by Di Morrissey
‘Hotel Hope? You mean that cream Fort Knox?’
‘Yes. Everyone goes there hoping. Queues start first thing every morning, everybody hope for a US visa.’ Prashad shook his head. ‘It’s no good. All the people want is to make enough money to go to Miami, New York, Canada, London. No one wants to stay here and work and fix up this country. We need good people here.’
‘And you Mr Prashad, do you want to get a US visa too?’
He shrugged. ‘If I had money, maybe. To give my children an American education. Everyone in Guyana has a relative outside, eh?’ He nudged the black African driver who grinned.
‘Dat for sure.’
Matthew had the distinct feeling the driver had put in time in the queue at the Hotel Hope.
‘So what goes on in the old embassy?’
Prashad gave him a broad smile. ‘Information people. Spooks, you know. That’s what they call the spies.’
Matthew laughed. ‘No secrets in this town, I see.’
‘No secrets and plenty of rumours and gossip. Sometimes true, sometimes not . . . but always worth repeating,’ chuckled Prashad without malice.
The car glided past the impressive High Court with its red roof faded to rusty orange. Like the other elaborate wooden structures in the city, peeling paint and shabbiness dimmed its unique attractiveness. Queen Victoria gazed blankly above the seething throngs outside the court’s wrought iron fence. ‘The Queen has lost a hand,’ noted Matthew.
‘Lucky she didn’t lose her head. She had been lying for years in the grass, in the back of the Botanic Gardens after being knocked down. The new regime brought her back to court. It is the Victoria High Court after all,’ explained Prashad.
At the northern end of the broad Avenue of the Republic they swung around the pride of the city, St George’s Cathedral, a wooden Gothic fantasy which had survived fires that destroyed many of the city’s important buildings since its construction in 1892. ‘The tallest wooden building in the world,’ declared Prashad, and Matthew smiled.
They skirted the seedy Stabroek Markets which sheltered beneath a bright red roof and fancy wood trim. The open ground in front of the markets was a teeming bazaar of vehicles, bicycles, pedestrians, peddlers and smaller stalls that couldn’t afford to shelter in the great shadowy confines of the marketplace.
‘Is it this busy every day?’ asked Matthew who suddenly wanted to stop and dive into the market.
‘Yes, every day is like this. But there are a lot of teefs here. You send your maid to do the shopping.’
‘Teefs? You mean thieves,’ asked Matthew.
The driver and Prashad exchanged grins. ‘Local expression. Doesn’t sound so bad when we say “teefs”,’ explained Prashad.
Ten minutes later, they swung into a fenced, overgrown grassy square. Goats grazed midfield and a pack of small dogs patrolled the road. There were no footpaths or shoulders, and some residents had put duckboards across the mucky grass outside their gates.
The modern cement houses had upper storeys and verandahs featuring breeze blocks and glass louvres, with the metal box backsides of air-conditioners jutting from bedroom walls. Most had fancy wrought-iron gates, all were securely fenced and one or two were being remodelled into grandiose nouveau riche monstrosities. Matthew wondered what business these neighbours were engaged in that appeared to be so financially successful. Undoubtedly he would discover in time.
‘This is the house you and Mr Kevin Blanchard will occupy,’ said Prashad as they drew up outside a comparatively modest bungalow. ‘Four bedrooms, two bathrooms, big living and entertaining area, small balcony, big garden,’ he recited as they dragged open the unlocked gate.
At the scrape of metal on the concrete drive, a sleepy figure appeared. A solid dark-skinned man with a shock of wavy white hair and dressed in a singlet and voluminous old khaki shorts hurried forward in bare feet. Prashad ignored him, went to the house and unlocked the front door. A flight of polished wood stairs led to the main area and Matthew followed Prashad up. The open plan was light and airy leading to the front balcony. A second small deck ran along the rear off the bedrooms and was screened by metal grillework. Through this could be seen a large garden filled with banana and fruit trees, tropical shrubs and flowers. A thatched gazebo leaned in one corner facing a small pond smothered in waterlilies. Several hammocks were strung along the verandah.
Prashad continued. ‘There is a maid, Hyacinth, who we recommend you hire. She lives downstairs. She will cook, wash, clean for you. You need to hire a guard and a gardener.’
‘Who’s the old bloke downstairs?’
‘He was here when I brought Mr Blanchard out yesterday while you were in the ministry office. I’m not sure who he is. We just leased this place.’
‘I’ll just take a turn around the garden,’ said Matthew.
Although Prashad and the other mine staff had not been informed yet, AusGeo had been granted the mine contract almost as soon as the Australians arrived in the country. Matthew couldn’t wait to tell Kevin how it had come about. In the meantime this house, which had been leased with an option to extend, would be more than suitable for a long stay.
He didn’t bother checking the domestic rooms, that was the maid’s domain. He would divide his time between Georgetown and the mine. Kevin would be doing the same, though they would possibly be on different schedules. Matthew paused and looked at the little gazebo. Yes, he could see himself sitting out here with a sunset rum. He turned back as the old man emerged again from under the house which sheltered the maid’s room and laundry. He was now wearing a shirt and he gave Matthew a smile. ‘Are you living or working here?’ asked Matthew.
The man straightened and announced, ‘I be Singh. I come with de house.’
‘Is that so. I’m Matthew Wright.’ Matthew shook his outstretched hand. ‘I’ll be moving in here tomorrow. What are your duties, Singh?’
‘I be de guard and I do garden, boss.’
‘Very well, Singh. If you say so.’
‘You be British, Mr Wright?’
‘No. Australian.’
‘Ah. Australian. Very good. Top welcome to Guyana, Mr Wright.’
Singh held the gate open as they drove away. ‘We can do better, I’m sure. There is a security service we can hire,’ began Prashad.
‘Singh comes with the house,’ said Matthew emphatically. For some reason he’d taken an instant liking to the old Indian. ‘He’ll be fine.’
As dusk fell over Georgetown, Matthew and Kevin sat on the verandah of the Pessaro Hotel, enjoying a beer as they talked over the events of the past twenty-four hours. While Kevin had visited the bauxite mine, Matthew and Stewart Johns had met the IFO’s representative Connor Bain and a group of government officials for discussions about Guyminco’s future.
Bain had made it clear the IFO, which was funding the contract to clean up and sell the mine, wanted the AusGeo team. And Johns was satisfied that, with IFO backing, they could do the job. Finally one of the public servants, to keep face, told them the government had already decided not to accept the only other potential tenderer for the contract.
‘At least,’ Matthew told Kevin, ‘it saves wasting time on presentations. Now we can get the real job done.’
Ordering a second round, they decided Bain, who’d told them he was originally from Western Australia, was a good bloke, the kind they could share a few beers with on this mutual assignment.
After dark they got into a taxi outside the Pessaro and gave the driver directions to the Guyminco general manager’s residence. The genial executive, concerned about his future at the mine, had suggested he host this reception to give the AusGeo team a chance to meet senior and middle management of the mine in a more relaxed atmosphere.
‘I thought our house seemed pretty good,’ said Matthew in the taxi. ‘By the way, did you meet the old Indian fellow staying there? I told him he could stay on as guard and gardener.’
‘No, didn’t see him, I just rushed in and rushed out. I
’m not going to be spending much time there. I met the maid, Hyacinth. She’s a card.’
The taxi pulled up in a street lined with cars. Flame torches flared by the gates of a large white colonial house and music from a steel band rolled over the garden wall almost drowning conversation.
‘God, is every band in the country here?’
The driver pointed to a truck with neon-hued painted designs and the logo of The Silvertails. ‘Good band,’ he shouted. ‘Best party band, won prizes in Trinidad last year.’ Matthew paid him and nodded. He didn’t want to shout an answer.
The twelve-man band was in the garden where more flame torches on poles gave a flickering light. The players were dressed in bright green satin shirts with glittering sequinned silver birds on them. Matthew and Kevin stood and watched the swaying, gyrating, grinning men belting the different sized silver drums with tennis balls on short sticks.
‘They’re cut down and bashed out forty-gallon drums,’ declared Kevin, ‘a big band sound to be sure . . . amazing.’
A guard pointed them to a flight of stairs up into the house as the band segued into the calypso beat of Spanish Eyes.
The two men beamed with pleasant surprise as they stepped into the main room. No formalities here. A waiter immediately offered them rum punch, and their hostess dressed in a long sarong hurried forward, her arms outstretched.
‘Dear boys, welcome! I’m Roxy Krupuk and you must be Kevin and Matthew . . . which is which?’
They introduced themselves, grinning at the effervescent dark-skinned Guyanese woman with the killer smile and short bobbed hair. She was in her early fifties, curvaceous rather than plump, personality bubbling from every pore. Stepping between the two men she linked arms with each. ‘Now let’s find some pretty girls to talk to, eh?’
Matthew and Kevin exchanged an amused grin above her head, this was not the normal boss’s wife. On most foreign assignments they found their hostesses keen to protect their young women friends from men like them who only stayed in one place for a short time, although they’d never had much trouble breaking down the barriers. In Roxy they immediately sensed a warm-hearted, fun-loving, candid helpmate.
Though they were on time it seemed to the two Australians that the party was well under way. Everyone was talking animatedly, laughing and dancing. Most people wore bright colours and favoured a more flashy style of dress. The dancing to the loud, insistent reggae beat was uninhibited, bodies swayed and gyrated provocatively, damp with exertion and heat from the crush of people. Over the heads of those dancing they spotted the figure of Connor Bain, grinning and lifting his glass in a welcoming salute.
In minutes they were deposited amongst a group of young Guyanese women of different ethnic backgrounds, all attractive, bubbly and easy to talk to. They soon learnt this was to be no ordinary cocktail party.
An attractive Indian girl in a brilliant turquoise sari, her hair tied back in a knot at the nape of the neck with a gold clasp, introduced herself. ‘I’m Sharee Gopal. I hope you’re ready for this adventure Roxy has planned.’
‘I thought it was just drinks. This is a full-on rage,’ said Kevin.
‘No. It’s dinner . . . if you figure it out!’ she laughed.
‘What exactly does that mean?
‘It’s like a scavenger hunt . . . a mystery tour . . . a progressive dinner, of sorts,’ added Viti Leung, who was a sweet Chinese girl in a red silk cocktail dress, her long black hair cut in a straight fringe over her almond-shaped eyes.
They found out the details as they took their second drinks. Roxy began circulating with two hats, one filled with the names of the men, the other with the women. ‘Draw a partner,’ she chortled, and winked as she offered the hats to Matt and Kevin and the two girls last.
There was another round of drinks as everyone matched the number beside their names to meet their partner.
Kevin grinned as he found himself teamed with Viti, and Matthew shook his arm in the air in a cheerful salute as he found his name paired with Sharee.
Roxy stood on a chair and shushed the crowd of eighty people. ‘Right. You get your first clue now and when you’ve followed that, you’ll get coded directions to help you find the next clue. Along the way there will be refreshments until you arrive at our secret location for the main course. Good luck!’
‘What a crazy idea . . . I like it,’ said Kevin as dozens of couples, some strangers like he and Viti, started huddling and whispering and running for cars. ‘It’s a scavenger hunt too, you know. You have to collect items along the way,’ called Roxy to the two Australians as they moved with their partners towards the door.
‘Hey, Matthew, do you want to go in my car or yours?’ Sharee asked.
Matthew shrugged his shoulders. ‘I came in a taxi.’
‘Then it’s mine. I have a driver, so we will be able to concentrate on decoding the directions.’
‘Good idea. You realise I’m a complete novice in this town.’
‘It’s a small town,’ she smiled softly. ‘And this is a good way to get to know it.’
Matthew’s discovery tour led him to some strange places that night.
They found the first stop easily. The bar of the Pessaro Hotel was where they had to buy the next clue, with the bartender saying he was to charge them a piece of their clothing. Matthew pulled off his belt and Sharee looked down at her sari, shrugged, and handed over her sandals, to the amusement of the other patrons. ‘I’m assuming this will all turn up at the end of the night,’ said Matthew. ‘Fancy a quick drink while we’re here?’ As they sipped their beers, two other party guests rushed in, handed over a tie and a hair scarf and scurried off calling, ‘Don’t miss dinner!’
The clues were far from easy. ‘It’s almost rubber’ said the clue they’d bought at the bar. ‘Rubber. Something to do with rubber,’ mused Matthew. ‘You don’t suppose it’s to do with spare tyres?’
Sharee giggled. ‘There’s a tyre place a few blocks from here. Let’s drive past and see if there’s a light on.’
The Mighty Bird Tyre Shop, where piles of old tyres were stacked and chained together, was in darkness. As they stopped outside, another couple were reading a piece of paper by their car’s interior light. Matthew tapped on the passenger’s window, startling them. ‘Do we make a foray into the yard or not?’
‘We were thinking the same thing. The place is locked up. I’m sure we’re not supposed to break in. Something made of rubber, maybe we should find a dictionary.’
‘My aunty lives down the block,’ his companion said. ‘Let’s go and borrow hers. Good luck!’ They sped away.
Sharee got into the back seat with Matthew and said to the bemused driver, ‘So, Benji, what do you think of when I say rubber?’
‘Tree.’
‘That’s it!’ Sharee flashed a delighted grin. ‘A rubber tree . . . there’s a very famous one in the Botanic Gardens. Of course. Well done, Benji. Let’s go.’
They scrambled through the dark gardens, Matthew thinking the whole exercise rather fun until he took a spill, tripping over something large and solid. A cow staggered to its feet as surprised as Matthew. ‘Good grief, Sharee wait. There’s a cow here. And more of them there . . . what on earth are they doing here?’
Sharee who had been hurrying ahead despite the constraints of her sari, came back to Matthew. ‘These belong to the old prime minister’s wife. Mrs Burnham has a small dairy herd she grazes here.’
‘In the Botanic Gardens!’ Matthew wondered if the night’s surprises would ever end.
‘They’re fenced off from the rare plants. Though they often get out. She once had the fence electrified but it’s illegal so now they keep breaking through. If you go to visit her you can have fresh cow’s milk in your tea.’
‘I’ll look forward to that,’ muttered Matthew rubbing his sore elbow.
They found the tree and plucked one of the huge thick glossy leaves to add to their scavenger collection, then walked around its giant base probing the root
s. ‘Where do you suppose our next clue might be? Ouch!’ Matthew banged his head against a solid basket hanging from a branch.
‘In there I’d say,’ said Sharee, grinning at him as he rubbed his forehead.
‘Where next?’
‘To light the way or sink and swim.’
They stood at the base of a small red and white striped lighthouse at the tip of the seawall and rapped on the locked wooden door. Their answer was a basket lowered on a rope. In it was a small bottle of rum, two chocolate bars, a bag of mixed peanuts and a white envelope.
Sharee began eating one of the chocolate bars. ‘Do you think this is dessert and we missed dinner?’
Matthew took a swig of the rum and read the note in the envelope.
‘Her name is Candy Delight, knock and ask for Joe where the camel stops at night.’
‘What’s that mean?’
Sharee looked puzzled. ‘Let’s ask Benji.’
They handed over the chocolate and nuts and the driver chewed slowly. ‘Only one place with a camel in dis town. Be de Camel Pit.’
‘Ooh,’ Sharee’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘It’s a rum shop but really a brothel. It’s always being written up in the newspaper because of fights and things. I’m not going in there.’
‘I’ll go. Let’s check it out, Benji.’
It was a narrow street, crammed with wooden buildings that were strung with coloured lights. Amplified calypso was blaring and a lot of people were strolling or talking in groups along the roadside. There was no missing the painted billboard of a camel with a scantily clad voluptuous black woman straddled between its humps. A tough-looking African man wearing an abundance of gold jewellery lounged at the narrow doorway. Matthew stared at the building with some apprehension.
‘Dat be de place, eh boss,’ said Benji. Then when Matthew didn’t make a move from the car, added, ‘You want me check ’im?’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Matthew eased out of the car.
‘What we lookin’ for, boss?’
‘Joe . . . I think.’
‘Hey man. You be Joe, eh?’ asked Benji.