seen them walking through the arrival hall of the Cheddi Jagan International Airport, hugging an oversized teddy bear, rushing to hug relatives before heading off to South or Skeldon. Coming ‘back' (not home) after they have spent years slaving in some Manhattan store, taking abuse and insult from unforgiving customers. Or perhaps they have been babysitting kids or dogs, or adult-sitting in some old folks home or the other.
Whatever they have been doing for the past five or ten years, they try to make it seem as though it is exponentially more glamorous than any experience one can ever have in this here God-forsaken country.
They have to regale us with stories, silly stories, about the 98-year-old woman in their care whose memory is as sharp as a tack, the five-year-old in their class whose mouth is as fast as a Ferrari, their wealthy boss who took them out on his luxury yacht once.
Of course they conveniently forget the other juicier bits to the story, that the old witch soils herself every ten minutes (and guess who does the cleaning?), that the five-year-old's dad got them suspended for two weeks after they threatened to ‘buss his ass', that the boss didn't get the memo that slavery was abolished two centuries ago.
They tell us how it's so hot here, how the place smells so bad, how the mosquitoes are so unforgiving, how the water tastes so horrible, how the roads have got a little better, how the young people are so wild and have no manners (oblivious to the living devils masquerading as their own American-bred children). Oh yes, and how they will put in the papers for us to join them up in heaven.
They endlessly want to talk about ‘small days'; playing ketcha and marbles, raiding (not thiefing) Ms Mavis mango tree and doing bush cook. They ceaselessly ask about people who are either dead, disappeared or migrated like them. They bore you to infinity and beyond with their condescending chatter. They guzzle El Dorado like it's soon to be banned; they eat duck curry as if it is the main course at the last supper.
They want to go to Palm Court , Club Illusions, Night Flight and Blue Note to dance to Chakademus and Pliers and Shabba Ranks, Chris Garcia and Michael Bolton.
You have to slap them into reality. Guyana did not just thaw itself out, having been frozen in a time capsule since their Guyana Airways flight left Timehri in 1987, 1995 or 2001.
For months prior to leaving they have been studying the fashions being unleashed in the latest music videos. They have been hunting for those designs at the best prices.
They arrive at late evening yet the sunglasses, yes brand name as it is, is prominent either on their head, tucked into the corn rows or partially blocking the make up which could easily double as sea dams against the Atlantic Ocean .
They reek of some expensive noxious cologne, the same one that really sells for US$275, but which they got on sale last summer at Macy's for half the price. More silly stories, of Nostrand Avenue , the A Train, Sybil's Bakery, Central Park and the drive over to Jersey for a weekend of gambling.
They come back with their pretty talk, their fancy clothes and a few US dollars and we too fall for the trap and end up in a 4x6 poorly insulated apartment, shoveling our way through snow before sunrise and catching the midnight train back home as we ‘enjoy the good life'.
(Courtesy of CSMI)