Beyond Bourda Green: a memoir

By Percy Haynes

Born in a tenement yard in the British colony of Guiana (now Guyana) on the shoulder of South America, Percy Haynes, in Beyond Bourda Green, writes about the changes in his homeland and people during the transition to an independent nation. His multi-faceted career as Journalist, Communications Expert, University Lecturer and Foreign Service Officer enables him to tell a fascinating story about his childhood memories, his experiences in finding his place in the world and the birth pangs of the new nation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Percy Haynes
• Release date: May 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781938856006

Book preview

Preface

Autobiography, a colleague of mine once said, is the most painful of exercises. This sentiment may be accurate. However, Percy Haynes' memoir, Beyond Bourda Green, while it may have been painful in its genesis, is a rendition of intersecting experiences so important that it should be made required reading for schools. This is a story that needed to be told. The strength of the women in the life of Percy Haynes, currently an instructor in higher education, is the bedrock on which his life continues to grow. Determination, honesty and faith are qualities that Haynes absorbed from his mother and grandmother. Indeed, he is clear eyed about his early life and does not glamorize the struggle of these matriarchs. Later, as he enters the world of work, he quietly honors one of the great academicians of Guyana, the Reverend William Frederick Glasgow Deane. The story of this Principal of Alleyne High School is a quiet reflection of the dedication of many of those men and women in the teaching profession who recognized that the future of Guyana lay in part in the education of its children. Among them are R. B. O. Hart of Enterprise High School and Austin Castello and Joseph Castello of Tutorial High School. It is out of the old narratives of British Guiana that a new one of Guyana has sprung. And Haynes' memoir is a nuanced recording of getting up and going in that landscape. Indeed, Beyond Bourda Green is a prime example of the domestic ferment that existed during the twentieth century in Guyana as eyes opened, as awareness grew and as the men and women of that nation strove to claim their autonomy. And it is a story told gently by a communications expert, scholar and seasoned politician even as the layers of his own interior life are exposed. To read Beyond Bourda Green is to remember the canvas against which we all enact our lives, to learn the lessons often later forgotten as soon as we have tumbled through our experiences, and to practice to the best of our ability the steps of building a personal and public life.

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– Dr. Juliet A. Emanuel,

Borough of Manhattan Community College, City University of New York

1

Introduction

This is the journey of my life from childhood in a tenement yard in Georgetown, the capital city of Guyana, to a career as Journalist, Diplomat and University Lecturer. My journey coincides with the transition of Guyana from being an outpost of the British Empire to becoming an independent nation on the world stage. My memoir is, therefore, interwoven within the still unfinished tapestry of transforming a former plantation society into a cohesive modern state.

The decision to write my life story stems from a suggestion some years ago by my second daughter Vanessa.: Write your life story, daddy, she urged. Vanessa’s was not the only voice encouraging me to put on paper reflections of my life. I returned to Guyana in 1980 after serving in the Foreign Service in New York and London. Upon my return, Chief Information Officer and poet Arthur J. Seymour suggested I write about my experiences. Later, while I worked as Director of Communications at the Office of President Desmond Hoyte, the idea was revived in my mind. On many occasions, Hoyte urged the members of his staff to write our stories. He reminded us that the people of a country who did not write their own history were doomed to oblivion. Responding to those prompts has not been smooth sailing. The ship of my thoughts has staggered and sometimes has even halted on the rocks of earning a living to keep body and soul together. I have now completed what has been a challenging yet exhilarating journey of my reflections about life in Guyana and beyond. My ship has finally reached land. This is my Guyana story.

In writing my memoir, I have experienced something of the character of the tempestuous, yet joyous experience of my mother in her state of mother-to-be, as she wondered if the baby in her womb would arrive before or after Christmas Day, 1927. In those days, so different to today’s society, having a child out of wedlock was frowned upon. As she blossomed into womanhood, her mother had constantly preached into her ears: If yu mek yu bed hard, you gun gat to lay down pun it. In any case, life was hard for my mother and my grandmother in the colony of British Guiana. Perhaps, my grandmother meant that motherhood outside of wedlock would make life even harder. Subjected to the censure of my grandmother, any expectations of a Merry Christmas my mother may have had must have been somewhat muted. I arrived in the world three days too late to be her special Christmas gift.

At the time of my childhood, there was no form of social assistance for a single parent, After receiving initial support from my grandmother, my mother labored day and night to put bread on the table and a roof over the heads of my sister Thelma and me. I remember her working as a domestic servant at the residence of an American family. Eight hour shifts, time off and vacation days did not exist. When her employers entertained dinner guests, my mother worked late into the night. On those occasions, Thelma and I remained awake in anticipation of having a share of the lavish dinner our mother had prepared for the American family and guests.

Mother never told us what motivated her to work tirelessly on our behalf. I have since realized that she squeezed pennies from her meager wages to send us to secondary school for the higher education she did not receive. Our mother understood that the best possible education for her children was the only way for our little family to escape from the tenement yard.

The manner in which we finally escaped from the tenement yard was ironic. Like other Guyanese, we expected that a government of legislators elected by us, the people, would make a reality of our dreams for better housing and other facilities. But salvation came to us in an unexpected manner, which justifies the saying, It’s an ill wind that blows no good. It was the British removal from office of the freely elected People’s Progressive Party government in 1953 that inadvertently resulted in us moving into our own home. The Interim Government of discarded politicians and civil servants, selected by the Colonial Office, made our dream of homeownership come true. In the campaign to lessen the appeal of the People’s Progressive Party, the Interim Government introduced, among other projects, a housing development scheme in Section K, Campbellville in the suburbs of Georgetown. We jumped at the opportunity to obtain one of the house lots to build our home. We were among the applicants granted a lot on the land on which farmers previously planted rice. As we settled into our home, farmers on the adjoining land were still hustling to plant and harvest rice before house building crews descended on the land. The other housing project on the adjoining land has become known as Lamaha Gardens. That house development initiative of the Interim Government enabled civil servants, teachers and other middle class workers to begin new lives. My mother recalled that in her years as a youth, the new residential area was a virtual wasteland. She never imagined that one day she would be living on that same land.

At the blessing ceremony of our new residence, my mother made sure that we observed the Guyanese tradition to give thanks. In her usual caring and sharing manner, she went to the administrative office of the Dharam Shala, a home for the indigent, located in Albouystown. She invited a group of the residents to be our special guests at the ceremony. The invitation was another manifestation of a quality our mother had shown throughout her life—an interest in the welfare of her fellow human beings who had been marginalized by society. She was not a wealthy woman but her concern for the needy led her, on many occasions, to share whatever little she had. It was a demonstration of my mother’s belief in the Christian principle that had guided her life – the belief that it is better to give than to receive. That belief was passed on to our entire family. A priest blessed our three bedroom home by sprinkling holy water in the four corners of each room.

It is from the background of my experiences about what life was like during the passage of Guyana from a colony to an independent nation that I tell this story of triumph over adversity. It is a narrative which shows that the human spirit can climb any mountain. It is a tale which, amidst the birth pangs of the nation of Guyana, reassures us that there is always a light at the end of the tunnel. My story demonstrates that the power and resilience of the Guyanese people will eventually prevail. The night of darkness now bedeviling the creation of the nation of Guyana will end. The light of the new day will finally dawn.

2

The Tenament Yard

My earliest view of the world was through the tenement yard at 69 Cummings Street, Georgetown, between Robb and Regent Streets where my sister and I lived with our grandmother and mother. Our yard of tenement rooms faced Cummings Street which was our artery to the neighborhood. It was on Cummings Street that we walked to the corner shop and made the short journey to the nearby Bourda Market with its array of shop-keepers, butchers, fish sellers, vegetable and ground provision vendors. On the way to the Bourda Market, we passed on Regent Street Saint Barnabas school, which turned on the light of the quest for learning in the mind of Desmond Hoyte, a future President of our country, with whom I later worked closely. It was also on Cummings Street that Thelma and I walked before turning west into Robb Street for the ten minute walk to the center of our childhood education, Bedford Methodist School.

Our home, like the other rooms in the tenement row, stood within easy access of the standpipe—the meeting place for neighbors to gossip about the happenings in their lives. Water from the standpipe was used for bathing in the communal bathroom, as well as for washing clothes, pots and pans. In the center of the yard stood a big wooden vat containing the precious water which flowed into it from the zinc gutters of our roof tops during the downpours of rain. The water was indeed precious as it was reserved for drinking and cooking. But as so often in life, there was a negative aspect: the possibility of the water not being good for our health. I dimly remember that at least on one occasion we discovered that a rat had somehow drowned in our vat. This presented a hazard and was enough reason for the eventual demolition of vats in Georgetown, as the country moved to modern ways including the installation of water purification systems. As a result of the low water pressure, however, vats have now taken the form of overhead tanks to make water easily available for housewives. This improved system is now a requirement for new houses.

Looking back at our tenement yard reminds me of a special official, the Sanitary Inspector. These officials, were deployed to the wards in Georgetown from their City Council headquarters in Charlotte Street and guided us in preventative measures to preserve a healthy environment by keeping our yard clean, devoid of any rubbish and stagnant water. The spraying of a special oil on the stagnant water was done to destroy the mosquito larvae. The Sanitary Inspector, after giving a warning, served summonses on delinquent householders who were subject to fines. Nonpayment of the fines could result in jail terms. I, however, do not recall any householder being jailed.

For us, necessity was truly the mother of invention. We made the best use of the limited space of our tenement room. A curtain divided our sleeping area from the space which served as the dining and living room. On the wall of our makeshift bedroom hung a picture of The Sacred Heart of Jesus promising us a time of bliss beyond our humble existence in the tenement yard. Just outside our multi-purpose room was our kitchen, a wooden box-like structure on stilts. There was no gas or electric stove. We cooked on a coal-pot stacked with wallaba wood and sometimes coconut shells to fuel the flames for cooking. When the wood was damp, it was somewhat difficult to get it alight. I remember my frustration when it was my turn to get the fire going. When every strategy failed, I poured kerosene oil on the wood, which is what we all did as a last resort. At times of heavy downpour of rain when people sought shelter under the shade of cake shops, the problem of lighting the coal-pot was even more severe. It was an impossible task. At such times, we had to be satisfied with whatever was edible within the home itself, or bide our time until the downpour of rain mercifully ended.

Our use of the coal-pot was not limited to cooking our meals or roasting the occasional plantain or eddo. That roasted plantain or eddo was really delicious; to this day, my taste bud salivates whenever I remember that childhood experience. The flaming charcoal in the coal-pot also enabled us to heat the flat iron used at laundry time to press our own clothes. My mother and grandmother also used the iron to press laundry for friends to supplement the family earnings.

Each morning, we were awakened by the crowing of roosters and the clanging of the buckets as the dwellers in the tenement yard jostled around the standpipe. In the rush for water at the standpipe, a quarrel between two neighbors sometimes erupted. Wey yu pushing yu bucket? Me bucket bin hay fus, the more aggressive neighbor may scream. In instances when the conflict escalated, out came the threat to take the matter to the Magistrates Court. Ah gun spend five shillings pun yu. Whether the accusation was abusive language or assault, the Magistrate usually imposed a fine on both contestants with the advice that, in the future, they should live as good neighbors. Both litigants, however, generally claimed victory and boasted to their supporters: Ah wun the case.

Such Magistrate’s Court conflicts were rare occurrences. But such outbursts were to be expected as they were the natural outcome of so many of us being packed so closely together in the tenement rooms, like sardines in a tin. In general, however, an atmosphere of camaraderie and fellowship prevailed in our yard. We lived like a big family. It was common for one neighbor to ask of the other, You got a cup of rice lend me? This practice of helping others to make ends meet even extended to sharing full meals.

In my childhood, day care centers to deputize for parents were something completely unknown to us. Grandmothers, aunts and neighbors performed the duties of today’s day care providers. In our Cummings Street tenement yard, the neighbors also