Latest update May 6th, 2024 12:59 AM
Oct 14, 2018 Countryman, Features / Columnists
By Dennis Nichols
I started this week’s piece on Wednesday, October 10 – just another midweek day, as the world whirled and Hurricane Michael, not that far away, tore into Florida’s Panhandle. But don’t worry. Here in oil-dreaming Guyana, hurricanes are farther from our shores than Exxon’s Atlantic blue drillships, while our capital city simmers under even bluer skies.
Outside Bourda Market, I watched the flow of what appeared to be purpose-filled human activity, and wondered how much of it was actually purpose-driven. Some of it appeared mindless; mechanical, but I knew it wasn’t – except maybe for Bourda’s most ‘recumbent’ citizens, or is denizens a better word?
Homelessness, destitution, and vagrancy are facts of life in most countries, particularly in urban and inner-city locales. Guyana, and Georgetown are no different in this aspect; in fact, because of the city’s relatively small size, these social problems are the more visible, thus more painful to the psyche. Come scorching sun or drumming deluge, the streets and pavements are home to many.
We have become used to the sight of pavement dwellers and so-called outcasts in our capital. Their numbers seem to have increased over the years but that could be because some are said to be street vendors who remain with their wares during the night. Some Georgetowners may be inured to the spectacle. I am not one of them.
Like much of what I write in this column, much has been written and expounded on the subject, futilely it appears, as the government and the ‘relevant authorities’ seem powerless to stem the stench, figuratively and literally. So why bother to flog a dead horse? Maybe because we are talking about people, and not beasts of burden.
And maybe also because one of Bourda’s recent pavement dwellers is a woman. Although I’ve seen female destitutes before, this one caught my interest because of her relative youthfulness and obvious advanced state of pregnancy. Or not.
I spoke with her briefly on Wednesday evening, and the little she told me didn’t add up in my estimation. In a surprisingly calm manner, she explained that she was alright, that her house was being built, and that she had nowhere else to go. Upon enquiry, she added that she was not pregnant but rather suffered from a medical condition. (There is one that mimics pregnancy).
A fellow pavement dweller who was with her, and evidently a ‘partner,’ corroborated what she said. He added that he too was not actually homeless, and had both a house and a job. However neither of them appeared inclined to go into much detail, or to discuss her condition, and I left it at that.
Earlier, and on previous occasions, I had spoken with two other pavement habitués; the first, a middle-aged man who’d been deported from the United States and diagnosed as schizophrenic. The other, maybe in his twenties, claims to be a Kwakwani resident stranded in Georgetown after travelling from Berbice, having been released from the ‘mad house’ (his words) recently.
The deportee alleges that wicked and supernatural acts happen in the vicinity of the market, perpetrated mainly on sleeping vagrants, of whom he is the chief target. His speech is well-articulated and emotionally subjective, but his tortured tale lacks credibility.
The Kwakwanian, a slim six-footer, says all he wants to do is go home. But, he says, he cannot get on a minibus to depart Georgetown since no vehicle wants to take him because of his unkempt appearance and smell. Barefoot, and with lips cracking, he asked for a ‘help’, which I gave in the form of a ‘small piece’ and a snack.
I had my doubts about his story and questioned if he was a substance abuser. This he denied. But shortly after he left, a female vendor nearby told me he was, and that he was going to sell the food to a friend for less than it was worth so that he could get whatever it was he was hooked on. Who to believe?
I had intended seeking information from the Ministries of Social Protection, Public Health, and Public Infrastructure on what measures were being taken to address the street homeless and the mentally-unsound since a National Task Force Commission had been established to deal with this issue.
However, I decided that this sketch would suffice for now after a Social Protection official referred me to another at the Ministry of Public Infrastructure, making it clear that the issue was being looked at as a group initiative with input also from the Public Health Ministry. That calls for more comprehensive investigation, and is shelved for the time being.
Furthermore, I wanted it to be a more personal observation/narrative, from my own point of view, from that of the street folk themselves, and from the persons who ‘look out’ for them, including the kind-hearted folk who ensure they eat every day, even if some may be food left over from restaurants and vendors.
It is a fact that many pavement citizens and street roamers are victims of circumstances, vulnerable to physical and verbal attacks and other indignities. They include those in the downtown area around the Fogarty’s Store and General Post Office, where sprinklers had been installed to keep them, their belongings, and the accompanying stench at bay. This particular humiliation was halted because of public outcry.
At Bourda, passersby and market shoppers seem either oblivious of their existence or tolerant of their habits. That Wednesday morning, a female got up from the Orange Walk pavement and sauntered over to the parapet separated by a large drain. There she unconcernedly lowered her underwear and urinated. No one appeared shocked or perturbed, including me.
As I left the market area that day, I saw another homeless man, an older guy maybe in his 80s, whom I’d befriended a week earlier, and who occupies a spot near St. Barnabas Special School. He lay so still with his body unnaturally angled that I couldn’t tell if he was sleeping or dead; (the states are that close) and the words of Edgar Allan Poe sprang to mind – “Sleep, those little slices of death – how I loathe them!”
Their lives seem almost meaningless to others, but some pavement dwellers and destitutes say they are actually freer and happier than those in houses, while some of unsound mind view ‘sane’ success-oriented people as the crazy ones. Incidentally, experts claim it could be all relative.
Additionally, the stress of living with large families/groups under one roof, threats of abuse and/or neglect, saddled with having to pay for water, electricity, food, and transportation, and feeling themselves a burden on their families, drive many onto the streets, and into the accommodating arms of the homeless, substance-abuse, and beggar fraternities. There many find acceptance; even love.
In our capital city, around the municipal markets and in downtown Georgetown, life goes on. Amidst the throngs of humanity; amidst the chatter and cacophony of city sounds, amidst the buildings and alleyways, between the makeshift stalls, wooden pallets and parked vehicles, life goes on.
And the homeless, the vagrants, the junkies, the beggars, and the young woman with the swollen tummy are right there, dealing with life, love, and leftovers.
I saw the young woman again on Friday morning, alone, at her pavement spot outside Bourda Market. She smiled at me and said she was ‘okay’. I wasn’t so sure.
GRA catch EXXON trying to hunch GUYANA over 11 BUS dollars in one shot!!!!
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