School Days

The year was 1978. I was in First Standard (equivalent to 1st grade in the US). Our teacher gave us a spelling test one day. Spelling tests are done differently in Guyana - we weren't given a set of words to go home and study. These tests were sprung upon the students at any given time. It was the student's responsibility to learn to spell words on their own 😳 What?!

One of the words on the spelling test was, 'shrimp'. Guyanese people pronounce this word as, 'strimps'. So, when the teacher said, "the next word is, strimps," On my test paper, I wrote what I heard.

It may have been the only word I spelled "incorrectly" on the test. Although, I have a vague recollection of misspelling the word, 'Georgetown' as well. When it is spoken with a Guyanese accent, it sounds something like this: George-tung.

The word Shrimp stands out for me though. It stands out because when you get words wrong on a spelling test, sometimes you're punished. You are punished, I suppose, with the idea that you will learn how to spell the word(s) correctly, and you will remember it. I got a lash in my left hand for the misspelled word.

Looking back on it now, I am so damn mad that that was a method of teaching - fear-based learning. It certainly was a wake up call for me, though. I vowed never to to get licks (punished) for any more misspelled words. I read everything and, I spelled everything. I copied words out of books so that I can better remember how to spell them. I don't recall getting any other words wrong on a spelling test after that.

As I wrap up this short memory, I can't help but question the method of such teaching. Did I really benefit from corporal punishment? Dammit! 😱

50 Days

Today marks 50 days until my 50th birthday.

Hibiscus

We had a large Hibiscus plant growing in the front yard of our house. It grew directly below our landing and in front of the downstairs neighbor's living room window - although in Guyana, we didn't call it a living room, it was a sitting room. I loved that plant and its bright red flowers.

I was very good friends with the downstairs neighbor's daughter - we'll call her Elle. The day that Elle and her family moved in, her father rode into the yard on his motor scooter. She sat behind him with her arms wrapped around his soft and protruding middle. When I heard the noise of the motor scooter, I opened up my bedroom window and looked down at them in the yard. I must have made a noise opening up my window, because she looked right up at me. We stared at each other for a moment or two, and I remember feeling excited and afraid - exited to have someone to play with, and afraid that she wouldn't want to or wouldn't like me. I smiled at her, and when I thought she was going to smile back at me, she suddenly made a horrid face (she skin up she face) at me which meant that she was not interested in being my friend at all. Caught off-guard, and not wanting to show my true feelings, I copied her actions (ah skin up meh face right back at she) to show that I too was not interested, slammed my window shut, and retreated into my room with dashed hopes.

I'm not sure how it happened, but we eventually became good friends. We played with dolls, and we played in the yard almost every day. We particularly enjoyed hopscotch and jump rope. There were endless adventures in our yard. We had access to bananas, sugar cane, cherries, and sour sop - these were a few of the fruit trees in our yard. My father had chickens that we kept on the property. Their coop, that he'd built with his own hands, was situated under the stairs at the back of our house. My father also maintained a garden of potatoes, eddoes, and other vegetables. The downstairs neighbors also had a garden, and there was always some quarrel about who owned what. But somehow, at harvest time, the goods were always shared. 

Elle and I used to play under the stairs that led up to my front door. We'd pick the Hibiscus flowers and dismantle them to put the petals in our hair, sprinkle the golden seeds on our arms and eyebrows, and put the pointy part of some inside piece of the flower on the tips of our noses so that it resembled a witch's wart. Wicked!

Since leaving Guyana so many years ago, it is very rare that I see a Hibiscus plant, but whenever I do, it takes me back home to those lovely childhood days with my friend Elle.

Hawaii 2019

What the hell is a Marabunta?

Welcome to The Marabunta Chronicles: Memories of My 1970s Guyanese Childhood, and Other Musings. My name is Tricia and I have lived in the United States since 1981. Given that it is 40 years later, my memories may be a little fuzzy and some fictionalizing may be necessary to fill in some gaps. Names will be changed to protect the privacy of individuals, but I will be as open and real with my recollections as I can. I hope you enjoy this little trip down memory lane with me.

What the hell is a Marabunta? A marabunta is the Guyanese colloquial name given to large stinging wasps. One of my earliest memories is getting stung by one on the knee in my living room in Georgetown. I must have been six or seven years old.

My parents had people over; I think they were all playing dominoes or cards, and imbibing on the local Banks' Beer and El Dorado rum - to name a few. As I knelt beside the coffee table to have a closer look at the card game, my knee must have gotten too close to a marabunta that was on the floor, likely lapping up some beer or rum that spilled there. The damn thing stung me good - "Aaaah! A marabunta sting meh." It hurt so bad. I was screaming bloody murder, and my father and his friends had to hold me down while my mother was trying to get the marabunta's sting out of my knee. I think I was more afraid of the method for extracting the sting more than I was of the pain that I was experiencing - which made me scream even louder. The next day I heard people down the street from us ask, "Is wuh happen at yuh house last night?"- which goes to prove that I had a good set of lungs on me, and that I was utterly terrified.

The Guyanese method of getting the sting out was to drip hot candle wax on the area and beat it with the back of a spoon! What in the bloody hell?! I've asked, and it seems that the purpose of the hot wax was to draw the stinger closer to the surface for easier extraction. As for beating the area with the back of a spoon? I have no answers. So, there you have it. It was painful, and I survived. I still have a tiny little scar on my knee from the incident - so that I would never forget it. Needless to say, wasps freak me the freak out to this day!