Interview with Eileen

Remember the post about my mother, Eileen Cox? Well, about ten days into my Guyana visit someone came around from the Guyana Times to interview her on her retirement as President of the Consumers Association. It was an interview for the newspaper as well as for TV; that is, a TV cameraman filmed it. And so did I. The print version can be found here. And here is my own (shortened) version of the video interview. In the course of the interview it came out that I was a published writer, so immediately afterwards they interviewed me, as well; that interview was also published in the Guyana Times, here. And one evening they showed the TV interview. I didn't see it. But a couple days later I was riding through GT on my bicycle (yes, I bought a bike!) and someone on the street called out: "Hello writer!" And following that several random people, most of them strangers to me, told me they had seen it. Rather surreal; to think how as a European writer it's so difficult to get exposure; how every other writer seems to be self-promoting the life out of their books, and I, being by nature a non-self-promoter, tend to get left behind; and here, in my home country, it all falls into my lap.

Do you know this bird?

A brief intermission: can anyone identify this bird?
I filmed him on the frangipani tree in my mother's garden, from her gallery window.
He sits on this tree all day and does this: all day. I would come and go throughout the day and he would still be
squeaking and hopping around. Maybe some kind of a mating ritual, but it was really cute.

And listen for the kiskadee at 0:53!

Out to the Amerinidian Reservation: Wakapao

Sunday afternoon: Aunt Zena arranged for Patsy and me to take a trip to the Amerindian reservation at Wakapao.

Shirley, who works as a cook at Adel's, came with us; her family lives at Wakapao.
Amazing trip! and I don't know what was better, the fantastic boat ride out there, down the Pomeroon river and then into a narrow creek through the rainforest; out again into the savannah.
We landed the boat and then walked to the first cottage, where Shirley's children live.
The two girls ran out to meet us, delighted with their mother's visit. Shirley hosted us with drinks
of freshly harvested coconut water, after which my camera's batter ran out.

We walked on through the reservation -- all the houses are spaced widely apart, with a ten to twenty-minute walk to each home -- looking for cassava bread for Aunt Zena. Unfortunately, nobody had any.
But the story is best told with a film, so here goes:

Goodbye Jinky

Jinky, the Phillipinian VSO volunteer, has a Master's degree in Aquaculture and was assigned to AUnt Zena for six months. Aunt Zena was delighted with her work; she could not have managed the passionfruit plantation without Jinky's hands-on application. Jinky wanted to stay on for a further six months and AUnt Zena was desperate to keep her; but the Guyana Government had to process the application and failed to do so. "You see," said Aunt Zena, "This is how we lose qualified people. Pure slackness!" By the time the Government got around to Jinky's application, VSO had already re-assigned her: to East Timor! It was a sad day for all when Jinky left Adel's -- though everyone, most of all she herself, managed to smile!

The Passionfruit Field

The afternoon after we arrived, Aunt Zena took us (that is, myself and Patsy) to see her passionfruit plantation. It was great to meet Jinky (hope I spelled that right!) who is a Voluntary Service Oversees volunteer from the Phillipines. Jinky spent six months at Adel's building up the passionfruit plantation form scratch -- that meant clearing the land, putting up the trellisses along which they would grow, supervising the care and the weeking of the plants, and so on. It takes seven months for a plant to grow and bear fruit, so Jinky just made it to her first harvest. We were all excited by the big fat fruit growing along the vines, and spent a couple hours walking up and down picking up the fallen ones! Passionefruit fall to the ground when they are ripe for the plucking, so it was easy to know which ones we could carry home -- the main problem being that we had nowhere to put them! So Jinky went back to Adel's and came back with several plastic bags -- all of which went back filled to bursting.
After that there was passionfruit juice, passionfruit jam, passionfruit everything for a few days.
Aunt Zena wants to go into passionfruit production commercially, so it will be intersting to see how this develops.
Here's a video of the visit to the passionfruit field:


And if you'd like to grow passionfruit at home yourself, here are some instructions: http://www.homelife.com.au/gardening/projects/how+to+grow+passionfruit,5389

From Parika to the Pomeroon

Trip to the Pomeroon

Demerara Harbour Bridge

I wait for Aunt Zena at the Demerara Harbour Bridge; this is the pontoon bridge that connects the East Bank Demerara to the West Bank, said to be the longest pontoon bridge in the world. It opens and closes at various times of the day to allow shops to pass, so one has to time one's crossing fairly well. According to Wikipedia:  The bridge is approximately 1.25 miles (2.01 km) long and has 61 spans. A high-level span provides a horizontal clearance of 32.0 metres (105 ft) and a vertical clearance of 7.9 metres (26 ft) to let small craft pass at all times. To let large craft pass, two retractor spans retract fully to leave a horizontal clearance of 77.4 metres (254 ft).
Aunt Zena arrives in her white car, picks me up, and off we go.

The drive to Parika along the West Coast Demerara is uneventful, and takes about an hour. Aunt Zena parks the car at the Police Station (apparently with special permission) and arranges for her luggage, which includes several bookes of seedlings, to the stelling.

Many people, passengers and crew, are milling about and it all seems very disorganised, but eventually we are assigend to one of the speedboats picking up passengers, handed our lifejackets, cover ourselves up to the neck in tarpaulins, and set off.

The Essequibo is one hell of a mighty river. Here, near the estuary, it's 132 miles across. That's 215 kilometers. In breadth. I mean, the whole of Barbados could fit in this river, and that gives just an inkling just how vast Guyana is -- for a small insignificant country, that is. I won't compare it with its neighbour Brazil to the south, or the Essequibo with the Amazon river; but I've seen both, and when you look at the horizon and see a hazy stripe of land across the water, and you're told that that's just an island--well that's exactly how it was on the Amazon. In other words, this is one wide river.

I happen to have been given an end seat on the speedboat. That's bad. It means I get wet. In spite of the tarpaulin. Once we get going river water practically streams into the boat, and once you get used to it it's not even that unpleasant; that's because the water isn't cold, it's cool, and rather refreshing. By the time we get to Supenaam on the other side I am thoroughly soaked through. But getting a good soaking meand nothing in the tropics. I change into dry clothes in somebody's empty room, get into the car that has come to meet us, and off we go again.

Anyway, as they say, a picture s worth a thousand words so I won't waste any more of the latter. I've finally managed to edit some of my films together to make a more or less coherent video, so here goes, in the next blog post.

Friday: Gold Rush

Couldn't resist posting this one,
.
I dropped in on Michael, an old friend who now owns an electronics store on Robb Street. Two seconds after I walked into his office another old friend, David, walked in. After catching up on old times M. and D. began looking nervously at the clock and  speaking of gold. M. gives me a round, flattish lump of gold about two centimetres in diameter. It's bright and beautiful and heavy; I weigh it in my hand, make the appropriate noises, and give it back.
Turns out M. owns land in the Interior which is being leased by gold prospectors.  M. has got his commission in gold which he needs to rush to the Guyana Gold Board before 11 am because after that the price will go down.
So right there they begin unpacking the gold. It is in a plastic bag, each nugget wrapped up in packing paper, and it all has to be unwrapped quick time. They seem to be wondering if it would be rude to unpack the gold in my presence.
 "Go ahead," I say. So they start unpacking. It's a bit of a fumble, but finally it's all done and the gold nuggets are in a plastic bag ready to be weighed. Once weighed, D. grabs it and rushes off on his motorbike to the Gold Board to cash it in.

Here it is:

Gold straight from the mines

This litle packet of gold is worth US $32000.The actual prospectors get about ten times that amount. Who says Guyana is a poor country?

 Speaking of gold: there's a lot of it around. I'm surprised at home many people - simple, ordinary people like market stall owners, taxi drivers, shop assistants, maids -- have gold prominently displayed intheor mouths; a crown or bridge, and I'm not speaking of molars here (I have gold molars) but incisors. Seems to be the trend of the moment!

Thursday: Lunch at the Pegasus

I'm glad they call it the Pegasus again. Le Meridien never really worked. The Pegasus is the Pegasus, and always will be.
Back in the day, we swam here now and then, and there used to be a discotheke.

Lunch is with old friends, Ron and Susan Sanders. They live in Barbados, but happen to be in Guyana for a while. Haven't seen them  for 40 years. Ron is now a Sir. Susan is the daughter of Sir Sonny Ramphal. Old familar names, old familiar friends. Coconut water and a buffet lunch at the poolside. Chat about old times, books, Guyana's future.

Later, Pernille and Emily, the Norwegian journalists, join us. Ron has a whole list of contacts for E|mily, regarding mining, forest conservation, Amerindian rights and so on. She hungily writes it all down.

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In the late afternoon, mum and me take a taxi up the East Coast to visit Kavita. Can't find the village, much less her home. Return home.
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Today is Phagwah, Holi. Celebration of Spring, and a public holiday in Guyana. Lots of people everywhere covered in pink dye, and not only Indians. Newspapers full of Phagway supplements, with ads from local businesses wishing "all Guyanese" a joyous Phagwah. That's the way to do it. None of this "happy holiday" stuff, in fear of offending non-Hindus. What is so very offensive about a wish for joy; or, at Christmas, a wish for peace and goodwill?

Wednesday: the Beach at Bim

On the train from Clapham Junction to Gatwick airport a sudden shock: my backpack is open at the top. My purse is missing.
The purse contains the entirety of my travel money. A few hundred dollars.
I empty out the entire backpack.
The purse is not there.

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Eueka moment: I remember I'm wearing a bum bag.
The purse, including money, is in the bag, safely strapped around my waist.

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Uneventful flight on Virgin Atlantic.
Watched The Descendants. Then the tail end of Tinker Tailer Soldier Spy (I've seen the whole thing in the cinema, but I love the ending).
Then Mildred Pierce.
Long queue at Grantley Adams International Airport.
No Left Luggage department. Have to take suitcase in taxi.
Got a taxi to the Golden Sands Hotel.
Spoke to Michele Johnson, the proprietor, a friend of Cousin Rod. She says I can leave suitcase in office, and use changing rooms.
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The little yellow house is still standing, but it's green now. The beach is empty. The water is cold. A short swim, a lie in the sun, then back to the airport.
Bim is nice, but I'm hungry for home.

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Nobody to receive me at Cheddi Jagan International Airport. I take a seat to wait.
Approached by a man: am I Miss Cox's daughter?
Yes.
He thought so; I look like her.
Leads me to the car.
Mum is there, leaning on a Zimmer frame. She is so frail, so tiny.
It is night. The ride to Georgetown, an hour long, so familiar.
The names of the villages: New Hope, Land of Canaan, Garden of Eden, Agricola, Houston, Eccles.

That old familiar bend in the road at Diamond Estate!

 The sweet-sickly smell of the sugar factory!

 I know I'm home.

Earth Hero: Eileen. "I am fearless."

Eileen Cox

This is what KN’s Michael Benjamin says of my mother:

She has blazed a trail through uncharted territory and virgin soil, defying the odds in her drive to improve the standing of all women. Decades, characterized by unremitting perseverance and staunch resilience in consumer advocacy has taken its toll on her strong but aging shoulders yet the fiery ambition within her breast, ignited more than three decades ago, refuses to abandon a mission initiated out of necessity and pursued through concern for the well-being of ‘consumers but more importantly, her fellow women.

 Mum was a member of Guyana’s first generation of feminists. Born in 1918, she always stood out as “brainy”, and as a child her example was always placed before me as a standard I had to achieve. Mum was head girl at Bishops High School, the country’s leading girls’ school, and as a pupil there myself, and a rather naughty one, she was always pointed out to me by my teachers as a model, a shining example I should strive to emulate. There was her name carved on the board of former head girls; when I was suspended from school for—ahem—causing a disturbance in class, my headmistress, Miss ramrod-backed Dewer, duly reminded me that I was “letting my mother down”. What a disappointment I must be! I was told.

Mum was the first girl in the country to win the almighty Guiana Scholarship (Guyana, of course, was Guiana in those pre-independent days) and I’ve been told that this annoyed the eligible boys in the country no end; but it was a scholarship based on merit, and she was the best. It would have enabled her to study medicine or law in the UK—but she turned it down. I’ve never asked her why; on this visit I will, but the answer can perhaps be found lower down in that article:

And what are her views on education?

“Diplomas and Degrees are merely prerequisites for attaining certain positions in the work force. If I attain a Bachelor of Science or any other fancy qualification, I would still have to obey some official or the other. For me, there’s more to life than the acquisition of academic excellence. Staunch inter-personal relationships provide solid relations and should not be sacrificed on the altar of academic qualifications,” advocated Ms. Cox.

With daughter

I can’t help wondering, though, where Mum would have gone as a lawyer or a doctor. Law, especially would have suited her; as it is, she worked wonders for the country.

Mum grew up in an age when

“…most men believed that a woman’s place was in the kitchen among the pots and pans.” She felt it was her task to prove them wrong.

“Women possessed the academic acumen to cross the established gender barriers,” she posits. Sadly, these women were only allowed to occupy administrative positions up to that of a records clerk. She also said that in most cases, some of these women were even more qualified than their male counterparts.
Armed with the resolute belief that all humans ought to receive the relevant opportunities to realize their full potential, Ms. Cox decided to meet her male disbelievers head on.”

The rest is history; one thing led to another and Mum soon saw the link between women’s dependency on men and their roles as consumers. In 1971 Guyana’s first consumer association was formed.

 Ms Cox’s advocacy and vibrancy made her an automatic candidate for the position of President of the inaugural body. Her mandate was simple — educate and represent the consumer’s interest to government and industry. In order to effectively address this mandate, Ms Cox decided to liaise with the International Organisation of Consumer Union in England.

In 1971 she took her advocacy one step further when she submitted articles that appeared in the daily Graphic newspapers. She also took the message to the airwaves on a five-minute programme aired on the then Guyana Broadcasting Corporation (GBC).

At the Caribbean Consumers Committee (CCC) Conference in 1972

As a result on those weekly articles and broadcasts Mum became a household name in Guyana: someone who made changes and stood up for her beliefs. I remember as a growing teenager I was sometimes even jealous of the attention she gave to all her causes; because of course, as teenagers do, I thought I should have all of her attention.

 “Haven’t you ever nurtured fear that someone may attempt to do you harm for your vociferous advocacy and inflexible stance on these matters?” I asked her.

That 92-year-old woman who appeared unable to harm a fly looked me straight in the eye and pronounced, “I am fearless; I have no relatives who would be victimised because of what I say or do; I criticize whomever, whenever it is prudent to do so.”

She further intimated that irrespective of whosoever may transgress the laws, she fearlessly speaks out against it. “I have criticised the police for excesses; I have stuck my neck out for defenceless consumers and I nurture no fear,” ....

But what exactly drives Ms Cox to the extremes in proffering assistance to her fellow human beings? “My love for people,” she reveals, “I don’t talk down to people, irrespective of their status or standing, I talk with them.”

At 92 not out, Ms Cox has every wish of raising her bat to the crowd after she would have scored that coveted century. But is that her desire?

“I would very much love to cross that hurdle, but not in Guyana,” she pronounced. She noted my lifted eyebrows and ventured an explanation.

“The VAT (Value Added Tax) might be the intermediary force between the coveted century and whether I lose my wicket,” she stated matter-of-factly.

Salvador and Eileen

Mum is the reason I’m going to Guyana at this time. She’s 94 and still as feisty as ever, living in the house she built even before she married. I’m her only child, her only relative in Guyana. In Guyana, relatives care for their older ones. It’s a matter of honour, a matter of love. But I live in Germany. Where and how will she spend the next decade or so? That’s what I’m about to find out.